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In the morning she stared at her new self in a pool of clear rainwater between two rocks. Her gown was rumpled, the red velvet showing spots of water staining and dirt and one small tear on the hem of the skirt. But that was just clothing. That was not who she was.

She looked closer.

She liked the strength in her lean face, and the long fingernails on the tips of her fingers, like claws. Her hair was shiny black, and fell all over her face in a wild way. Her teeth seemed very white in contrast, and her eyes very black, almost as if she had no irises at all.

She stared longest at her nose, which was long and sharp, as if it could still sniff like a hound’s. But it couldn’t. She felt the absence of that sense and could only hope it would be compensated for in other ways.

Chala enjoyed flexing her arms, her legs, the muscles in her back and shoulders. She could feel the rush of blood, and it was almost as if she were on the hunt again. So focused was she on herself that she did not speak a word, and it was only when she tried to growl like a hound that Richon stirred.

But he did not wake.

Chala thought how young he was now. He did not even have a full beard, just a bit of stubble. His hair was dark brown, like the bear he had been, and it curled around his ears, damp from the morning dew.

She let him sleep a little while longer, then grew too hungry to keep still. She made enough noise that Richon woke.

“Good morning,” he said, rubbing his face.

She nodded to him and then went off to find her breakfast. She found a stream full of fish nearby. She caught a small one, and ate it in one gulp, scales, head, and all. It did not taste as good as it would have to a hound, but it filled her stomach for now and that was all that mattered.

She stopped a moment after she ate and stared out at the birds in the distance, circling the peak where the wild man had been—in the future.

He had not come here yet, though.

Strange thought.

When she came back, Richon was sitting on a rock, one leg tapping out a fast, impatient rhythm.

“I am here,” she said.

Richon turned, startled.

“I found fish,” said Chala. “In a stream.”

His stomach growled, but he did not ask her to show it to him.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I did not find any roots or berries. Can you eat any of the grasses here?” She waved a hand at them.

“I suppose,” he said, and picked at one strand and put it between his teeth. He chewed it for a while, then spat it out.

“It is not good?”

“I’d rather have a fish,” he said.

She stared at him.

“Could you show me the stream? Or…I’m sure I could find it myself.” He began traipsing in exactly the wrong direction.

Did he have no idea how to find a stream by the smell of it and the sound of the water trickling? Even without her hound’s senses, that was not difficult for her. No doubt he was used to a guide of some sort in the forest. But Chala noticed also that he was unwilling to admit that he needed help.

Perhaps that, at least, she could understand from the viewpoint of a hound. One does not show weaknesses to those who might attack.

That he thought she was a danger to him told her only that his life had been one of very little trust indeed. Whoever had been around him, he had had no pack to protect him. And how could one grow strong without a pack?

She caught up with him and tried to steer him gently in the right direction, as a hound might do for a pup.

Richon would have none of it. He seemed angry with her and would not meet her eyes.

What foolishness!

Perhaps a human woman would have let him act stupidly, but that would only waste time for both of them.

She ran ahead of him, then stood directly in his path, her hands tightened firmly around his forearms. It was not until then that she wondered what would happen if it came down to a battle between them, for he was several inches taller than she was, and, lean as he was, still must weigh significantly more.

“The stream and the fish are the other way,” she