Animal Park

 Animal Park

By Mick Tomlinson

Chapter One: Eden Disturbed

Somewhere between paradise and prison, the first grave was dug.

The backyard stretched long and wild behind the house—wider than a yard had any right to be in a neighborhood like this. Fences hemmed it in on all sides, but within those wooden walls, life flourished.

There were trees older than the house itself: an old birch that leaned like a tired grandfather, a dogwood that bloomed too early, and a maple that whispered warnings when the wind got mean. A small koi pond shimmered near the back corner, thick with reeds and memories. Beneath the swing set, clover patches grew lush enough to bury your feet. Every corner held a story—hidden dens, discarded toys, forgotten tools, nooks of shade and shadow.

To the animals, it was more than a backyard. It was the world. And for a long time, the world had been good.

But not today.

Dell stood beneath the dogwood, paws caked in earth, staring at the small, shallow mound before him. The wind didn’t blow. The pond behind him held its breath. Somewhere overhead, a mourning dove called once—and then thought better of it.

“She didn't deserve this,” he muttered.

The words felt strange in his mouth. Too soft. Too human. But he said them anyway because grief demands ritual. And this was all he had.

A few squirrels stood nearby, heads low, eyes averted. No one asked how it happened. They all knew. One moment she was foraging beneath the feeder. The next—a crack in the air. A yelp. A fall.

Dell’s son, barely weaned from his mother’s shadow, clung to the trunk of the tree behind him, watching the burial with wide, tearless eyes. His name wasn’t yet spoken among the others—not out of disrespect, but because names were a thing of the living, and childhood was a fragile phase easily shattered.

Above them, from the sill of a second-story window, Nova watched.

The indoor pet rabbit sat in his usual place, motionless as moonlight. The humans had left the window cracked open, and the sheer curtain tickled his back as it drifted lazily in the spring air. His pink eyes never blinked.

He had seen this moment before.

Not this burial, not this squirrel—but this pattern. Death mistaken for coincidence. Then for accident. Then for pest control. Then for war.

Nova had watched enough human history flicker across TV screens to know the script.

And it always started with a boy.

Inside the house, laughter echoed. The boy had received his birthday gift earlier that week—a pellet gun. Matte black. Scope mounted. It came with a tin of metallic pellets and a warning label nobody read.

The father grunted his approval. The mother asked him not to shoot at the fence. The boy said “okay” without looking up. He was already taking aim at something invisible in the wallpaper.

Nova had felt the shift the moment the box was opened.

He looked down again at the gathering in the yard. Dell stood alone now. The others had dispersed. The little one approached his father timidly, placing an acorn on the mound of soil like an offering to a god he wasn’t sure existed.

The rabbit closed his eyes.

He knew it was time.

Chapter Two: Tombstone

The boy named his gun.

He didn’t say the name out loud. Not at first. But he whispered it under his breath each time he opened the tin and slid a pellet into place. Each time he pumped the barrel. Each time he took aim from his bedroom window.

“Tombstone.”

The name came to him after the first squirrel fell. A clean shot, just below the ribs. The creature writhed for three seconds before going still.

The boy stared at it for a long time.

Then he looked back at his weapon. Felt the thrill of its weight in his hands. Not like a toy. Not even like a tool. Something else. Something ancient. His father’s voice echoed from the hallway one morning, casual and offhand:

“Careful around the cars. You shoot out a window and it’s your ass!”

The boy had nodded without turning around. 

Nova twitched an ear, watching everything from a bedroom window.

It was late afternoon. The sun stretched across the backyard like a cat waking from a nap, warm and slow. But Nova felt no warmth. Not anymore. Not since the gift arrived.

The first death had been called a fluke. The second, a warning. The third—Dell’s mate—was when the animals started whispering at night.

They didn’t yet blame the boy. They blamed the sky, the wind, the hawks. Anything but the truth.

Down by the pond, a blue jay chirped angrily as a raccoon sniffed the edge of the water. Hunger was becoming a problem. Since the feeders had been removed and the compost bin sealed, the animals had begun to scramble. The gardens were guarded. Trash cans locked. The house was pulling back.

The father had decided.

But not everyone in the house followed orders.

That morning, while the boy was still asleep, a small hand had opened the back door and scattered birdseed near the pond. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the raccoon from collapsing. It was enough to keep the jay from flying off in search of a new home.

Nova watched her—the girl. Quiet, gentle, young. She had cried each time a dead animal was found. She’d scoop them up gently with trembling hands and bury them behind the garden while her brother played video games.

She was no warrior. But there was something in her—mercy, maybe. Or memory.

Nova filed it away. He would need it later.

Dell knew the signs before he knew the facts.

It started with silence. The kind that fell too fast, too deep. The kind that made even the crickets second-guess their song. Then came the disappearances—sudden absences in familiar places. A chipmunk that never returned to his hole. A toad who hadn't been seen since the rain.

Then, a sound.

Not the usual snap of a twig or flutter of wings, but something clean. Mechanical. Cold.

Dell heard it from the dogwood while chewing a bitter nut. His ears twitched. He froze. And in the hush that followed, he heard something worse: a thud.

Not far off.

His son was near the old tire swing, sniffing for mushrooms. Dell bounded across the grass and pulled him close, scanning the tree line.

Nothing. No feathers. No wings. No hawk circling.

But the scent of death lingered.

Back near the pond, the birds were unusually quiet. A jay hopped sideways on the ground, one wing dragging like a broken thought.

Dell growled low in his throat.

It wasn’t a hawk.

Later that night, after his son had curled against his chest beneath the roots of the cedar, Dell crept from the burrow and made his way to the north fence.

He wasn’t alone.

Three raccoons, a skunk, and one very old possum were already waiting there, eyes glinting in the moonlight like marbles. They didn't speak. Not yet. But they looked at Dell as if he would be the one to say it first.

The possum coughed. “Three in two days,” he rasped. “Not nature.”

“Agreed,” said the skunk. “The shots. You heard them.”

“They’re armed now,” said a raccoon, baring his teeth.

Dell didn’t speak. He looked up toward the house. One bedroom window glowed blue. The boy’s room. A video game flickered across the glass like curved story.

Then, movement—across the hall.

Another window.

A girl, small and soft, stood at her curtain. Her face pale in the moonlight. She looked out, not down. Not at them. But into the trees, where the shadows moved like secrets.

The possum nodded toward her. “That one don’t stink of death.”

Dell narrowed his eyes. “She’s a human.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” The raccoon grunted. “Not all of ‘em drink the poison.”

Dell turned back to the yard. “Poison’s still coming.”

And he was right.

Because the next morning, just before the sun had warmed the garden stones, the boy stepped into the yard again.

Alone.

Pellet gun slung over his shoulder.

No scope this time.

Just the cold eye of aim.

And behind him, Nova escaped through the open door and hopped out into the open grass. Not hiding. Not running. Just watching.

The boy stood.

Their eyes met.

For a long moment, neither moved.

And then—

The boy raised the barrel.

Nova didn’t flinch.

But from the porch, a voice cut through the silence like a snapped string:

“Don’t you dare!”

It was June.

The door slammed behind her as she sprinted across the lawn, arms out like wings, hair wild from sleep. She ran straight between them and stood, her back to Nova, arms wide.

The boy shouted her name.

But June didn’t move.

Nova twitched an ear and disappeared into a hedge.

Chapter Three: Feeding Time

The sun had folded itself beneath the trees, and the backyard softened into dusk.

June sat cross-legged in the grass near the pond, barefoot and humming. She had a plastic cup in one hand—half full of sunflower seeds and raisins—and the other hand moved slowly, rhythmically, stroking the white fur in her lap.

Nova lay perfectly still.

His ears twitched now and then, but he made no move to escape. Not tonight. He had come willingly when she called him, a quiet name spoken in a gentler tongue.

She called him Snowdrop. He didn’t mind.

Around them, the yard came alive in cautious rhythm. Birds perched in low branches, watching. A raccoon skulked halfway out of the shadows, sniffing the air. Even a possum crept near, blinking with suspicion.

June smiled and scattered a handful of seeds in a wide arc around her. “Don’t be shy,” she whispered. “I brought the good stuff.”

No one approached. Not yet.

But no one ran.

She let her voice rise into the twilight, not quite singing, but close. Just the soft melody of a child who still believed in wonder. Her fingers moved gently through Nova’s fur. He closed his eyes.

“You’re not like the others,” she said quietly, as if to herself. “You listen.”

Nova didn’t answer, of course. But his stillness was a kind of reply.

“My brother’s been weird lately,” she continued. “I think he likes hurting things. He didn’t used to. I don’t know what happened.”

Her voice caught for just a moment.

“I don’t think I like him anymore.”

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the trees as if they were trying to disagree but couldn’t find the words.

Nova opened one eye.

A bird landed nearby. A finch, small and nervous. It hopped twice toward the food, then back again. June remained still.

“You can eat,” she said softly. “It’s okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

That was a promise she couldn’t keep. But she made it anyway.

Because sometimes love was just trying to keep things alive a little longer.

