Little Otter, nestled among the hedgerose and gnawing on the fuzz of morning, paints eggs to sell today, to earn money, to buy crack and meth.

Her mother would have cried had she known. But what did Mrs. Otter know? A PhD in woodland politics? So out of touch.

Beaver, beside otter, hasn’t moved since yesterday. Hope he’s not dead, thinks Little Otter. She wipes the crystals from her nose fur, and reaches for the blue.