Trail had been able to avoid getting sick for the past few leaf-bares. It seemed like he wouldn't be so lucky now. Ever since he'd woken up and begun to walk through the heavy snowfall, he'd been coughing, his nose had been streaming, and he could feel phlegm covering his throat.

It was a terrible time to get whitecough. Not only was he certain the current leaf-bare would be a cold one, Scythe could still be after him. Trail didn't think he'd survive an encounter with the rogue if he was badly sick.

While he was walking, Trail kept an eye out for helpful herbs he'd learnt over the moons. After a while, he found a patch of tansy under a bush, which he swallowed. It was important to use anything he could to keep illness away.

Trail had felt sick that day, but he felt even worse the next morning. When he awoke, he'd expected to feel cold after sleeping on the snow. But underneath his pelt, he felt blisteringly hot. As well, he felt extremely tired. His muscles felt heavy, and he almost wasn't able to push himself to his feet to start walking. The sickness was getting worse and worse.

Every day he walked, he had to be on the lookout for the smallest scrap of tansy, coltsfoot, and feverfew. Trail had thought he'd been miserable before, when the snow had first fallen, but now he also had to deal with a hot, dry nose, constant coughing, runny eyes that blinded him, and the feeling that he was always tired.

Every day, his whitecough got worse and worse. But Trail didn't allow himself to stop his travels. Walking would keep him warmer and drier, anyway, than lying on the freezing snow, unmoving.

Over the days, the brown loner had become frighteningly thin. He could see his ribs through his fur. There was hardly any food. Almost all the prey had died in the freezing cold. Deep down, he knew he was lucky to still be alive in his harsh situation, but Trail didn't feel like it. Death seemed better than the pain he was in.

Blinking, Trail slowed to a stop. He'd never wished for death in leaf-bare before. It seemed as though his constant fear of hunting rogues, coupled with the difficult leaf-bare, was wearing down on him.

He couldn't allow that to happen. Having lived alone, he knew the only thing keeping you from going insane was yourself. Trail had to keep his spirits up.

Hearing a chirping near him, Trail whirled around to see a skeletal bird hopping around the base of a bush. His heart leaped with excitement. Prey!

Trying not to sniffle or cough, Trail crept slowly through the snow towards the little bird. He was so close… One more step…

Just then, his eyes began to water. Trail lunged forward off balance, and the bird flew away. The tom opened his mouth to try and catch it, and some feathers down his throat. Trail coughed and hacked, his eyes streaming. He stumbled away, trying to clear the feathers out of his gullet. He couldn't tell where he was going, and slipped and fell when he walked onto ice. Sliding, he bit his tongue and tasted blood. Struggling to his feet and wiping his eyes with his paws, Trail crept slowly to the ice edge. He couldn't wait for newleaf, if he even lived to see it!

In that way, Trail continued for almost two moons. His whitecough would disappear, but always reappear a few days later. He could never feel the slightest bit healthy for more than a few days at a time.

One day while walking, Trail had to stop, he was so out of breath. Sitting down, he took a rest and tried to calm his breathing. But it wouldn't. He began to panic as his breaths became more and more erratic.

His eyes widened in terror. It couldn't be! Irregular breathing was a sign of greencough. That was bad. If his whitecough had become greencough, he may very likely die.

Throughout the day, more and more symptoms of greencough began to show. He felt more tired than ever, his eyes and nose were runnier, his throat felt like sharp, sunbaked rocks, and he'd begun to wheeze while walking. He managed to bring down a small hare, but didn't even have the appetite to eat it! Instead, he started coughing wetly. Each cough felt like a heartbeat pounding for the last time.

Desperately, Trail raced around the forest, eating all the juniper, coltsfoot, and tansy he could find. It wasn't enough; there was maybe a stem of each.

Trail had no choice. After two moons, he was only halfway through leaf-bare, and it was getting to its coldest part. He couldn't stay in the forests. He hadn't seen Scythe since the mountains; the rogue might well be dead. Trail had to seek help in Twolegplace.

