She sniffed the night air, savoring the smells of grass and dead leaves surrounding her den. A screech overhead drew her gaze, but the owl’s presence woke no concern in her yet.
A musky scent set her body trembling, and her mate trotted out of the underbrush. He sat just out of reach, tongue lolling from his mouth, waiting. She heaved her swollen belly up and attempted to gambol around him playfully, managing little more than a waddle. He licked her nose and trotted back into the underbrush.
She followed him, panting with the effort. It would be the last hunt together under the moon for many weeks. The cubs would be born before another night arrived. A scratching in the leaves behind her stopped her in her tracks, and she locked her chops as her mate crouched.
The Word Worker 
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