Nova watched her as she tilted her head back and stared at the stars just beginning to blink through the evening blue. Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely louder than breath.

“I wish I could go where you go.”

Nova nestled deeper into her lap.

And the stars watched from above like dots growing tired of broken prayers.

Chapter Four: The Gathering

The squirrels came first, led by Dell.

Word had spread after the jay fell from the fence post—hit mid-hop, crumpled mid-chirp. There had been no warning. Just the crack of a pellet and the stunned silence that followed.

By sunset, Dell found himself beneath the cedar tree, surrounded by animals of every kind.

There were raccoons, fur matted and eyes sharp. Skunks with tails curled tight. A pair of squirrels from the far yard. Even a weasel, thin and twitchy, crept into the fringe of shadows.

Dell stood at the center, arms crossed. His son hovered behind him, half-hidden by his father’s bushy tail, chewing the edge of a maple leaf.

“We can’t keep losing bodies,” grumbled one of the raccoons. “We’re running out of nightwalkers.”

“It’s the humans,” hissed the skunk. “They’ve started hunting us. Like pests. Like vermin.”

“They’ve always hunted,” said Dell. “You just got lazy.”

“We all got lazy,” snapped the weasel. “We trusted the food piles. The fences. That fat blue feeder swinging like an invitation. We forgot what they are.”

“They feed us,” said a smaller squirrel. “The girl, at least. She leaves out seeds. That should mean something.”

Dell shook his head. “The house is divided. Don’t count on their kindness to last.”

A silence fell. Thick and splintered.

And then—

Nova hopped forward.

He hadn’t been invited. No one had seen him arrive. One moment, the circle was unbroken. The next, he was there—white fur catching the moonlight, ears held low.

Every eye turned.

Dell’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Nova didn’t flinch. “I should’ve been here sooner.”

A ripple passed through the crowd. A few animals shifted uneasily. The possum muttered something under his breath that sounded like “lap pet.”

Nova turned slowly, looking each of them in the eye.

“I know what’s coming. You don’t have to believe me. But I’ve seen this before. Not in our world. In theirs. On their screens. In their stories.”

He paused.

“They always start small. One shot. One trap. One command. Then they escalate. They will take our food, call it order. Take our lives, call it balance. And the worst part?” He glanced at Dell. “They’ll convince you it’s your fault.”

No one spoke.

Nova took a breath. “You need to leave. All of you. The fence is not a wall. There is land beyond this cage. Wild land. Sacred land. I've seen it. On their glowing boxes, in their careless whispers. They call it a ‘preserve.’ But for us…”

He closed his eyes.

“They called it Animal Park.”

The name hovered like smoke.

The skunk sniffed. “And what—you're leading us there now? A house rabbit? A pet?”

“Traitor,” muttered someone from the dark.

Nova opened his eyes. “I’m not your enemy. I live among them. I watched. I learned. I listened when none of you could.”

Dell stepped forward. “Why should we trust you?”

Nova turned to him slowly. “Because I buried her, too.”

That landed like a stone.

The others looked away. Dell’s jaw clenched. His son peeked from behind his legs, eyes wide.

Nova bowed his head. “I’m not asking for allegiance. Just attention. Before more fall.”

And then, as if summoned by the words, a distant crack echoed from the far fence.

Another shot.

Another silence.

Another soul gone.

Nova raised his eyes.

“We don’t have time.”

Chapter Five: Dissenters

They met in the thickets.

No trees, no pond, no sky. Just low brush and damp soil—the kind of place where secrets grew better than mushrooms. Word had spread after Nova spoke beneath the cedar. Most had stayed silent. A few had lingered. But some—some—had slithered into the thickets and begun to whisper.

“He’s one of them,” growled the weasel.

“He sleeps in their walls,” spat a mole. “Eats from their hands.”

“He lets the girl pet him,” said the raccoon. “I’ve seen it. In her lap like a kitten.”

A low hiss of disgust passed through the gathered crowd.

“What kind of animal lets itself be held?” the skunk muttered. “That’s not resistance. That’s surrender.”

They were animals of edge and instinct. Many had never ventured close to the house. To them, Nova was not wise. He was tainted. His white fur glowed like a traitor’s flag.

From the shadows, a new voice emerged.

“He’s leading us into a trap.”

It was Grub—an older fox squirrel with a scar across his snout and eyes clouded by years. He used to be respected. Now he was just loud.

“Think about it,” Grub sneered. “He wants us to leave. To abandon what’s ours. To cross the fence. And where does he say we’re going? Some fantasy place he saw on a screen?”

“He called it Animal Park,” said a young vole hesitantly.

Grub rounded on him. “I call it a lie.”

The vole shrank.

“Why trust a rabbit who doesn't even live in the dirt?” Grub growled. “Why trust one who’s never scavenged? Never fought for food? Never buried his own? You think that house didn’t train him?”

The crowd murmured.

And then, Dell arrived.

He didn’t speak at first—just scampered into the thickets with a heavy tail twitching behind him and eyes dark as river stones.

Grub straightened. “Here for another bedtime story, Dell?”

“I’m here to listen,” Dell said quietly.

Grub scoffed. “To him?”

“To everyone.”

The tension rippled.

Dell’s gaze drifted toward a young raccoon near the back. “What would you do?” he asked. “If we stay?”

The raccoon blinked. “Hide. Forage. Wait for winter.”

“They’re not waiting,” Dell said. “They’re shooting.”

“Then we fight,” said the skunk.

Dell nodded. “With what?”

There was silence. Even Grub didn’t answer.

A rustle in the leaves. A bird overhead cried out and vanished.

Dell’s voice lowered. “You’re right to ask questions. We all should. But fear dressed up as wisdom is still just fear. And I’ve buried enough of mine to know the difference.”

He turned away.

And as he left, he muttered one last line under his breath—just loud enough for Grub to hear.

“If Nova’s a traitor, why is he the only one trying to save us?”

Chapter Six: A Map of Escape

Nova waited until the house was asleep.

He knew the rhythms by now: the hum of appliances, the soft sigh of plumbing in the walls, the mother’s late-night footsteps pacing between forgotten rooms. The boy slept hard, always. June less so—she dreamed often, and sometimes spoke aloud in a voice that made Nova ache for things he didn’t have words for.

Tonight, the door was left cracked open—just an inch.

An invitation.

He crept in without a sound.

The carpet muffled his steps. He moved like memory, skimming the edge of furniture and avoiding every board he knew would creak. The kitchen was lit only by the glow of a forgotten tablet screen, still open on the countertop.

And beside it: a pamphlet.

Bright green cover. Big block letters. A photo of a deer under sunlit trees.

“ALLEGHENY COUNTY NATURE RESERVE: Wildlife, Trails & Protected Habitats”

Nova rose up on his hind legs.

The edges of the paper were curled from handling. He hopped onto a dining chair, then the table. Careful. Quiet.

He stared.

The inside pages bloomed with maps. Roads. Trails. A large stretch of land circled in red marker. It wasn’t far—no more than a handful of fields away, according to the scale.

Animal Park.

He didn’t know what they called it, but this was the place. He felt it in his bones, in his whiskers, in the hush of the night.

There were photos of smiling children in hiking boots, butterflies on flowers, a fox caught mid-stride, staring back at the camera. A line of copy read:

“A protected zone for native wildlife—preserved, respected, and safe from hunting.”

Nova didn’t trust the words. But the land—that was real.

He memorized the image.

A rustle behind him.

He turned sharply, tense—only to see June standing at the hallway entrance in her oversized pajama shirt, holding a blanket. Her eyes were still half-lidded from sleep.

“Snowdrop?” she whispered.

He didn’t move.

She walked slowly to him and knelt beside the chair.

“What are you doing up?”

Nova didn’t answer, but she looked down at the table and saw the pamphlet. Her sleepy face softened.

“Oh… you like the pictures, huh?”

She picked it up and showed him the map again, pointing at it with her pinky.

“This is a place we went once. I fed a chipmunk there. It took a peanut right out of my hand. I wish we could go back.”

Nova leaned closer.

June smiled. “You’d love it. There’s no fences.”

Then, without a second thought, she folded the pamphlet and tucked it into the front pocket of her blanket, scooped Nova into her arms, and carried him gently back to her room.

As she settled into bed, she whispered, “You can sleep here tonight, okay? I had a bad dream. I need you.”

Nova curled against her chest.

His eyes remained open.

Outside, the moon rose higher—round, silent, and watching.

Chapter Seven: The Weight of Belief

Dell had always distrusted quiet.

It didn’t last long in the wild, not really. A lull in birdsong meant a hawk above. Silence in the reeds meant a snake below. Quiet was never peace. It was teeth, waiting.

And yet, the backyard had been quiet for two whole days.

No deaths. No shots. No screams.

Just waiting.

Dell sat near the pond, tail curled around him, watching his son chase fireflies in the high grass. The young squirrel laughed—thin, bright, untouched by grief. Dell felt the sound strike something deep and hollow in him.

His mother would’ve loved this.

