After that, Wilfred attended to his niece's and nephew's injuries, minor as they were, and Smalls watched the water quietly, finishing his apple and only catching bits and pieces of the conversation.

"You should both be fine with some rest and food." Wilfred said, rummaging in the medical kit for a strip of bandage. Heather's ear had a split mark in it that was about an inch long. It wasn't bleeding, but Smalls could see that it had been. "I'm so sorry about your ear, Heather." Wilfred said, binding the split. "It's nothing that will hurt your hearing, but I'm afraid it may always be like that." Heather smiled and nodded, but her eyes showed a storm of hurt.

"It could have been so much worse."

"It's a mark of distinction, It in no way diminishes your beauty." The words came out of Smalls' mouth long before he ever thought about them. Heather blushed very pink and looked anywhere but at him. Picket bristled and glared, and Wilfred's eyebrows had shot remarkably high up onto his forehead. For a moment no one said anything. Just as Smalls was beginning to wish he could disappear and never be seen again, Heather came to his rescue.

"Uncle Wilfred," She said quickly, "Where have you come from? How did you know we were in trouble? Why have we never met you?" Wilfred cast one last look at Smalls, a look Smalls resented, because he hadn't done anything, And turned to respond to Heather.

Smalls offered to paddle at some point, just out of need for something to do. He wasn't paying much attention to the conversation until he heard his name mentioned.

"Picket, can't you tell that Smalls is Uncle Wilfred's son? He's our cousin." Heather said. Smalls faltered at the oars for a moment, surprised and a little uncomfortable. For some reason, he particularly didn't like hearing that from Heather. He didn't know why-he knew he would never have been as bothered if Picket had suggested it, and it wasn't like he'd never used that cover before, but some impulse inside of him did not want Heather thinking they were related.

"Well, my dear nephew and niece, Smalls isn't…" Wilfred's voice trailed off, and Smalls finished for him.

"I'm not his natural son. He has…adopted me." It was the truth. When it really came down to it, Wilfred was as good as Smalls' father and they both knew it. Smalls could hardly remember his real one, even though that was what really mattered. Wilfred had raised him; even now, Smalls still naturally deferred to him.

Wilfred cleared his throat. "Right."

"So you don't have a wife and kids?" Picket' blunt voice rang out in the following silence. Don't ask about that. Anything but that. Smalls thought, and he wished that Picket had never spoken. Wilfred had a deep sadness regarding his passed wife, Anne, and drowned little daughter, Mercy. Smalls had never heard the full story and didn't expect too anytime soon. When it came to that, Wilfred still carried a hidden grief that he rarely spoke of.

"Let him talk, Picket." Heather reprimanded. Smalls was growing to like her more and more. But all Wilfred said was,

"No Picket. I don't have any family like that. Not anymore." A heavy silence weighed on the boat, and Wilfred turned slightly away, swallowing hard. The only noise was the splashing of the oars in a steady rhythm, sad, and lonesome. The once-beautiful day was beginning to cloud over once again.

"Uncle," Heather's tentative voice broke the quiet, "What can we do to get Father and Mother and Jacks back? If they're still…you know. If they're all right." Picket tensed beside Smalls, and Smalls stopped himself before saying what he'd been thinking.

They aren't alright. No one is 'alright' after being taken by Morbin. If they're alive they'll be injured-at best only enslaved. Morbin will use them against us as leverage, he knows Whittel's importance. They aren't safe.

But he couldn't say that to either Heather or Picket, who had no idea how terrible and frightful the world really was. They'd gotten a taste of it the day before, and Smalls was afraid there would be many more to come.

"They'll be taken to the Great Wood, or worse." Smalls replied. Though he managed to keep his tone even, his anger spilled out and he stabbed more angrily at the water with the oars than before.

"What's so bad about the Great Wood?" Heather asked, voice hardly above a whisper. Their ignorance was astonishing and concerning, and Smalls wondered what kind of rabbit Whittel must have been to have lied to his children for so many years. He couldn't respond, so Wilfred did.

"It is a ruin, Heather." Wilfred said, voice broken and sad. "And the crumbled wreck is ruled by pathetic puppets." Winslow. Curse him. Smalls thought, bitterness and anger prevalent. "Smalls and I came from the Great Wood. We were on our way to see you." Technically, that was the truth. Just not the whole truth. "I haven't seen my brother in many years, and I haven't seen you, Heather, since you were a baby."

"You've seen me before?"

