No, it's not your failing memory. Yes, the summary is constantly changing. (I just can't keep my paws off it.) (And will continue to tweak it until it satisfies me. The story's content won't change unless I find a typo while rereading.)

Their senses were on high alert, their breaths quiet and brief, and Judy's eyes were on every opening of the wagon interior; from the doors to the cracks in the wood panels. She blinked, unable to withstand the burn in her eyes.

When her eyes opened again, light leaked into the cabin and it took only a second for her eyes to adjust. Lifting her head off Jimmy's lap, she felt disappointed that she had fallen asleep, yet blessed they hadn't been caught. A single glance told her that Jimmy was conked also, leaning against a wooden crate.

She realized what had aroused her when a shoe scraped gravel outside and the opening of the wagon was torn open angrily. Scrambling awake, she clasped her hand over Jimmy's mouth and they squeezed between a crate and the wall.

Her cheek pressed against the deck as she made herself as small as possible and prevented her shadow from exceeding the size of the crate's.

It seemed like hours as chests were loaded into the wagons, and Judy could feel her heartbeat at her throat and a cold sweat drip down her face. The wagon finally close, but they remained tense and frozen until the horses' hoofbeats and the wheels squeaking against their axles could be heard.

Jimmy sat up, and after a moment's hesitation, so did she. She attempted to stand before the wagon jerked, sending her to the ground. Crawling on hands and knees, she shuffled over to the smallest box, the latest arriving crate. Flipping the lid open, she peered under it, revealing a pair of narrow-bladed shortswords and an extra less elaborate knife, each safely sheathed and pinned atop glossy cloth.

The crate had height, so Judy knew something more was underneath. With care, she gathered all knives in her hands, shivering at the sense of foreboding and power the weapons delivered. Her shoulders flinched when a bump in the road caused her to loosen her grip and a dagger to clatter by her knees.

Jimmy glanced back at her curiously from his place across the room, where he was also peering under a box lid. She shook her head flippantly, and he continued to sift around the contents of the chest.

Judy wrapped the weapons securely in the cloth, then removed the thin layer of wood separating the knives and whatever else was within the crate—conveniently, a double-shoulder baldric belt that kept the scabbards at her back.

Recalling the limited foot range her skirts gave her while running, the twigs they snagged and the filth that caked the trimming, she holstered all the weaponry that the slings could contain but one, and sawed off her petticoat to the knee, then slitted the skirt for a better range of motion. Next, after a brief hesitation, sawed off her hair (unevenly) and stared regretfully at the neither-brown-nor-auburn tangled clump, wondering if her mother was watching her in dismay from wherever she wound up.

Judy herself could not complain for the dissatisfactory hue. Though she could no longer tell the difference between crimson or brown or black, she could clearly make out the clods melding strands of coarse hair to one another like a bead through multiple strings. She tucked the mop under the box lid, disgusted.

Sheathing the last blade and then slipping the slings over her shoulders, she felt a bit of apprehension ease, for now she could defend herself if needed, though would need to accustom herself to reaching over her shoulder for the hilt of one blade, and behind her waist for the other.

After making a couple adjustments to the cincture length, she unbuckled the holster on her front, and made her way around the maze of crates to her brother. His eyebrows rose at her new fashion statement, but he had the sense not to say much about it. In reward, she handed him the extra dagger. She watched him tug it out; test the weight.

He studied her gift, brooding at it almost, and in turn she stared at him curiously. Did he have a problem with it? Did he find it offensive? His voice was gravelly when he finally answered. "Why?" he wasn't looking at her when he spoke, instead gazing the foreign engravings carved deeply into the metal, so she assumed he was asking everyone in general.

Yes. Why were they the ones chosen to walk this path? Why was everything taken from them so harshly; so abruptly? Why did Judy know so little about herself, her kin, that everything she uncovers is so overwhelming a moment of peace and memory loss would be a fantasy? Why couldn't they be normal?

The silence between them was expectant somehow, and when their eyes met, she realized she missed the concept of his question.

She echoed, "Why?"

"Why did you follow us?" Jimmy's tone was so sad. Regretful. "You knew we weren't ever going back."