That thought came too often now. Sometimes it felt like her voice was still there, humming between the leaves. She’d always believed in things. In signs. In spirits. She was the first one who said the owl was more than a bird.

Now she was in the soil.

And Dell was trying not to follow.

He shifted his gaze to the hedgerow near the fence.

Nova crouched there—watching.

Not close. Not far. Just… present.

Dell didn’t wave. But he didn’t look away.

He thought of the speech beneath the cedar. Thought of the pamphlet someone said the rabbit had seen. Thought of the deaths, the blood, the quiet.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to follow.

But maybe—just maybe—he was ready to listen.

Elsewhere, in the dark…

Grub dug with purpose.

His claws weren’t what they used to be, but rage had a way of sharpening age into action. He scraped at the earth behind the compost bin, carving a tunnel deep enough to hide what he was building.

A cache.

Inside: scavenged poison pellets, old plastic wrap, a shiny metal spring from a broken toy.

Grub had a plan.

If the others wouldn’t stop Nova, he would.

He’d watched the rabbit charm them. Watched the doe-eyed glances, the cautious nods. Even Dell was starting to waver. And that meant war would fail.

But a martyr? A fall?

That could galvanize a real rebellion. One led by someone who understood fear.

Grub snarled under his breath.

Let the white rabbit speak of promised lands.

He would make sure no one reached them.

Chapter Eight: Fire and Feathers

The backyard animals had reached a verdict. They were to stay and fight, not flee. This was their home after-all. They were here first. Not the humans.

The plan was simple.

Too simple, really. But they didn’t have time for perfection.

The bees would strike first.

The queen—liberated from her hive beneath the broken birdhouse—had been gently carried by two squirrels in a walnut shell lined with moss. Nova told them exactly where to place her: under the hood of the family’s second car, near the battery housing.

By dawn, the swarm had gathered.

They buzzed with the low, ominous hum of an ancient choir. When the engine roared to life that morning, the bees rose like smoke—erupting from the hood, streaming through the cracked windows, and spiraling into the kitchen through the open back door.

Screams followed.

Victory.

But it didn’t last.

By midday, a man in a white suit arrived with chemicals.

The hive fell silent.

The second wave came with sunlight.

The birds had been reluctant at first—too proud, too scattered. But when Nova explained the science, they listened. Glass and sun. Nests built near the second-story gutters, each woven around a shard of broken mirror from the old garden table.

They waited until the sun reached its peak.

And then, with precision unnatural to creatures known for chaos, the birds tilted their burning bundles toward the house.

The first nest ignited.

The second one fell short.

The third set the gutter screen ablaze.

The fourth caught some rooftop leaves on fire.

Smoke curled upward.

Inside, alarms shrieked. The humans fled to the lawn, frantic and shouting. A fire truck arrived moments later, its howls splitting the sky.

The fire didn’t spread.

Another near-miss.

Dell stood at the edge of the pond that night, tail twitching. His son sat beside him, eyes wide, exhilarated.

“We scared them,” the boy whispered.

Dell didn’t reply. He was watching Nova.

The rabbit stood on the far stone, wind tugging at his fur.

They locked eyes.

Nova’s gaze held no triumph. Only weight.

Elsewhere, again…

Grub watched it all from the compost shadows. His tunnel had grown. His poison stash complete. He had not participated in the firestorm. He had not been invited.

That was fine.

Let the white rabbit lead them into inferno.

He would be waiting in the ashes.

Chapter Nine: This Is Our Home

The cedar clearing was crowded.

Not with hope, not with unity—but with something heavier: anger, loss, pride dressed up as purpose.

Animals of all kinds had gathered again—more than before. Word of the bee swarm and fire nests had traveled fast. Even those who once stayed to the hedgerows now crept into the inner circle, hungry for something more than survival.

Dell stood near the center.

He wasn’t used to speaking, not in front of so many, but Nova stood just behind him, silent and still, and that gave him the courage to lift his chin.

He cleared his throat.

“I buried her near the roots of that dogwood,” he began, his voice low. “You all remember. Some of you helped dig. Some of you wept. Some of you didn’t know her. Doesn’t matter.”

His tail twitched.

“Since that day, I've watched us change. We’ve grown harder. Angrier. Some of that’s earned. Some of it... maybe not.”

He looked around.

“We burned their gutters. We turned bees into car bombs. We called it resistance. And maybe it is. But I’m telling you now—there’s another way.”

A murmur rose.

Dell pressed on.

“There’s a place beyond the fences. Past the fields. A place where we’re not hunted. Not cornered. It’s real. Nova saw it. June—” he paused, “the girl—she showed it to him. It’s not a story. It’s a way out.”

The murmurs grew louder. Uneasy. Sharp.

Dell raised his voice.

“We need to go. Not tomorrow. Not after the next death. Now.”

The silence that followed was total.

Then, Grub laughed.

It was a dry, rusted sound.

“Go where, Dell? Into the unknown? Following a house pet and a little girl with seed crumbs in her skirt?”

Dell didn’t flinch. “I’d rather follow a white rabbit with a map than a corpse with a grudge.”

Grub’s eyes narrowed.

“This is our home,” he snarled. “Our trees. Our pond. Our sky. They built their walls around us. And now they hunt us like rats.”

A shout rose from the crowd. “We were here first!”

“They stole the land!”

“They poisoned the water!”

“FIGHT!”

Dell shouted back, “And if we all die fighting, what’s the point?! Who buries us then?”

The wind stilled.

For a moment, it seemed like it might turn.

But then a squirrel from the far side stepped forward. Her fur was matted. Her eyes hollow.

“My children are dead,” she said quietly. “I won’t leave them behind.”

And that was it.

The decision was made—not with a vote, not with a cheer—but with a single sentence soaked in sorrow.

They would fight.

Dell looked to Nova.

Nova looked at the sky.

Neither said a word.

Chapter Ten: The Order

The garage door groaned open at 6:03 AM.

The father didn’t say a word as he stepped outside in his work boots and robe, coffee mug steaming in his hand. He walked slowly across the driveway, eyes scanning the damage. Gutter sagging, window screen charred, roof shingles burned, bird droppings on the hood of the Honda.

He sipped his coffee.

Then he crouched beside the compost bin and stared at a pile of fire-blackened twigs that used to be a nest.

A low curse left his lips.

The boy stood on the porch, watching from a few feet away.

The father straightened, turned, and said it like he was ordering dinner:

“I want ‘em gone. Anything that flies or crawls. It’s open season, you get me?”

The boy nodded. Slowly. Carefully.

“Thin the herd, son” the father added.

The boy didn't smile. But something in him smiled. The words settled into his chest like a seed.

That afternoon, the troops arrived.

Three boys on bikes. Each carried something—pellet guns, slingshots, pocket knives, blowguns made from PVC pipe. One had a backpack filled with firecrackers and string. Another wore army camo and a paintball mask.

They set up base in the shed.

The war table was a splintered picnic bench.

The mission was clear.

“They’re a nuisance,” the boy declared, eyes hard. “Destructive pests, my dad says.”

He pulled out a hand-drawn map of the yard—trees, burrows, known hiding spots.

“We’re on the hunt. No mercy. Got it?”

They nodded. They were thirteen, maybe fourteen, and already knew how to sharpen cruelty into strategy.

By noon, two squirrels were dead. Another bluejay.

By sundown, the skunk was missing.

The air changed.

The humans had declared total war.

Meanwhile…

Nova and Dell watched from beneath the lilac bush near the garden shed. They’d seen it coming—but not like this. Not so fast. Not so… coordinated.

“Children,” Dell whispered. “They’re just children.”

Nova’s ears drooped slightly. “Power changes everyone. Especially the ones given permission.”

They were about to turn back when they heard soft footsteps.

Dell froze.

Nova blinked.

June stepped through the tall grass with eyes that had clearly been crying. She knelt in front of them, shaking slightly.

“They’re going to kill you,” she whispered. “They have traps now. Snares. One of my brother’s friends has something that zaps.”

Dell inched forward cautiously.

June looked at Nova, then down at her trembling hands.

She reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

It was the map of Animal Park.

She laid it on the ground and tapped it with her finger.

A creek trail that cut through a field of tall grass, leading directly to the reserve, was highlighted in red.

“Follow the water,” she whispered. “At night.”

Dell and Nova eyed the paper as though they understood.

June’s voice broke. “Please… just go. Before they hurt you.”

She knelt there a moment longer, staring at them both, waiting for something—an answer, a sign, a word she knew would never come.

But Nova only blinked slowly.

And Dell bowed his head.

It was enough.

She turned and vanished back toward the house, one barefoot step at a time.

Chapter Eleven: The Trap

It started with a smell.

Sweet. Heavy. Unnatural.

By midday, it was everywhere—carried on the breeze, curling under roots, sliding through leaves like a whispered promise.

Food.

Not scraps. Not fallen seeds. Not bark or bitter nuts.

Meat.

Cooked. Greasy. Still warm.

