All around Camp Watatchee's annual campfire, children raised their hands in salute. Each had his two middle fingers pressed against his thumb, with his index and his pinky pointing straight up: the symbol of the Quiet Coyote.
Off in the shadows, a wolf-like creature gave a huge grin. "That's all me," he whispered proudly to the white-haired boy next to him, using a paw to gesture widely at the crowd of little hands raised in tribute.
The boy bit the inside of his cheek and conjured up miniature blizzards to amuse himself. "Right. And you are?"
"The Quiet Coyote."
"Right."
