They were camping that night, set up in a roadside clearing used by trade caravans who’s plodding horses and bulky wagons couldn’t make the full run through the forest between dawn and dusk.
It was a large clearing with a well-worn path to a wide, clear stream nearby. Tonight, the clearing was empty of everyone other than Reba, Byron, and their horses.
Reba lit the fire and began rummaging though bags for dinner inspiration. She held out their kettle. “Run down to the stream and get us some water.”
Byron heaved a put-upon sigh but took the kettle and ambled down the path Reba had pointed out earlier.
He was a long time returning. Long enough that Reba was debating whether to abandon or smother the fire to go in search of him. He reappeared as she reached for a double handful of dirt, kettle in hand and soaked to the skin.
He dumped the kettle by the fire, the water inside sloshing alarmingly. “Look what I found.”
He reached into the front of his tunic and pulled out the most miserable bundle of bedraggled fur Reba had ever seen.
“What is that?”
“A cat. It was caught in some bushes hanging over the stream. Can I keep it?”
Reba pulled a spare, dry tunic from a bag and said. “Hand it over. I’ll dry it while you dry yourself. Then we’ll discuss keeping things.”
Byron handed the cat over, and dug through his saddle bags, shoulders slumped. He thought she was saying no.
Reba swathed the growling fur ball in her extra tunic and coaxed as much water as she could from its coat. The opportunity given for close examination yielded information.
She handed the wrapped feline back to Byron on his return. “Your new friend is a girl, and I’m fairly sure she’s going to be large, look at the paws on her.”
The kit’s complaints settled into a purr as the boy cuddled it to his chest. “What do we do?”
The DNA of Stories 