... four years earlier ...

"This is the Canyon Arrow. If you want to be on the team," the coach said, squinting, smiling, whiskers twitching, "then I'll meet you on the other side ... " He padded away, toward the shuttle-pod. " ... in three hours," he added, his tufted tail swaying like a king cobra. Or so Arabella imagined. Sometimes, the coach got on her nerves.

"Sir, that ... that's impossible," she said, stammering, sighing in the hot, desert sun. There were no clouds in the sky. None at all. "I'd need at least five ... "

" ... hours. Three hours," he repeated, opening the hatch to the pod. And pausing in the entrance. He glanced back to her, giving her a look-over. "You're a kangaroo rat," he said, with a hint of pride, "like me. I ran it in three hours. Back in the day, of course, when I was a bit younger ... not that I'm not STILL young," the coach said, with a self-amused grin. He was thirty-five. "Anyway, I did it ... so can you," was his ultimate point. And he nodded, as if driving the issue home.

"But you're male," she objected, whiskers twitching, muzzle blowing out a breath. She saw silhouettes of cacti out of the corners of her eyes. They seemed to shimmer in the intense heat.

"Yes ... "

"Well ... well, you can't expect me to run it," she said, looking at the walled canyon, "in the same amount of time that you did. We're ... it's not fair." The walls of the canyon were high, colored tan, beige, and burnt-orange, with rugged edges at the very tops. All that rock. And all that sun. It was noontime, and the sun was overhead, and all that light and heat was beating down onto the canyon floor. They were currently at the mouth of it. The system of canyons, itself, went for miles, but she wasn't being asked to run through the whole system.

Just through the Canyon Arrow.

She sighed and looked to him, her eyes pleading. Her posture almost hesitant.

"You want equality, you femmes ... except when it's not convenient. You want me to give you special treatment? Give you an easier course? Give you extra time?" The coach smiled, a winning, in-control kind of smile. "I don't care what your gender is, young miss. I just care about having a winning team. I don't bring losers to the Furry Olympics. I bring winners. And if you can't run through there ... " His blunt-clawed paw pointed at the glaring, shimmering passage. " ... in three hours, well," he said, tilting his head. "If I don't see you on the other side in three hours, then you won't make the team. This is your chance. This is where," he told her, "you make the cut ... or you don't. This is your breaking point. Or, should I say," he corrected, "your ‘make-it' point."

Arabella almost rolled her eyes at that. But didn't. She just drew in a breath, and then released it in a heavy, worried sigh. Her forehead already damp with sweat. And she'd only been standing out here for a few minutes.

"You have enough water?"

Arabella nodded timidly, turning her body a bit, showing her backpack, which had several water bottles and ration packs inside, as well as basic medical equipment (should anything go wrong). "Yeah," was her barely-heard whisper.

"What?"

"Yes," she said, louder. "Yes, sir," she corrected, standing up straighter, at a fuller attention. Her body giving its requisite number of mousey twitches. With mouses, you didn't necessarily have to take a heartbeat or a pulse to determine their health, went a common joke. Just watch their ‘twitch-rate.'

A proper nod. "That's better. That's good, miss ... now," he said, stepping into the pod, and poking his head out. "You're the last one to run this course. There's one spot left on the team, and ... you just gotta run faster," he whispered, "than everyone else. That's all there is to it." A pause. "Can you do that?"

A quiet, adamant nod. "Yes, sir," she breathed, hoping she sounded convincing.

A whisker-twitching smile. "Good. Well ... I guess we'll see, then, won't we? See you on the other side, Arabella." And with that, he retreated fully into the pod. The hatch closing and the engines starting.

And the femme kangaroo rat stepped back, shielding her eyes with her paws, watching the coach's pod lift off and fly up and up into the azure-blue sky, and over the canyon and to the other side. And when he was out of sight, she sighed. And sank, like a rag doll, to her knees, craning her muzzle upward. Eyes closed, she groaned. "Oh, my gosh ... " She gritted her teeth, blowing out a breath, and then licked her dry lips. "Okay," she whispered, nodding to herself. "Okay ... " She lowered her muzzle to the horizon, opening her eyes. Taking in the sight of it all. It was beautiful. It was her home.

But it was so forbidding.

The wind was blowing, lightly. A breeze. But it hardly cooled her. Rather, it just swirled the heat around. What was it, now, in the mid-nineties, upper nineties? Not good for running, no. Especially when your body was covered in fur. But she was a kangaroo rat, a special kind of mouse. She could do this. She could last. She was designed to survive in dry, arid elements, and it couldn't be that hard, right?

Right?

She stood, taking a deep breath. Squinting. Her ears swivel-swiveled at the sounds of the near-silent sparrows. At the little whirlwinds, like miniature, harmless tornadoes, that picked up sand and spun it around. The breeze making a constant sound as it went around her earlobes, filling her hearing with a weak, dry bluster.

She licked her lips. Closed her eyes.

And said her prayer.