Tiny piles of it began appearing across the yard—under the swing set, near the compost bin, beside the pond. Perfectly placed. Just enough to awaken memory and desperation.

The animals found the first pile near the stone path. A heap of shredded chicken in a paper cup.

They gathered around it like moths to flame.

“Where did it come from?” whispered a young sparrow.

“Does it matter?” muttered a raccoon. “It’s real.”

Dell arrived seconds later. Nova was beside him, ears pinned flat.

“Don’t touch it,” Nova said.

His voice was sharper than usual. Almost frantic.

The animals froze.

“It’s bait,” he continued. “It smells too strong. Too… perfect. No food is this easy.”

The crowd stirred uneasily. Some backed away. Others lingered, glancing at the meat with starving eyes.

A hedgehog stepped forward. Thin. Shaking.

“But we’re hungry.”

Nova didn’t move.

“So are they.”

The hedgehog hesitated. Then turned away.

The meat remained.

By sundown, the first body was found beneath the maple.

A young mouse. No wounds. Just foam at the mouth and limbs curled inward like a question.

That night, in the shadows…

Dell sat near the pond, shoulders slumped. He hadn’t spoken in hours. His son slept fitfully nearby, whimpering through dreams he didn’t understand.

Nova approached slowly, his paws soundless against the moss.

“They’ll keep doing it,” Dell said without turning. “Keep laying food until we break.”

Nova sat beside him.

“They’re not just hunting bodies,” Dell murmured. “They’re hunting hope.”

A pause. Then, for the first time, Nova pressed his body lightly against Dell’s side.

Not to comfort, to mourn.

Chapter Twelve: The Rally

It was the owl that called them.

Not with words. Not with sound. Just a passing shadow across the moon—a silhouette that slowed every breath, that stilled every leaf, that reminded even the most hardened among them that they were small, and the night was watching.

They gathered beneath the maple.

Not out of obedience, but sobriety. Something was shifting. They felt it in the soil. In their blood.

Dell stood near the edge, his son pressed to his side, trembling slightly. The boy had stopped speaking after the mouse died. Hadn’t touched food since.

Nova sat alone at the center, fur dusted with pollen, eyes reflecting the moonlight like polished glass.

He didn’t speak right away.

He let them settle. Let them hush.

Then, gently:

“I want to tell you a story.”

Some scoffed. Grub rolled his eyes in the shadows, but no one left.

Nova continued.

“It’s not a story from this yard. Not from the trees or the pond or the shed. It’s from a glowing box in the humans’ den. A box that shows their world—what they build, what they break, what they remember. What they hide.”

The animals leaned in, barely breathing.

“There is a place they made… to keep animals safe. Not for food. Not for sport. For… honor. A land where no pellet gun cracks the air. No traps. No poisons. Just wild things, living wild lives.”

A low murmur rose.

“I’ve seen the images. Heard the words. Watched June trace the trails with her fingertip. It’s real. A sanctuary beyond the fences. They call it the preserve. But we can call it Animal Park.”

The name rippled like wind through wheat.

“There’s a creek that runs like a thread of silver. If we follow it, night by night, it will lead us there.”

A young raccoon raised his voice.

“Why would humans make such a place?”

Nova smiled softly.

“Even they forget how cruel they’ve become. And sometimes, they build beauty without understanding it.”

A hush.

And then Dell stepped forward.

Everyone turned.

His tail was low. His eyes were steady.

“I’ve seen the map. I’ve smelled the pages. I watched my mate pass and my son nearly die for a bite of meat.”

He looked around.

“If we stay, we’ll be picked off. Not today. Not tomorrow. But one by one.”

He looked to Nova and nodded.

It wasn’t a declaration.

It was a surrender. Of pride. Of place. Of grief.

The animals murmured again—but it was different now. Less bitter. More… curious. A quiet current of something older than survival.

Hope.

Nova closed his eyes. Not in pride, not in peace, but in prayer.

The owl circled overhead. Hooted once.

And the wind carried the sound of something ending.

Chapter Thirteen: Brush With Death

It was supposed to be a normal forage.

Just before dawn, Dell’s son slipped away.

He was always curious, always restless. Since the speech beneath the maple, he’d heard things in whispers he didn’t quite understand—about rivers and trails and parks that didn’t smell like smoke. He wanted to believe it. But he was still hungry.

That morning, he saw something near the shed.

A pile of birdseed. Fresh. Bright. Almost… glowing in the morning light.

He crept toward it.

Didn’t see the loop of wire hidden beneath the leaves. Didn’t hear the faint click when his paw brushed the trigger.

But he felt the snap.

The world jerked sideways.

He screamed once before the noose tightened around his chest, yanking him upward into the air.

Dell heard the cry before he understood it.

He was across the yard in seconds—heart in his throat, tail bristled like fire.

When he found his son, the boy was dangling from the lowest branch of the cedar, limp and twisting, one paw reaching for nothing.

Dell didn’t hesitate.

He scrambled up the tree, claws slicing bark, and tore at the wire with everything he had. Teeth, paws, rage. The snare gave way with a sick snap, and the boy tumbled into his arms, gasping.

Alive. Bruised, but not broken. Terrified and gasping for breath.

Dell carried him back beneath the dogwood, where Nova waited.

The rabbit said nothing. Just watched.

Dell looked up, his fur soaked with sweat, eyes wild.

“No more speeches. No more meetings. No more debate.”

He clutched his son closer.

“We leave. We leave.”

Nova nodded once.

Later that day…

The boys found the broken snare.

The father frowned.

“They’re outsmarting you, son.”

The boy didn’t respond.

He was staring at the tree, at the gouges in the bark, at the fur caught on the branch.

His face was blank, but his grip tightened on the pellet gun, his slingshot bounced against his hip.

Chapter Fourteen: The Rot in the Roots

Grub watched from the fence line.

He saw Dell carrying his son like a broken branch. Saw the way Nova moved beside them—silent, steady, central. He saw the eyes of the others, how they looked now. With trust. With hope.

With faith.

He felt sick.

Grub remembered a time before the feeders. Before the soft grass. Before the false comfort of sunflower seeds and peanut butter-smeared traps. Back when survival was honest. Brutal. Real.

They had forgotten. And Nova was the reason.

The rabbit had them chasing ghost stories now. Rivers that led to safety. Parks where no one hunted. Lies wrapped in lullabies.

Grub spat in the dirt.

“There’s no sanctuary,” he muttered. “Just different traps.”

He slipped into his burrow behind the compost bin and unwrapped his stash. A pouch made from woven trash. Inside: two poison pellets, a length of sharp wire, a tiny sliver of broken mirror.

He didn’t know what he was going to do with them. Not yet.

But he would do something.

That evening, he began whispering.

First to the weasel. Then to the vole. Then a pair of squirrels from the edge of the yard—bitter ones, who had lost kin and didn’t believe in saviors.

“You really think he’s one of us?”

“You saw the girl hold him. Like a toy.”

“He eats with them. Sleeps in their walls.”

“He didn’t bleed when the bee swarm failed.”

“He knew the food was poisoned.”

Each lie carried a grain of truth. That’s how rot spreads best.

By the next dusk, five animals had turned cold toward Nova.

Two refused to look at him.

One called him the house pet behind his back.

Dell sensed it.

As he stood with his son beneath the dogwood, he watched the way the circle shifted when Nova entered. The way silence clung to his steps. The way some animals began leaving meetings early, muttering as they went.

He turned to Nova.

“They’re pulling away.”

Nova didn’t blink.

“They’ll come back.”

“And if they don’t?”

Nova looked toward the stars.

“Then we go without them.”

Chapter Fifteen: The Escalation

The nights grew shorter. The food grew scarcer.

But rage? Rage was evergreen.

They struck first with the skunks.

Two of them crept into the crawlspace beneath the house while the family slept. Dell had scouted the weak point days before—a cracked vent, loose siding, just wide enough for war.

The stench that followed was Biblical.

By morning, the humans had emptied the house, coughing and gagging. A “fumigation” truck arrived that afternoon, spraying something so thick it clung to the surrounding trees for hours.

Half the bees that survived the car bomb dropped dead by dusk.

Next came the snakes.

Nova warned them not to, saying it was too dangerous, too unpredictable.

But Grub pushed it forward.

An army of black snakes were coiled and convinced—lured by promises of warmth and forgotten eggs. They slithered up the drainage pipe and into the bathrooms.

When the mother pulled back the shower curtain, she screamed loud enough to wake the entire block.

She didn’t get bit.

But the father smashed the plumbing open with a golf club. And by morning, steel mesh was installed over every drain.

The tunnels were sealed.

Then came the webs.

The spiders had been silent for most of the war, spinning in solitude, untouched by strategy. But when asked, they wove thick curtains over the front porch and every door and window, dozens of them working overnight.

It was more art than attack.

But it unnerved the humans. The boy ripped them down with a broom.

The Following Day

The boys had taken cover behind an overturned wheelbarrow and a pair of lawn chairs, their weapons loaded, eyes wild. Sweat beaded on their brows. Their faces were painted with soot. This wasn’t play anymore.