And she did, though not consciously. Perhaps this was part of the push that had her running to (with) them.

But she still had to muse. Avoiding a life as a high-class woman in preference as an abnormal freak, these were all selfish reasons, and she could possibly hurt her brother by stating her motives. However, these were not the singular rationales.

She never really did truly view herself as a wench heiress. Though young, the girls she met equal to her previous status were single-minded, vain and sycophants just like their mothers. Judy preferred to view herself above them for her different interests and they her.

But the sense of disappointment about her mother that Judy often caught when she refused to associate with the other wenches caused doubt to bud in her mind, influencing her to glance back at the ballroom and wonder if there was something wrong with her, if her mental state was misshapen. So she would go back to search in vain for that sense of belonging in society, never realizing she couldn't ever grasp it.

As her lips parted to form what she hoped was a coherent response, the wagon skidded to a halt. The horses' hooves dug so deeply into the ground as momentum sustained, Judy knew it must've been painful.

The wagon jerked and the twins were thrown into the wall, the lighter crates sliding after. Jimmy positioned himself between Judy and the luggage, wincing as contact was made, but otherwise emerged unharmed.

As the interior of the vehicle settled, voices outside became intelligible, growing in volume before receding; the conveyors were passing the Howletts to reach the entrance of the vehicle.

Jimmy seemed to have a similar idea. He grasped her hand and they both stood on their feet. He looked ready to dart out the second the second the chance presented itself.

Judy considered suggesting they stay and hide again, but knew there was a high possibility the men would enter the wagon.

She listened to them, the firmer voice scolding the feeble for leaving the special order of Arkansas toothpicks in the trunk. She glanced guiltily at her weapons however convinced she was that would need them more than they their employment.

As soon as the gap of sunlight was wide so that swift escape was feasible but narrow so the conveyors wouldn't catch an early warning of their presence, Jimmy and Judy had leapt off the platform and were sprinting as expeditiously as their muscles would allow.

And then she was being chased again, wondering if this was the only factor in her life that wouldn't change. They strayed the path, delving into the thick of trees until they tired and Jimmy ordered her to scale one.

"What about you?" she gasped. She was so out of breath she felt as if a too deep an inhale would trigger nausea. She couldn't hear their pursuers, but knew they were going to scour the woods when they found what she stole.

"I'll be fine on my own." Jimmy replied, holding up a box of French matches; what he had taken from a crate. He glanced around them nervously; they had stood still for too long. He passed her the piece of cardboard and ran off.

Knowing best not to follow, she hurtled in another direction, taking random turns on whims. When she spotted a sturdy tree with a low, supportive branch, began to ascend. High and higher she went, forming patterns and pleased with the progress she was making until her muscles shook and the trunk had become flimsy.

And there she waited, resting in the crook of the bole and a bough, practically trembling in anticipation, not near familiar with these types of situations and straining her ears so hard they ring.

She waited and waited, still as a stone, but no one sought her out. The sky dimmed, and slowly, warily, she started to relax. Only then was she aware of the thirst; she glanced around for water before it dawned that she must have forgotten the wineskin in the wagon!

She wanted to curse, but she's a lady so she couldn't.

Her tailbone ached for sitting so long, and her joints cracked and popped as she changed position. She carefully descended, finding it more challenging going down than up; more than once a supporting tree limb would prove to be too flimsy and would scare her out of her wits. So focused was she on this task of not shifting her weight to the next branch until she was sure it was sturdy that she didn't hear the footfalls of her hunters' until a leaf crunched a few meters away.

Judy froze like a comical rabbit motionless in terror, then jumped the last length down—a moment of nothing in which her insides disappeared—and then she was gasping at the prickle of pain through her ankles and up her calves as she landed. Too much noise she had made that the man came running.

She launched off the peak of a root jutting out through the dirt and ran, taking no heed for stealth.

Around her the scenery faded blurry, and though how hard she tried, she couldn't reach the speed she had that night Thomas Logan displayed his true colors—but the run still would have been exhilarating if she weren't so worried.

There was a crack! and a bullet rebounded off the ground near her feet; much too close for comfort. She leapt back in surprise, nearly losing her footing. It wasn't long before another blur of insipid cupronickel buzzed by her hip. The final crack! had her face on the dirt.

