17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSwOt45zeLn
Dawn crept in quietly, painting the edges of the forest in pale gold. Possum Mama rested in the fork of a tall tree, her rescued joey tucked deep in her pouch, breathing softly. She hadn’t slept—not really. Every sound below had kept her alert, every movement reminding her that two of her babies were still out there.
When the forest fully woke, she moved again.
With the safety of daylight, scents grew clearer. Birds stirred insects from the leaves, and the wind carried whispers from places she hadn’t searched yet. Possum Mama climbed down and followed the older of the two remaining trails, the one that curved toward the rocky hill beyond the creek.
The ground changed there—harder, scattered with stones. The trail faded, broken by sun-warmed rock that held no smell. She stopped, frustration prickling at her fur. This was where fear liked to grow.
Then she saw it.
A feather. Bent, chewed at the tip.
Hawk.
Her chest tightened. Hawks hunted by day. If one of her joeys had wandered into the open… Possum Mama forced herself not to think in pictures. Instead, she climbed. High branches meant safety, and high branches meant answers.
From above, the forest looked different. Clearings revealed themselves. Shadows showed movement. And near the rocky hill, under a dense cluster of vines, something stirred.
Too small to be a shadow. Too still to be a leaf.
Possum Mama leapt.
She landed beside the vines and pushed through, hissing low. Inside, curled against the rock, was another joey—scraped, dirty, but alive. One ear twitched as Possum Mama approached, and the little one let out a tired, broken squeak.
“I’ve got you,” she thought fiercely.
She cleaned the joey quickly, checking for injury, then guided it into her pouch alongside its sibling. The two pressed together, tiny and warm, and for the first time since the night before, Possum Mama felt something close to balance.
But only close.
One trail remained.
She didn’t rest. Fear sharpened her senses now, driving her toward the lowland trees near the human path—a place she avoided whenever she could. The smells there were wrong: metal, smoke, strange animals that walked on two legs.
As she crept closer, a new sound drifted through the air.
A soft, rhythmic thudding.
Not footsteps. Not wings.
Something else.
Possum Mama flattened herself against the trunk and watched the path below, knowing that whatever waited there would be the most dangerous part of her search yet.
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