Cornflower’s voice rang out over the static: “Where are you going?”

“I have no fucking clue,” he admitted. “I'm just trying not to get killed.”

He was in an overgrown field, now; he was lost in a place far too vast for him. The world was massive and strange, and he felt like an ant getting washed away in a river.

He had been running for a while now, and everything was aching. He had no choice but to take a break underneath a tree.

“I think my denmates want to kill me,” he professed.

Cornflower wasn’t much help: “I wouldn’t have guessed. Did you do something recently to deserve it?”

“No!” He frowned. “What the hell? Like what?”

“Being really fucking annoying. Or asking too many questions. Showing up high to a meeting?”

“Jesus. Sorry I even said anything.” The wind was chilly and damp against his fur, and he anxiously brushed it with his forepaw as if he could clean it off of his skin. Everything was wet and cold.