This was war.

One of them shouted, “Tree to the left! I see movement!”

They hurled a barrage from their slingshots and guns.

A sparrow tumbled.

A chipmunk squealed and disappeared into the compost heap.

The air cracked with every shot.

Then… a slow-moving wall of turtles emerged from the pond, mud slick on their shells. They moved in formation, one beside the other, forming a wobbling barricade of shells.

Behind them, the animals gathered.

Raccoons, squirrels, birds, a possum dragging a trash can lid like a shield. A line of hedgehogs rolled up like living caltrops. Skunks stood near the rear— tails high and ready.

A porcupine waddled up behind the newly formed front. A trio of squirrels stood beside him, gripping a stretched bicycle inner tube stretched between two metal poles of the garden fence.

The launcher was ready.

The porcupine leaned forward.

With gentle care, a squirrel plucked quills from his back. The porcupine grunted and nodded.

The tube was pulled back. Quills in place.

They waited.

A bird shrieked from an overhead branch—now!

They released.

A dozen quills flew—arcing over the turtle wall, across the yard—and struck.

One of the boys screamed, stumbling backward.

A quill stuck out just above his cheekbone, dangerously close to his eye.

“Direct hit!” a squirrel yelled. “It got him! It actually got him!”

The boys scrambled behind the shed, but before they could regroup—the sky darkened.

It began with a shadow. The boys looked up.

A black streak crossed the sun. Then another. And another.

The birds had come.

Not one or two—but dozens. Sparrows, jays, finches, even the grackles. They soared in wide, whirling arcs like vultures circling a carcass—only they weren’t waiting to feed.

They were armed.

Each bird carried something—pebbles, glass shards, thumbtacks, a glinting bottle cap.

The formation split.

The first wave dive-bombed the shed, dropping their payloads like a storm of teeth and bone. The rocks hit mulch beds and pavers with hollow clacks. One struck a slingshot, snapping the band.

The second wave came in lower.

A jay dropped a bottle cap that pinged off the BBQ grill. A finch let loose a small piece of mirror, which ricocheted off the shed near one boy’s face.

The third wave didn’t drop any objects. Instead, they unleashed a targeted splattering of fresh stool.

One of the boys panicked and swung his pellet gun at the sky, firing blindly. Missed.

Another ducked behind the trash can, arms over his head.

“What do we do?!” he shrieked.

“Nothing!” the lead boy snapped. “They’re just stupid birds!”

But he flinched when a jay swooped close enough to tear a tuft of hair from his head.

It was chaos.

Sharp. Feathery. Absolute.

And just like that—it was over.

The birds scattered as fast as they’d come, vanishing into trees and shadows, their message delivered.

The boys sat in stunned silence.

For the first time since the war began, they looked daunted.

Nova watched it all from a lilac bush, quiet and still.

“None of it’s working,” Dell said beside him.

Nova nodded.

“Because it’s not meant to.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because belief is brittle. And sometimes… you need noise to keep it from snapping.”

They watched as the boy and his friends set up a line of traps near the creek.

“They’ll never let us leave,” Dell whispered.

“They don’t have to,” Nova replied. “We just have to make them look away long enough.”

Chapter Sixteen: The Exodus Begins

The battlefield was quiet.

Ash settled on the grass like snowfall. The turtle wall had dispersed, the inner tube launcher dismantled. A single feather spun in a breeze no one could feel.

They didn’t call it a victory.

They just called it enough.

That night, the animals gathered for the last time beneath the maple.

The pond shimmered like a mirror. The stars blinked through branches. The wind spoke in hushed tones, rustling the old dogwood where the first grave lay hidden beneath the roots.

Nova stood in the center.

Dell sat at his side, his son curled beside him, still limping but stronger now. Around them: the survivors. The believers. The weary. The wild.

Nova’s voice was quiet.

“Tonight, we leave.”

No shouts. No protests. No cheers.

Just a slow, aching silence.

“We will follow the creek. Cross the field. Pass the second fence by dawn. The map is real. The girl gave it to us. We trust her. And we trust each other.”

He looked up.

The owl sat in the branches above, still and solemn.

“We have mourned long enough,” Nova added.

But not all were ready.

Far at the edge of the gathering, near the compost heap where the light didn’t reach, Grub crouched low in the tall grass.

He had listened to the speech with growing fury. Watched the others nod, pack, plan.

Traitors. All of them.

“This is our home,” he hissed to himself. “We don’t run. We bite. We burn.”

The poison pellet felt heavy in his paw.

He had planned to lace it into Nova’s final snack—something stolen from June’s offering pile. Something sweet enough to mask the scent. Something symbolic.

He waited.

He watched.

Nova sat with Dell’s son now, nuzzling him softly. His white fur nearly glowed.

Grub stepped forward.

But something made him pause.

Not guilt. Not fear.

The owl.

It had turned its head—slowly, soundlessly—and was staring directly at him.

Its yellow eyes unblinking.

Grub froze.

For a long moment, the yard didn’t breathe.

Then he turned, slunk back into the weeds, and dropped the poison into the damp grass.

He didn’t join the others that night.

He just vanished.

Back beneath the maple, Nova stood tall.

“We go as one. No turning back. No breaking ranks.”

Dell looked to the horizon.

The fence line shimmered like a promise in the dark.

“Let’s move.”

And the animals began to walk—first in silence, then in rhythm, then in unity.

Through the clover. Over the mulch. Past the feeder that once gave them life.

Toward the water. Toward the wild. Toward whatever waited.

The owl hooted once—low, long, mournful.

Some animals lingered.

A raccoon sat at the mouth of the crawlspace beneath the deck where she raised her last litter. She pressed her nose to the wood, then backed away without a sound.

A pair of sparrows flitted to a rusted wind chime on the porch. They nested there once, long ago, when the boy was still small and used to toss bread instead of firecrackers. One pulled a piece of string from the nest. Just a strand. A keepsake.

Near the swing set, a mole lifted his nose to the air, remembering the scent of crushed clover and dirt. He recalled when the boy used to laugh here, spinning in circles, dizzy with joy. Before the gun. Before the war.

Even Dell paused by a broken bench where his mate once sat beside him, grooming his ears beneath the sun. He could still smell her in the moldy wood. He touched it, just once, and sighed.

Others circled the pond, the garden, the bird feeder. They didn’t speak.

But the air was heavy with memory.

And the march began.

Interlude: June at the Window

The moon was full that night. Heavy and pale, like an old coin lost in the sky.

June stood barefoot in her bedroom, a blanket wrapped around her. The glow from her nightlight cast soft shadows across the walls, but her eyes were fixed on the window.

She didn’t know why she’d woken.

She just had.

Something had pulled her from sleep—something small, but insistent. A hush in the air. A shift. Like the earth had turned a corner and didn’t want to be seen doing it.

She stepped to the window and looked out.

The backyard was silvered and still. The swing set creaked slightly, though there was no wind. The pond glistened in the dark. And there—just beyond the garden—they moved.

Shapes in the clover.

One by one. In a line.

Raccoons. Squirrels. Birds.

A white rabbit. Nova.

She pressed her hand to the glass.

“You’re really going.”

She didn’t say it like a question. She said it like a farewell.

No one turned.

But she imagined, just for a moment, that Nova’s ears twitched at the sound of her voice.

She reached into her pocket and pulled something out—a tiny folded piece of paper. The last page of the map. She didn’t know why she hadn’t given it to them.

She unfolded it slowly, then pressed it flat against the glass.

Just in case he looked back.

The line of animals slipped into the trees like a dream being pulled gently away.

June’s eyes blurred.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The window fogged slightly from her breath.

“Be safe.”

Then she kissed the glass.

Just once.

And watched them go.

Chapter Seventeen: The Fence

The creek led them like a silver ribbon.

Through cattails and wet leaves, beneath sagging fences and over forgotten stones, the animals moved in a slow, silent tide. No chatter. No song. Only breath, and the occasional rustle of paws against damp earth.

Nova led them, his white fur a beacon in the dark. Dell walked close behind, his son tucked beneath him, alert but quiet. The line stretched long and winding—mothers with kits, birds on foot, even the turtles pulling their weight with slow, patient grace.

When they reached the fence, they stopped.

It was taller than they remembered.

Thicker.

A wall of rusted wire, stapled into wooden posts that smelled of old paint and rain. It ran the length of the property like a scar—and beyond it, nothing but tall grass and moonlight.

Some animals stared.

Some looked away.

Dell stepped forward and placed a paw on the base of the fence.

“It’s just a thing.”

Nova nodded. “It’s not what holds us.”

A squirrel climbed partway up, then back down, whispering, “No dogs… no traps… no feeders.”

“No graves,” said a vole.

The wind passed gently through the fence, humming against the wire like a question.

One by one, the animals began moving through the weak points—gaps in the mesh, holes chewed through the years. Some dug. Some climbed. The smaller ones slipped beneath with ease.

But the fence wasn’t just a barrier.

It was a memory.

And memories don’t let go easily.