"Yes, I've seen you, but never Picket. Your parents are very dear to me. But I had work to do. Since they had you, they decided to leave, along with most families who could."

"We're coming up on Slender Bend in a few minutes." Smalls said in the pause that followed. High hills rose in the distance, and Smalls could see Cloud Mountain on the horizon. Good. A goal.

"Ah, good." Wilfred nodded. "Up around this bend, our friend Decker has a home on the Whitmer. He's been here for years, gardening and living his own way. He was like your parents. He left the Great Wood for the safety of the wider world. Of course, it used to be the reverse. People would never think of leaving the Great Wood for safety, and people flocked there for protection."

"And now you've left the Great Wood as well, why?" Picket asked.

Because Winslow wouldn't tolerate us anymore. Because they were re-enforcing the wall and making the black gap wider by the day. Because if we hadn't left three days ago, we would have never left at all.

"Because," Wilfred replied, "Things finally got so bad that we had to get out as well." Bitter, painful fury rose inside of him, And for a moment Smalls struggled with it. He shoved it back down. But it continued to simmer, bubbling, just below the surface. His own angry resentment of his older brothers was a fault, he knew, but if anyone had the right to be angry it was him. They shot forward as he jabbed the oars sharply into the water.

"I'm sorry." Heather said, and Smalls could feel her gaze on him.

"We didn't know about the wolves at first. We were away up north of Nick Hollow for a little while." That was true. They been very far north shortly before heading down to the First Warren. "But when we came south, we saw signs of trouble. We made good time trying to get to your home. But we were too late. When we arrived, the elm was burning, and we knew there were too many enemies to attempt a rescue." Too many. Too many. That seemed to be a common theme in Smalls' life, that there were always too many enemies to face.

"You saw Mother and Father?" The hope in Heather's voice made Smalls feel terribly sad. Even though they were alive then, they likely weren't now. Wilfred nodded slowly.

"And the baby."

"Jacks! How were they?" Picket asked.

"They were hurt, I won't lie. Your father looked bad." Wilfred responded. Picket's hopes deflated, and Heather's posture sank. Picket sniffed.

"I'm sure he kept fighting until they made him stop."

"I think so." Wilfred agreed. "That would be like him. But they were all alive. At least, they were then." A few drops of rain sprinkled over the boat, and in the far distance thunder boomed.

"Nearly to Slender Bend." Smalls said after a long moment. The river shrank, twisting and turning and practically churning itself into rapids. Some distant part of Smalls' consciousness warned of rocks and wrecks. His anger simmered.

"What will we do, Uncle?" Heather asked.

"I'm not sure yet, Eat and get some rest at Decker's Landing. Then figure out where to go from there." There was a pause, and then Picket said,

"I can't believe they've been taken." Irritation at Picket's in belief and in-acceptance stirred inside Smalls, and his frustration and annoyance towards the younger buck reappeared.

"Get used to it, lad." He said curtly. He doesn't know anything. He thought bitterly, shoving the oars into the water and speeding the boat along faster.

"I'm not your lad." Picket snapped. "Sorry if I'm upset that we just lost our family." Smalls laughed bitterly and glared angrily down at the bottom of the boat, clenching the paddles so tightly that his hands burned with pain. You have no idea. None.

"Picket don't-" Wilfred started, voice urgent and worried.

"How would you know how it feels to lose those you love most?" Picket shouted, cutting Wilfred off. The words were so ignorant and foolish that all Smalls could feel then was hot fury and a stinging indignancy. He wanted to let Picket have it. "I'm sick of your charming, stuck-up attitude and your 'lad' this and your 'lad' that. I'm not a kid anymore. I don't need permission from you to think or talk. I don't like you, and I don't want to hear you talking to me like I'm a little child." You're behaving like one. But Smalls didn't say any of that.

Wilfred started to speak again, but Smalls shook his head. He remembered the burning home, the figures of their parents and little brother wounded and hopeless. He remembered the hollow pain that had filled Heather's eyes the entire morning. Then his own painful childhood memories. All the constant terror, the pain. The scars. He let the paddles rest. It was raining truly now-the sky above dark and clouded over. The river narrowed. His anger had dissipated.

He lifted his head and turned to look at Picket, vision blurred by tears. "Picket," He said, meeting the younger buck's gaze, "Stay angry. It's okay if it's at me, for now. If you aren't angry about all the wicked things happening in the world all around, then you don't have a soul."

They rounded the bend, and Heather screamed.