The woods are full of soldiers. Melanie knows it. There's no obvious sign of them, of course, but there wouldn't be - light and sound and smell and heat are all things that attract hungries, so any well-equipped group of soldiers would have ways to avoid all of those things. They'd be wearing e-blocker and night-vision goggles and special clothes that keep the heat in, and they'd be very, very quiet.
Melanie is being quiet, too. She's crouched between the roots of a sprawling oak with twisting branches, listening for the tell-tale scuff of a boot in the undergrowth, when a quiet voice beside her says, "They want to do experiments on us again."
It's so familiar a voice - and so familiar a thought, one that just ran through her own mind - that Melanie is more startled than afraid. She half expects to see another hungry child when she turns toward the speaker, perhaps one of her old friends from class. But the speaker isn't a hungry child, or a child at all. It's a small, red fox. A talking fox.
Dr. Caldwell would probably want to slice up a talking fox's brain, too. Melanie doesn't blame him (it sounds like a him) for being frightened. She's a little surprised to find any animal so close to her, though, and she cautiously holds out her hand so the fox can sniff it. (That seems like what Dickon would do. Melanie herself is a stranger to befriending animals.)
The fox doesn't sniff her hand. Instead, he presses the top of his furry head up against her palm, and then climbs into her lap as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Melanie wraps her arms around him automatically, astonished as she is. It just feels like the right thing to do.
There isn't even the faintest rattle from her box. Eating this little creature would be so incredibly, obviously wrong that even the hungry part of her doesn't dare to float the idea.
"What's your name?" she whispers, even as she lifts her head to listen for soldiers.
The fox swivels his ears, listening as well. "Nikolaos," he whispers back. Then, after a pensive beat, "I think we're meant to look after each other."
Melanie nods, and strokes her palm down the fox's spine. "I think you're right."
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Melanie is being quiet, too. She's crouched between the roots of a sprawling oak with twisting branches, listening for the tell-tale scuff of a boot in the undergrowth, when a quiet voice beside her says, "They want to do experiments on us again."
It's so familiar a voice - and so familiar a thought, one that just ran through her own mind - that Melanie is more startled than afraid. She half expects to see another hungry child when she turns toward the speaker, perhaps one of her old friends from class. But the speaker isn't a hungry child, or a child at all. It's a small, red fox. A talking fox.
Dr. Caldwell would probably want to slice up a talking fox's brain, too. Melanie doesn't blame him (it sounds like a him) for being frightened. She's a little surprised to find any animal so close to her, though, and she cautiously holds out her hand so the fox can sniff it. (That seems like what Dickon would do. Melanie herself is a stranger to befriending animals.)
The fox doesn't sniff her hand. Instead, he presses the top of his furry head up against her palm, and then climbs into her lap as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Melanie wraps her arms around him automatically, astonished as she is. It just feels like the right thing to do.
There isn't even the faintest rattle from her box. Eating this little creature would be so incredibly, obviously wrong that even the hungry part of her doesn't dare to float the idea.
"What's your name?" she whispers, even as she lifts her head to listen for soldiers.
The fox swivels his ears, listening as well. "Nikolaos," he whispers back. Then, after a pensive beat, "I think we're meant to look after each other."
Melanie nods, and strokes her palm down the fox's spine. "I think you're right."