Shadow Fox

Chapter 1: The Girl Without the Fish
How many foxes have you met? Probably not many. That’s for the best. Most foxes don’t want to speak with you. Not you in particular. I’m sure you’re perfectly okay. But humans can be very hard to like.
Unless they give you fish. Or trout. Which is a kind of fish.
Now, you might be thinking that this story is about fish. Many good stories are. Generally speaking, though, foxes do not like stories unless they’re about foxes. Luckily, this one is.
I am a fox, if you haven’t already guessed.
My name is YAAARRRRAAAWWWAAAAAARRR. You say it with a screech, like when you’re about to pounce on a rabbit in the snow. I also have another name, which is much easier for humans to pronounce because it’s a human word. I can’t tell you that name up front. It would ruin the story. Which is about foxes. So it’s a good one.
Listen closely.
It starts with the night I met the girl.


You can picture that night if you try hard enough. Part of the sky is black, like fox paws, and the rest is stuffed with stars. Pebbly blue stars, as round as eggs in a nest. This far north, they’re bright—the brightest. They can light the way through a storm.
I need those stars. I mean, look at me! Look at how little fur I have left, how thin I am.
I need all the help I can get.
Flattening my eyes to slits, I try to block out the snowflakes. Wet chunks thwick against my lashes and thwack against my back, leaving damp patches on my skin. Icicles cling to the tiniest fur-tufts on my belly. I used to like this kind of weather, but now? Bleh! Pssh! Each gasp of wind through the birch trees is a sliver in my side.
Here, in this part of the world, the weather changes so quickly, and the cold is colder than cold. When you breathe out, smoke hangs in the air.
Still, I’m trotting along, light-footed. Each paw-step is like the forest itself: quiet, quiet, quiet. That’s how foxes are supposed to move. We’re not supposed to be seen, not supposed to be heard. We’re supposed to be in our own worlds. And fast. That’s another thing. We’re made to be swifter than swift, a streak of orange in the night.
I try to pick up the pace, toward the extra light flickering through the trees. Oh, hah! Ga-hah! I squeal to myself, almost chuckling, because I know that flicker! It’s a good flicker! Warm yellow light pulses over cold blue snow. That means Nan has the porch light on. She’s waiting for me. Must be! Nan, the woman in the woolly sweater, always feeds me. With her soft humming and her gentle fingers that smell vaguely of birds, she is the only human I don’t hate. She brings out trays of sliced trout: little chunks that I can shove into my mouth and nom-nom.
My hope rises along with my brush.
Because I’m hungry. So very hungry. It’s been three days since I’ve had a big meal, and I feel every hour of it. A gnaw grows in the hollow of my belly. Nan will solve that! She’ll feed me, and I’ll eat the fish, and the gnaw will be no more.
A pep in my step, I weave past the spruce and the fir trees before the forest spits me out directly in front of the motel. The white stack of lumber with the darkened windows and the bright-blue doors is a den for humans. And it has terrible garbage cans! I mean terrible. Never enough food in them. Sometimes, very rarely, there’s fish at the bottom. Squished fish, with the juices run out—and you have to dive for a taste.
On the night I meet the girl, I skulk by the garbage cans, chasing the yellow porch light the way I chase beetles.
Almost there! Almost!
The snow has almost stopped, too. The wind has died down to a hush. And I can hear the lake lapping nearby, water crashing against the smooth rocks. (To me, the lake always sounds like fox urine splooshing into a puddle.) Mixing in with the lake sounds are distant calls of birds. The noise pricks my ears as I round the first step of the deck, paws poised, my mouth already watering at the thought of Nan’s treats, and—
What? What’s this? I scuttle backward, my hind legs skittering on the snow. A bark climbs into my throat as I glare up at the human on the porch. You’re not Nan! You’re not the white-haired woman with the sweaters and the fish!
In front of me is a girl. A girl! A girl with dark-red hair, her mouth falling open. She’s staring in my direction, her eyes brown, wide, and flicking. She looks around twelve winters old, and, oh, I couldn’t care less about her! I don’t care one lick about her! Except she’s standing where Nan once stood. By the glass door to the human den. Under the yellow light. Snow glob-falling onto her coat.
Where is Nan?
Body stiff, I face off against the girl. My ears tilt back against my head. You know what these ears mean, don’t you? Annoyed fox! Angry fox! My whiskers scream the same thing. They’re slicked to my muzzle—long black strands shivering in the arctic breeze. I might not have much fur left, but the remaining tufts stand at attention, pumpkin-colored in the moonlight. This is serious business! The pit in my belly aches for fish.
“Yuuuu musss huuuu greeeee,” the girl whispers at me. Annoyingly. Who cares what she says! I never understand what humans say! Nevertheless, her head cocks, her face sharp and intelligent. It’s a foxlike face. A face almost like mine. Slowly, slow as a creek flows, she bends down to one knee.
Why . . . why is she bending down like that? Why is she extending a gloved hand toward me?
Why isn’t Nan here?