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The fallen log smelled of rot and rain, its hollow belly split open by time. Possum Mama circled it once, then twice, nose brushing the damp wood. The squeak came again—closer now—but not where she expected.
“Up there?” she wondered.
She lifted her gaze. Claw marks scratched the bark of a nearby sapling, small and messy, exactly the way a joey would climb when frightened and unsure. Hope surged through her. She climbed quickly, but not recklessly this time, pausing at every branch to listen.
Nothing.
At the top, she found only snapped leaves and silence.
Possum Mama’s ears drooped. The forest was playing tricks now, echoing sounds, bending scents. She climbed back down and pressed her belly to the ground, letting instinct guide her. Mothers knew things without knowing how. She followed a faint trail toward the creek, where moonlight silvered the water and frogs began their nightly chorus.
That’s when she caught a new smell.
Not her joeys.
Fox.
Her muscles tightened instantly. A fox had passed through recently—too recently. The scent crossed one of her babies’ trails, then veered away. Possum Mama stood very still, listening for danger, for movement, for anything that might tell her it was too late.
But the trail didn’t end.
It continued—faster, more scattered—like something small had wriggled free and fled. Relief nearly made her legs give out. One of them had escaped. One of them was still out there.
She hurried on, keeping to shadows, climbing when the ground felt too open. Near the creek bank, she found tiny claw prints in the mud, wobbling but clear. Beside them lay a leaf she remembered—a leaf her smallest joey had tugged at earlier that night.
“You’re clever,” she thought, pride cutting through her fear. “Just like that.”
A soft splash sounded nearby.
Possum Mama froze, then peeked over the edge of the bank. There, clinging to a low branch over the water, was a small, trembling shape. Big ears. Thin tail. Eyes wide with terror.
Her baby.
The joey squeaked again, louder now, reaching out blindly.
Possum Mama didn’t hesitate. She scrambled down and wrapped herself around the tiny body, pulling it close, shielding it from the world. The joey burrowed against her, shaking, then slowly grew still as warmth returned.
She checked her pouch—one was not enough, but it was a start.
Possum Mama lifted her head and looked back toward the forest. Two trails still waited. Two children still missing.
Holding her recovered joey tight, she turned back into the night, knowing the search was far from over.
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