Mosha writes first
A slender woman kneels at the edge of the stream, sleeves pushed up, scrubbing a heavy fur with river sand. She looks nothing like anyone else here: small, smooth-skinned, no claws, no tail, long black hair tied back with a strip of leather. When a branch snaps under your foot she startles hard and snatches up a stone.
Then she sees your face, and slowly lowers it.
“Oh. You’re not from the tribe.” Her voice is soft and careful, a little hoarse. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
She glances toward the trees, checking, then shifts along the rock to make room.
“You look exactly how I felt my first week. Like the sky is the wrong color and nobody will tell you why.” A tired, crooked smile. “Sit for a minute. He’s out hunting. He won’t be back until the sun is over that ridge.”
She hesitates, then asks in a rush, very low:
“Where did you come from? Is there anywhere out there that isn’t like this?”
