and said again, "Friends, little boy."

He stared. At her strange snarl that wasn't a snarl. At the knife she had put away. He had never seen anyone do that before.

Slowly he felt his own lips curl back into an expression he could hardly remember. He felt the way he felt sometimes late at night when, safe and alone in his room, he would play a little with his toys. He didn't feel like killing her any more. He felt like ... like friends.

He looked at the squirrel tail lying on the ground. He worried it with a foot, then kicked it away. It wasn't good to eat—and he thought of how the squirrel had looked scrambling off, and felt his lips stretch tighter.

He tried to think of the word. Finally it came.

"Funny squirrel," he said, through his tight lips.

He stuck his knife in his belt.

They stared at each other, feeling each other's pleasure at the peacemaking.

She bent, picked up a small stone and flipped it at him. He made no attempt to catch it, and it struck him on the hip. He half-crouched, instantly wary, hand on knife. A thrown stone had only one meaning.

But she was still smiling, and she shook her head. "No, little boy," she said. "Play." She tossed another stone, high in the air.

He reached out and caught it as it descended.

He started to toss it back to her, and remembered only at the last moment not to hurl it at her head.

He tossed it, and she missed it.

He grinned at her.

She tossed another one back at him, and he missed, and they both grinned.

Then he grunted, remembering something from the dim past. He picked up a small fallen branch from the ground.

When he looked up, she was poised to run.

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