Small chunks of fresh meat had been left beside the pups and he thought of what the prowler’s emotions must have been as his mate lay dead on the ground and he carried meat to their young, knowing they were too small to eat it but helpless to do anything else for them.

And he knew why there had been the appeal in the eyes of the prowler as it died and what it had tried to tell him: Save them⁠ ⁠… as you once saved me.

He carried the pups back past the prowler and looked down at it in passing. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

When he reached his house he laid the pups on his bed and built a fire. There was no milk to give them⁠—the goats would not have young for at least another two weeks⁠—but perhaps they could eat a soup of some kind. He put water on to boil and began shredding meat to make them a rich broth.