For the next few days, the loner walked as quickly as possible, searching for a Twolegplace. Each pawstep felt harder than lifting a log. He let out a cry of relief when he finally found one. It took all his strength to leap onto the fence around it.

"Trail!" two cats leaped excitedly onto the fence, shrinking slightly when they saw him. Trail didn't want to imagine how ill he looked. The Twolegplace cats looked well-fed, with well-groomed fur.

"Where did you go, Trail?" one cat asked tentatively. "We were expecting you a moon ago!"

Trail didn't have breath to waste on talking. "Do you know a rogue called Scythe?" he gasped.

The cat's ears flattened in terror, like last time.

"He was here!" the other cat gulped. "I don't know where he is now, but he was here!"

He was alive? "What did he look like? Was he hurt?"

"He was walking…"

Somehow, Scythe had survived getting his leg crushed by a boulder. And he was able to walk. That meant he would be after Trail.

"Is he still here?"

"I don't know," the first cat glanced around nervously.

Then the loner couldn't stay. Scythe would finish him off with a single claw. Turning, he leapt off the fence. His paws gave out under his weight, and it took him a few minutes full of coughing to get up again. He was at the last of his energy, and he knew it. But he had to get away.

As he staggered toward the forest, he felt his energy slip away until every part of his body felt detached. He felt half-awake, and he was half-blind.

Should he… he thought numbly as he stumbled into the cold wind… Should he stay at the Twolegplace? There was some reason. Was it cold out there?

Trail collapsed in the middle of the forest, every limb exhausted. For days, he lay in a semi-comatic state, trying to make himself wake up, dragging himself along whenever he could. But for the most part, he lay still, the snow slowly blanketing him. Birds perched on him, but he couldn't even lift his head to look at them.

"So this is how the legendary loner Trail dies," he tried to whisper. But the sound never left his mouth.

Trail awoke later not knowing how much time had passed. He realized he wasn't lying outside in the forest anymore. Instead, he was curled in a hollow underneath a tree. He could see snow falling outside, but the tree protected him from the cold. Trail felt better too; his fever had broken, and his throat didn't feel so sore.

The next thing he noticed was that there were little piles of herbs lying around. He recognized most of them. Someone had been treating him, but who?

Almost the moment he had that thought, a cat appeared at the entrance of the hollow. It was a she-cat who looked quite older than him. She was a black and white tabby.

"Oh, you're awake," she mewed, sounding surprised and relieved. "I'd begun to think you'd be semicomatose until newleaf. At least when you were awake, you were delirious enough I could feed you herbs without trouble."

Trail backed as far away from the mysterious cat as he could in the small hollow. If he'd been delirious and accepting herbs without problem, she could have poisoned him with something.

"What have you been feeding me?"

"Mostly catmint," she nodded toward a pile of unfamiliar plants. "You're lucky I found you. You were on the brink of joining Starclan."

He frowned at the unfamiliar name. The she-cat began to organize the leaf piles. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Trail." Had she not heard of him? "Who are you?"

"Just a wandering cat. I'm Pinestripe."

"Pinestripe." he had a realization. "That's a Clan name." He stared at her. "Are you a Clan cat?"

"I was Windclan's medicine cat," she affirmed.

Trail noticed she said 'was'. "Did you leave?"

The Clan cat nodded uncomfortably.

"Why?"

Stiffening, Pinestripe began to head out. "I'm going to find you more herbs."

"Wait!" he called after her. "Why are you treating me? What do you care?"

She turned back to face him. "I may have left my Clan, but it's still my duty as a medicine cat."

"Well, I'm healthy now. Goodbye."

He tried to stand up, but his legs instantly shook with weakness and fatigue. His head felt like it was spinning.

"You're not cured yet," said the medicine cat. "I'm afraid you're going to need to stay in that hollow for a few more days."

He sighed heavily. "And why should I listen to you?"
"Because you won't walk out of this forest alive in your state," she answered immediately. Sulking, Trail lay back down in the hollow beneath the tree. "How many days do I have to stay?"

Pinestripe thought for a moment. "A little less than a quarter moon."

"WHAT?" the loner yowled.