There was a moment of confusion in which she had nothing to trip over and was convinced he had missed. So why… she glanced over her shoulder as she struggled to stand, and caught a glimpse of the blood cascading down her calf.

It was if that single discernment had disintegrated the dam that had kept the injury from reaching her brain, allowing the searing pain to collide with her consciousness. The scream, seemingly torn involuntarily through her lungs, not only alerted her presence but worsened the ache of her parched throat as well; though a mere itch compared to the anguish of the torn tissue in her leg.

Fear numbed the pain slightly, allowing her to drag herself back, until her elbows scraped against the rugged tree bark when the burly conveyer burst into sight; firearm in clutched in one fingerless glove and a grinchly grin on his lips.

He grew near, and she knew there was no point in running. Her every inhale a gasp, every exhale a whimper, incapable of walking or climbing, any attempt at escape would earn another bullet through her flesh. She could gradually feel the blood slow its flow down the groundly path, but knew she would eventually have to dig the slug from her calf before the muscle healed around it, and there was little chance of that procedure occurring while her pursuer was towering over her.

He lowered his weapon upon realizing the enemy was a mere girl, but remained intimidating with a scowl and wide frame. He said gruffly, "You've got something o'mine," and lifted his arm, as if to strike her.

She cringed, her lips thinning over her gums, a screeching growl ringing deep within her throat.

A raised eyebrow was his response, but he didn't pull his hand back; instead reaching farther and grasping her badric. In a moment of dementia—he was touching her!—her eyeteeth closed around the boney part of his wrist.

Yelling, the man jerked back his elbow, taking her with him and probably loosening a few of her teeth. As she leaned forward, desperately trying to keep a grip on her prey, weight was forced upon her leg and the jarring pain was enough to clear her head. She released him, only to crack her head against the tree as she scrambled away from the barrel of the gun that was suddenly aimed between her eyes.

"Freak." The man spat as blood splurted and dribbled down his forearm. What would be of her brain with a bullet in it?

His finger hovered over the trigger, and her heart drummed within her, racing too fast yet skipping beats at the same time because she would—she was—

Cornered. Trapped. They had murderous devices in their hands, and they would hurt her.

A dusky haze rimmed her vision, freakish because it was crimson in color, and her heart rate spiked even more because she couldn't see.

She couldn't hear. Her heartbeat was too loud, too. Din rang in her ears, and the red closed in until everything was red, red, red. She felt the red fire on her skin, she could hear it, and it was all she could see.

It faded abruptly, though she couldn't rid her ears of the ringing, and her fingers and face were sticky. The man's neck was bloody as well, and he lay motionless at her feet, his gun yards away, rotating on its side to a standstill.

Hyperventilating, she backed away, around the tree and through the underbrush until the corpse was out of sight- but she could still see him: when her lids slid over her eyes and when she looked to the ground because her memory was caught up with her mind. She saw herself lunge at the man, felt the crack that was so loud it rattled her bones before the bullet entered her body. Heard the gun clank against the adjacent trunk as she knocked it away. Felt the relief as her teeth sunk into his jugular, and his head thud where his feet should have been.

She relished the punishing burn of her gunshot wounds as she stumbled away from the nightmare, though escape was impossible, for the first kill would always be there, lingering like the aftertaste of morphine.

Lizeyli, When I first read your review, I went to my laptop and started writing, just because you told me to. (The influence of reviewer on writer) So why didn't I update sooner? Answer: fluff. Fun to read, pain to write. I was stumped. You'll find out what happened to Jimmy later, but hopefully the fluff I wrote here is enough. There will be fluff in later chapters; this is in the 'family' category, after all (so Victor's density is tightly entwined with his siblings'. Hurray!).

Fox? I don't think those are colorblind. Dog? Nope. Raccoon? Good idea; creative, but no. Cat? I'm aiming for something more unique. (However… you are moving forward with that raccoon)

Thanks for the thoughtful review! You rock!

Are these review responses taking up too much space? Would you rather they be sent via PM? Any criticism? Is there a scene you would like to see? Did I get a fact wrong? Tell me in the review box below! I'll notice it right away.