A sparrow froze halfway through a gap in the wire. “I was born here,” he whispered.

A raccoon touched the ground once, then looked back. “We used to dance here… me and my brother. When the moon was full and the trash was fresh.”

No one laughed.

The past was still breathing on their necks.

Nova was the last to cross.

He paused at the edge and looked over his shoulder one final time.

The house was a soft shape in the distance, lit faintly by the porch light.

He thought of June.

The sound of her voice.

The warmth of her lap.

The way she called him Snowdrop.

He closed his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For what you gave. For what you didn’t know you saved.”

Then he turned and slipped through the fence.

And the world they knew disappeared behind them.

Chapter Eighteen: The Field

The tall grass swallowed them whole.

It wasn’t a path—not in the human sense. There were no signs, no markers, no safety nets. Just stalks taller than their heads, bending and swaying like they were breathing. Each step was a choice. Each pawprint a prayer.

For a long time, they moved in silence.

The moon lit the field in soft bruises—blue, silver, black. Crickets sang somewhere far off, but even they seemed subdued tonight.

Dell kept his son close, their tails brushing now and then to say I’m here.

Nova hopped ahead. Not far. Just far enough to remind them there was a destination.

But the silence began to shift.

Not break—just bend.

A squirrel began to hum.

A low, quiet thing. Not a song, really. Just notes remembered from when he was small. Something his sister used to sing to calm storms.

Then a raccoon picked it up. Then a jay.

Within minutes, the whole line moved like a soft current beneath the stars, a single breath made of many voices.

As they reached the heart of the field, they stopped.

Not from fear.

From awe.

The grass opened slightly, revealing a clearing like a bowl carved into the earth. In the center stood a dead tree—tall, skeletal, reaching toward the sky like it was trying to hold something it had already lost.

Around it, the wind moved in perfect spirals.

Nova hopped into the center.

He sat beneath the tree and waited.

The others followed slowly, forming a loose circle.

Some lay down. Others stood still. The turtles collapsed where they stopped.

It wasn’t sleep that found them. It was stillness.

A kind they hadn’t known in years.

No fences. No footsteps. No glow of porch lights.

Just field. Just stars.

Just breath.

Dell looked up.

“Are we already there?”

Nova didn’t answer.

He tilted his head to the sky.

“Not yet., but we’re not there anymore.”

Dell smiled. Not wide. Just enough.

He pulled his son close.

And for the first time in a long time…

He let himself rest.

Chapter Nineteen: The Fence Next Door

By sunrise, the field thinned into fence line.

This one was smaller, warped with age and leaning like it had lost the will to stand. Beyond it: another backyard. Another house. A copy of the world they just escaped.

There was a feeder. A pond. A rusted tricycle overturned in the grass.

To the survivors, it looked like a clone of home.

Nova paused at the edge.

Dell came up beside him. “Another fence,” he said. “Another memory.”

Nova didn’t answer.

Because something was watching.

They were met before they crossed.

A fox squirrel stood on a low branch, chewing on a seed pit. His fur was thicker than Grub’s, but his eyes were the same: narrow, alert, and unimpressed.

“Well, well,” the squirrel drawled. “If it ain’t the prophets of doom.”

Nova stepped forward. “We’re just passing through. No trouble.”

The squirrel spat the pit into the grass. “Trouble's already here, friend. Brought it with you, I’d wager.”

Other animals began to appear—raccoons, possums, finches, a cat with a collar lounging on the porch.

“Who are they?” one asked.

“Refugees,” said the squirrel. “From a backyard that thinks it's Babylon.”

Dell bristled. “We lost lives.”

“Everyone loses lives,” the squirrel snapped. “But we don’t go around preaching end times because a hawk got lucky.”

Nova stepped between them. “What’s your name?”

“Brash,” the squirrel said. “Grub’s cousin. He sent word you might be passing through.”

That silenced the circle.

Dell growled, “He tried to poison our friend, Nova.”

“He tried keeping you equal to them,” Brash said. “There’s a difference,” he said, spitting another seed.

The possum of the yard wandered up, blinking sleepily. “What’s Animal Park?”

Nova turned to her gently. “A place beyond this. A preserve. No fences. No weapons.”

The animals around her snorted.

“And I suppose the humans just hand you a key at the gate?”

“And paint your name on a tree?”

“Sounds like a trap,” muttered the cat.

A finch flapped close to Nova. “Why not stay here? We’ve got food. Shelter. No one’s shooting at us.”

Nova didn’t answer right away.

Then he said quietly, “Not yet.”

That night, the group rested at the edge of the yard. They were given a space beneath the hedge, but warned not to wander. Whispers circled. Doubts grew.

Dell’s son asked, “Why are they so angry at us?”

Nova whispered, “Because peace makes truth feel like a threat.”

When the moon rose, Brash came again.

This time he pulled Dell aside.

“You’ve got a young’n,” he said. “I’ve seen how you look at him. Tired. Worried. Don’t drag him across the field for a fairy tale.”

Dell didn’t respond.

“Stay here,” Brash said. “You’re chasing a dream. We can protect you. The humans here, they’re… pliant.”

Dell looked toward the others—toward Nova, asleep beside the turtles. Toward the stars overhead.

“No thanks,” he said. “You’ve got enough to sleep. But not enough to wake.”

And with that, he walked away.

Chapter Twenty: The Dream of Black Stone

The stars had scattered.

Clouds moved in sometime after midnight, cloaking the moon, muting the air. The travelers slept beneath the hedge, close together but uneasy—like a body with a splinter it couldn’t reach.

Among them, an old bird dreamed.

She was a mourning dove named Loria. Quiet. Observant. She had lost three eggs in the war but never told anyone. She carried her grief like feathers—soft, but always with her.

That night, she dreamed of black stone.

Endless and steaming. It stretched in every direction, flat and hot, with yellow lines like scars across its surface. There were no trees. No grass. No shade. Just the smell of rubber and thunder and sweat.

She flew, but her wings didn’t lift her.

She walked, but the stone burned her feet.

And then the sound came.

A roar—not like the boy’s voice, or a trap, or even the wind. It was the earth itself, split open and screaming. Lights flashed. Shadows moved too fast to see.

She tried to call out, but no voice came.

Then she saw Nova—alone, on the edge of the black.

His white fur was stained with oil.

He looked back once, but did not wait.

Then the dream broke.

Loria woke with a sharp cry.

The others startled, feathers ruffled, tails bristling.

“It was black,” she gasped. “Something resembling a street—but worse. We’ll have to cross it. Wide as a lake. No cover. No time.”

Nova stepped forward. “A warning?”

She nodded slowly. “A wound waiting to open.”

The morning came heavy.

They gathered near the garden's edge.

Dell shared Loria’s dream in hushed tones. The group listened, some nodding, some shifting uneasily. One of the younger raccoons—barely weaned—began to shake.

“Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t go,” he whispered.

That’s when Brash stepped in.

He stood tall on the stone garden border.

“She dreamed of death,” he said. “And you still want to walk into it?”

The others looked to Nova.

Nova said nothing.

“You have safety here,” Brash continued. “Food. Quiet. Shelter. Real things. Not promises from glowing boxes. Not myths about magic fences and human mercy.”

A few animals backed away from Nova.

A mole. A squirrel from the outer circle. The vole who’d always seemed hesitant.

“You don’t have to follow,” Nova said calmly. “But if you stay, you have to believe this place will never turn on you.”

Dell looked at the sky. “And that’s a big belief.”

Brash scoffed. “So is walking headlong into a highway.”

By mid-morning, the group had thinned.

Five stayed behind.

They said their goodbyes quietly.

No bitterness. Just fear. The kind that settles into bone and calls itself logic.

Nova didn’t fight it.

He simply turned, gathered the rest, and faced the far fence.

Beyond it, the tall grass thickened again.

And somewhere, beyond the grass, the black stone waited.

Chapter Twenty-One: One Last Song

They were almost ready to go.

They were packed—what little they carried. Seeds tucked in cheeks. Small scraps of map rolled and hidden in fur. The ones who chose to stay had already disappeared into the hedge, avoiding eye contact.

Nova sat beneath the garden gate, watching dew drip from a tomato cage.

Dell stood beside him.

“It could be nice here,” Dell said quietly.

Nova didn’t reply.

Just then, a window opened.

A second-story pane creaked upward, and a girl—maybe eight or nine—leaned out with messy hair and a pajama top full of wrinkled cartoon suns. She looked sleepy, like she had just tumbled out of a dream she couldn’t quite remember.

In her hand: a tin can.

She shook it gently.

Chhh-chhh-chhh.

The sound of seed.

She tossed a handful into the yard. It landed soft, like rain.

And then, without any thought at all, she sang.

It wasn’t a full song. Not really. Just a line, maybe two. Something simple. Something soft. Her voice cracked a little from sleep, but it was lovely all the same.

“Good morning, my little birds… come sing to me again…”

She waited a moment, smiled, then closed the window.

Just like that.

Gone.

The animals stood still.

Even the wind seemed to pause.

A jay near Dell choked back a sound like a sob.

Nova lowered his head.

“That sounded just like her,” Dell whispered.

Nova closed his eyes. “It wasn’t June.”

“No,” Dell said. “But it could’ve been.”

They didn’t move for a long time.

The garden soaked up the sunlight. The birds landed, cautiously, pecking at the seed. One of the turtles curled against the morning warmth and made a low, grateful noise.

But eventually…

One by one…

They turned from the song.

Dell gave one last look at the rusted feeder.

At the swing. At the porch steps. At the house.

“Goodbye,” he whispered. “Watch over them.”

Nova waited until everyone was ready, then nodded, and began leading them all out of the yard.

Not because they hated it, but because they clung to higher hopes.

And hope—real hope—moves forward.

Even when it hurts.

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Black Stone

The grass ended abruptly.

One moment, they were wading through golden stalks up to their chests—warm, whispering, soft.

And then it was just… gone.

Cut off like a thought unfinished.

They stood at the edge of a shallow ditch and stared.

Before them: a highway.

Wider than any of them imagined.

Six lanes of black stone and blinding lines.

Cars moved like monsters—hulking, gleaming, howling past in bursts of speed.

Each one a thunderclap. A heartbeat too big for the earth to hold.

Dell stepped forward, his son close behind.

“This is it,” he said.

Loria coo’d, “It’s my dream.”

Nova didn’t speak.

He was studying it—not the size, but the rhythm.

The way the cars came in waves. The way the sun bounced off glass.

The way it wasn’t a wall—it was a riddle.

“We wait,” Nova said. “And we watch.”

They camped for hours at the edge.

From the overgrown ditch, hidden from view, they studied the road.

The birds mapped the lights.

The squirrels counted seconds between gaps.

Even the turtles, slow and steady, agreed:

There would be a window.

Just not a big one.

Dell’s son asked, “What if we can’t make it?”

Nova looked at him with the gentlest eyes he had.

“Then we wait again. And again. Until we can.”

Someone in the group raised concern for the turtles.

Loria fluttered down from a low wire, landing beside them.

“There’s something down there,” she said. “A pipe. It runs beneath the road. It’s filled with rushing water, but it’s wide enough. And the turtles—”

“They can swim it,” Nova finished, nodding.

The turtles blinked slowly, solemnly.

“Then that’s our way,” Dell said. “Two paths. One goal.”

Just before dusk, the wind changed.

It blew warm, not sharp.

The scent of exhaust drifted thinner.

The sky turned pink at the edges, like it was bleeding from the light.

Nova’s ears twitched.

“Now.”

They moved in shifts.

First the flyers—scouting high, calling down.

Then the runners—squirrels, raccoons, weasels. Quick, darting between tires and shadow.

Then the stragglers—the mole, the vole, the shrew.

Nova stayed behind, counting each one as they reached the opposite grass.

Dell and his son waited beside him.

The last car passed.

“Go,” Nova said.

They bolted.

For one eternal breath, they were in the open.

Nothing but wind and black beneath them.

A horn blasted somewhere behind.

A tire hissed.

Dell pushed his son ahead.

Nova didn’t run—he moved. Fluid. Swift. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to cross this exact line.

They reached the other side.

Alive. Whole. Changed.

They collapsed in the tall grass, panting.

A moment later, the turtles emerged from the undergrowth—wet, mossy, blinking at the sky. One let out a low grunt and shook off a strand of green slime like it was a medal.

They were met with soft laughter.

Behind them, the road roared on—oblivious, endless.

Ahead…

Silence.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Predator in the Weeds

The land changed after the road.

The grass grew taller, but wilder—less golden, more tangled. Blackberry brambles crept like claws across the earth. Thorn trees rose without pattern. Trash was rare now, but bones were not.

Dell was the first to notice.

“We’re not alone out here.”

Nova didn’t answer, but his ears stayed high, alert.

The group moved slower. Closer. Instinct told them the rules had shifted. They were no longer travelers crossing yards.

They were prey crossing territory.

It happened just after dusk.

They had stopped in a shallow glade ringed with thorn bushes, thinking it safe. The air hung low with a faint smell of moss and stone. A few birds dozed in a nearby tree. Loria stood watch, perched low on a branch.

That’s when she saw the eyes.

Yellow. Still. Watching.

She shrieked, but it was too late.

A coyote burst from the underbrush—fast, lean, feral.

The group scattered.

Screams. Crashes. Feathers flying.

A young possum tripped over a root and froze.

The coyote lunged.

But then—Nova.

He shot forward like a bolt of white lightning, slamming into the coyote’s side. Not with strength—but with speed. The coyote stumbled, hissed, and snapped toward Nova, who darted away just fast enough.

The possum scrambled into the thorn bush.

The coyote growled.

And then—it was gone.

Slipped back into the brush as if it had never been.

When the group reassembled, they were bruised. Shaken.

One sparrow was missing.

A raccoon bled from the paw.

Dell turned to Nova. “You saved us.”

Nova’s breath was shallow. “Not all of them.”

Loria limped forward. “What do we do now?”

Nova looked at the torn grass where the coyote had been.

“We don’t sleep tonight.”

That night, they circled tighter than ever.

They posted watches. No one argued.

In the silence, someone whispered, “I thought only humans hurt us.”

Nova, from the shadows, replied:

“The humans taught us how to hurt. The wild just… never forgot.”

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Ghost Yard

They followed the creek again.

It had narrowed now—no longer the silver ribbon it once was, but a sickly trickle, choked with weeds and bits of plastic. The trees hung lower here, and the sky felt heavier. Even the wind had grown quiet, as if the land itself was holding its breath.

“Where are we?” Dell asked.

No one answered.

Because no one knew.

The land began to change.

Pavement poked through grass like broken teeth. A mailbox lay on its side, rusted and hollow. A fence sagged in on itself. They came upon an old kiddie pool filled with algae and a sun-bleached soccer ball half-buried in mud.

This had once been a yard.

Now it was memory rot.

“It feels like… no one came back,” said Loria, her voice hushed.

They passed a swing, creaking in the wind.

A doll with no face.

A shed door torn off its hinges.

Even the trees here looked tired.

They stopped at what might’ve once been a garden. Now it was overrun—nettles, wild vines, the shadow of something that used to feed.

Dell’s son sniffed the air. “It smells wrong.”

Nova crouched by the broken porch steps, brushing aside a mat of leaves.

There, beneath a fallen shingle, was an old pamphlet. He pulled it out with his teeth, let it unfold with the wind.

The title still clung to it:

Welcome to Allegheny Nature Reserve

A faded map. A cartoon deer smiling under the sun.

Dell stared.

Nova stepped beside him.

“We’re close.”

Dell nodded, but his eyes stayed fixed on the drawing.

“Or we’re lost in the memory of something that never was.”

They camped around a crumbling doghouse.

It felt like time and fur and abandonment.

That night, no one slept well.

The raccoon who had bled from the coyote’s attack woke in a panic and tried to run, swearing he saw movement in the shadows. They had to calm him. Loria hummed. Nova lay silent. Dell held his son close.

“Why would the humans leave a place like this?” the boy asked.

Dell whispered:

“Because they didn’t know how to stay.”

When the sun rose, it rose pale and indifferent.

They sat quietly, one by one, as if not to disturb the place.

And the doll without a face lay motionless next to them, as they huddled together, lost in thought, exploring old memories.

Interlude I: Nova

Before the feeder.

Before the swing.

Before even the name Snowdrop…

There was light.

Nova had been small then—smaller than he could now remember. Fur still soft at the edges, eyes too wide for the shape of his head. He lived in a crate lined with newspaper and the sleeve of an old sweater and a dish always full of carrots.

And each night, the humans would sit in front of the glowing box.

Nova didn’t know the words.

But he knew the shapes. He knew the rhythm.

Faces moved too fast. Laughter came in waves, but it didn’t match the expressions. The people inside the box cried in bright rooms while others clapped.

That’s not how sadness sounds, he had thought.

He learned early that the glowing box lied.

But he also learned the box told truths no one meant to share.

Once, a man pointed to a map. Nova couldn’t read the words, but he saw the lines—green patches carved out from gray ones. And a voice said:

“Preserved land. Off-limits. Protected by the state.”

The man smiled when he said it.

And Nova had leaned closer, pressing his tiny paws to the glass door of the entertainment cabinet.

That was the night he dreamed of open sky.

He never forgot it.

Not the sound.

Not the image.

Not the feeling that something else existed.

Interlude II: Dell

It had been spring.

Not the brittle kind that comes with frostbite warnings and broken daffodils, but the true kind. Warm dirt. Pollen in the wind. A promise hanging in the air like dew.

Dell had climbed the roof that evening—not for food, not for safety, but because she was already up there.

She was always the brave one.

He remembered the way she sat near the chimney, tail curled around her feet like a banner, watching the sky turn orange.

“You’re late,” she teased.

Dell had muttered something about feeders and cats and the human boy who chased everything that moved. But she only laughed.

“You always come up here when you're afraid,” she said.

“I’m not afraid,” he lied.

She scooted closer. “You are. But I like that about you.”

The wind tugged at their fur. Birds wheeled above them like scattered thoughts.

She leaned into him. No words for a while.

They just watched the sun drop behind the neighbor’s fence. The scent of honeysuckle reached them from below. A moth flickered past, trailing dust.

“Do you think the humans notice it?” she whispered.

“The sunset?”

She nodded.

Dell didn’t answer.

But he remembered thinking—not they, not him, but us.

“We notice it. That’s enough.”

They kissed, or something like it.

Fur brushing fur.

Breath exchanged like vows.

He never told anyone about that night.

Not even when she died.

He kept it curled inside his chest like a tiny nest no one could see.

Interlude III: Dell’s Boy

He remembered the marigolds.

That’s what the girl had planted that spring—the little one with braids and jelly sandals. She sang to the soil while pouring water that glinted in the sun. He didn’t know her name. He just knew that the sound of her voice made the garden feel alive.

He used to nap in the curve of the old garden hose.

It was warm there, soft, and it smelled like rubber and grass.

Sometimes his mother would curl up nearby, grooming herself or flicking ants from her tail. His father would climb the fence and bring back seeds—big ones, warm from the feeder.

He remembered chasing beetles.

Not to kill them. Just to see if he could. He liked the sound their wings made when they tried to escape—like tiny drums in a paper bag.

He thought the world was endless.

He thought fences were made to lean against, not to climb over.

He thought hunger was just a thing that came before dinner.

The world hadn’t broken yet.

It still whispered bedtime stories through wind chimes and distant laughter.

He didn’t know what “war” meant.

Didn’t know what “trap” meant.

Didn’t know what “gone” meant.

Not yet.

Just bees.

And flowers.

And the sound of his mother’s heartbeat beneath the lilac bush, slow and sure like summer itself.

Interlude IV: Loria

She had laid three.

Not in a fancy nest—not the kind jays made with tinsel and string—but a modest one, lined with shed feathers and soft bits of bark. She built it in the crook of the pine tree near the swing set, just high enough to feel proud, just low enough to feel safe.

The eggs were small and perfect. Smooth as river stones. Pale with faint speckles, like each one had caught a little bit of sky.

She sang to them.

Not songs with words. Coo’s made of harmony and hush. The kind of sound that felt like calm before dawn or wind just before it rains.

The human girl saw her once—June, with her serious eyes. She pointed and whispered to her father, but he didn’t look up. He was mowing the lawn, dragging noise through the quiet.

Loria didn’t mind.

The girl had noticed.

That was enough.

For twelve days, Loria barely left the nest. She sat through wind, and drizzle, and a neighbor’s shrieking birthday party. She dreamed of soft beaks peeking through cracked shells. Of tiny hearts beating beside hers. Of warmth.

Then came the boy.

Not the girl’s brother.

Another.

He climbed the swing set with a plastic bat in his hand, shouting for fun, swinging at bees.

He never saw the nest.

Not until the branch cracked.

Not until his foot slipped and the bat flailed and—

Snap.

One egg fell.

Then another.

The third didn’t crack open.

It just stopped being warm.

Loria stayed in the nest two more days.

Not because she hoped.

Because she didn’t know what else to be.

She still sings.

But not lullabies.

Now it’s something older.

Darker.

And meant to be heard by those who understand that silence is sometimes the loudest thing left behind.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Wound That Doesn’t Bleed

They smelled it before they saw it.

The sharp tang of rust. Ozone. Earth scorched not by flame, but by neglect.

The trees thinned.

The grass withered.

And then… there it was.

A barbed wire fence, stretched across the field like an injury.

Sagging in places, but still dangerous. The posts leaned, some wrapped in vines that had tried to strangle them but gave up.

It didn’t say stop.

It didn’t say go.

It just was.

And beyond it—the scent changed.

Fresher. Wilder.

The distant murmur of water running clean.

Birdsong not tinged with alarm.

Nova whispered, “We’re close now.”

They circled the fence for an hour.

No breaks. No gaps. No drainpipes. No miracle.

Dell paced along the base. “We dig?”

A mole tried. The ground was packed with stones and glass.

A raccoon offered, “We climb?”

Nova studied the sharp barbs. “Not all of us will make it.”

The group fell quiet.

Dell’s boy walked ahead alone, pawing at the wire.

“We’re right there,” he said, voice thin. “We can see it.”

And then—he slipped.

The grass was slick. His paw caught. His leg twisted.

And his side hit the fence.

Hard.

A barb sank deep into his shoulder.

He screamed.

Dell leapt forward.

Nova too.

They reached him together, claws tugging at the wire, teeth trying not to tear what was tearing him already.

The group rushed in.

Squirrels anchored the posts. Raccoons pulled from below. A possum wrapped his body around the base and dug in.

Together, they wrenched the wire just far enough.

Nova slipped under. Dell braced.

And with one perfect motion—they freed him.

The young squirrel collapsed, shaking.

Dell wrapped around him, trembling too.

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered. “I just wanted to see it first.”

Nova nuzzled him.

“You did. Now we all will.”

They didn’t speak much after that.

They worked.

They pulled a stretch of the fence down just enough—tied it back with vine, sticks, and fragments of cloth. The wound in the world didn’t heal. But they passed through it.

Together.

And on the other side?

The air hung over them like something they hadn’t felt in weeks.

It felt like… possibility.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Animal Park

The morning broke slow.

Not harsh. Not cold.

But gentle—like it was afraid to wake them too quickly.

The grass was taller here, but softer. Wildflowers nodded with dew. The trees no longer leaned away like they were afraid. They stood proud, stretching skyward, green to the bone.

They had made it.

Nova stepped into the clearing first.

No more fences.

No more feeders.

No boy with a gun.

Just air that belonged to no one.

Dell followed. His son limped behind him, but his eyes were wide. Wider than ever. He gasped at a dragonfly and smiled at a breeze. He looked like he’d forgotten how much beauty could still live in him.

A river ran nearby—clean, fast, alive. Not a trickle or a ditch, but a real river. They all gathered at its edge. Some drank. Some cried.

Loria landed on a flat stone in the middle of the water.

She looked up at the sky.

“They didn’t lie.”

Nova flopped his ears toward her.

“No,” he said. “We just had to go far enough to believe it.”

They found a thicket not far from the riverbank. A perfect place to settle. To rest.

The turtles collapsed in a circle of moss and didn’t move for hours.

The possum curled under a hollow log and finally, finally slept.

A finch sang. Not a warning call. A song.

The first real one in weeks.

Dell sat beside Nova as dusk came, his son asleep between them.

“What do we do now?”

Nova stared at the sky, where a hawk circled—not hunting. Just watching.

“We begin again.”

Dell looked at the trees. The water. The stillness that buzzed with life.

“Do you think June ever found out if we made it?”

Nova closed his eyes. “I think she already knew we would.”

And in a town far away, a girl with braid-frizzed hair stood in her backyard at twilight.

She looked up at the sky. Nothing special. Just stars.

But she smiled anyway.

And she whispered into the wind:

“Good night, Snowdrop.”

Epilogue: The Sign

It had been three days.

Three days since the razor wire.

Three days since the river welcomed them.

Three weeks since the war left their breath.

The group had found their rhythm again—not the same as before, but something honest. They foraged. They built. They laughed in new tones. Even the younger ones, scarred and wide-eyed, had begun to chase beetles again.

Dell’s son no longer limped.

Loria had begun to hum again in her sleep.

And Nova?

Nova watched.

Not as a leader now.

Just as part of it.

That afternoon, Dell and Nova walked upstream, searching for a better spot to collect berries.

They followed a deer path, soft with pine needles, and turned a bend where the trees parted like a curtain drawn aside.

And there it was.

A signpost.

Wooden. Weather-worn. Tilted slightly.

But real.

It read:

Allegheny Wildlife Preserve

Habitat Restoration Zone – No Trespassing

No Hunting. No Trapping. No Feeding.

Nova stepped close.

The paint was faded, but someone had scratched a mark into the corner of the post—a tiny flower. A doodle.

A wild guess—but it looked just like the way June used to draw them in chalk.

Dell ran a paw over the letters.

“No fear,” he added aloud.

Nova blinked slowly.

“And no cages,” he added.

They stood there for a long moment, not speaking. Just listening.

To the breeze.

To the water.

To the sound of a place that didn’t need to be taken back—only found.

When they returned to camp, the others gathered around.

Nova told them what he saw.

Loria wept.

The turtles blinked sincerely in unison.

No one cheered.

But the silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

Full of what might come next.

Later that night, the animals lay in nests and underbrush and makeshift dens. Fireflies blinked above them like soft signals from the stars.

And Nova lay on his back beneath the open sky, paws folded over his chest, white fur glowing faintly in the moonlight.

An owl passed overhead once.

Just once.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t need to.

In the distance, a feeder hung on a faraway forgotten porch.

Empty.

Swinging gently in the wind.

But no one came to fill it.

And the animals did not return.

The End.