Dear God, bless my journey, and give me endurance, strength, and courage. Let me call upon You for these things, and not upon myself. Get me through this, please. Be my air, and be my water. Thank you. I love you. In Jesus' name I pray ... " ... amen," she whispered aloud, her eyes steely. Her eyes focused.

Her limbs stretching. She stretched her legs, first. And then her arms. And did a few ‘touch-your-toes,' making sure she was limber enough. Making sure she was ...

... ready. Her body ready ...

... to run. She began to run. And then kicked it up a notch. No, she would not sprint. Not yet. And she would not jog, either. No, she needed a proper starting pace. Something in the middle. Something ...

" ... scurry-ful," she whispered to herself, with surety, as if setting the speed for her loping. She would move at a scurry. And this made her smile. For mouses were experts at scurry. Oh, yes, I can do scurry.

This won't be so bad.

She felt good, at first. Really good.

She loved running. She loved that kind of movement. And it relaxed her, even.

As she went and went and went, deeper into the mouth of the canyon, trying to stay toward the walls. If you stayed right up against the left wall, you could get a little bit of shade. But it didn't cover all your body. Not yet. Not with the sun directly overhead. Of course, the coach had chosen the ‘perfect' conditions for her to run in. Rather, the perfect conditions to push her limits. To test her endurance. To prove her mettle.

He thinks I can't do this?

But you can't, can you, she asked herself, as she scurry-scurried, her strong, long, bare foot-paws padding in the sand with a soothing, striding sound. The sand was hot, and she could feel that heat. It prompted her to wanna keep moving. To stand still would mean, in all honesty, to get your foot-paws burned. Her exposed paw-pads and toes treading, treading, going, going. Her tail with the tufted, furred ‘pompom' at the end bobbed, bobbed in the air behind her as she went, like a metronome to her motions. And her whiskers twitched, her tan fur reflecting some of the heat. And her white tank top and jogging shorts doing the same. Reflecting.

But her breath reflected her draining energy.

In how she panted, panted. In how she huffed a bit heavier with each passing minute.

Running in all this heat, with all this fur, she was soaked with sweat within ten minutes, easily. Her tongue was lolling out of her mouth. And, true, she may have been a desert mouse. She was a pure-bred desert mouse, her mother and father both being kangaroo rats. But that didn't mean she was built, necessarily, for the extremes of moving nonstop for three hours through this oven of a desert canyon! Not exactly natural, unforced conditions, now, were they? Not exactly easy.

Stop complaining. It's not supposed to be easy.

I'm not complaining, she told herself, as she stopped for just a moment, panting, panting hard, unzipping her backpack. She took out one of the water bottles and drank half the bottle. "Oh," she breathed, with cool, sweet relief, licking her lips. Water droplets flicking off her whisker-tips like little, evaporating worlds. "Alright," she breathed. "Alright ... " She squinted in the bright, bright light.

This isn't so bad. You can do this, okay? Okay? Hey ... okay?

Okay! I get it! Will you stop?

Keep moving. Keep moving, and maybe I will.

You realize you're having a two-way conversation with yourself? In your own head. You know, isn't that a preliminary sign of mental instability or something? I'm sure it is.

Shut up.

So, she did. She stripped away all her thoughts and fantasies. Throw it away. Don't think. Just be. Just scurry.

No baggage, now. You can't have any baggage, now.

You need all the speed you can muster.

She scurried. Scurried, leaving foot-paw prints in the sand as she went. Scurrying on sand, though, wasn't all that comfortable. You didn't get any good traction. So, she tried to stay on the barer, cracked patches of ground. And on the rock. But the rocks hurt her foot-paw pads, so she found, after a while, that she was paying more attention to where she was running than HOW she was running. More concerned about her own comfort than the prize of finishing this thing.

And this was slowing her pace.

Dammit, she cursed inwardly, and she stopped again. Huffing. Dammit. She needed more water, and she polished off the first bottle. She had three bottles left. That should be enough, right? That should be enough, yes. Concentrate. Will you concentrate?

What do you think I'm doing?

I think you're talking to yourself in your head again!

Will you lay off that? Who cares! I'm not the only one who does that ...

Yeah, you are. Yeah. You're insane.

She shook her head, rolling her eyes at herself. She was wasting time just standing here, panting, thinking. You have to run. You have to sprint. You have to scurry.

You have to move.

Move!

So, she resumed her race, wondering how long it had been since she'd started. She didn't have a timer with her. The coach hadn't allowed her to bring any timekeeping instruments. ‘It's better if you don't know how long you have,' he'd said, ‘during the run. It'll make you run harder.'

Harder. Harder, my tail, she thought. I always run hard! I'm not a lazy runner, and he knows it. And he's basing my inclusion on the Olympic team on this run? This single run? On making it through Canyon Arrow?

Scurry, Arabella.

Don't think.

Do.

Scurry.

And she did. She kept going. Kept moving. Kept running. Kept scurrying, but her muscles were starting to ache. Oh, they ached, and oh, the sun was so bright, and she had to squint, and oh, her fur was so matted as to be suffocating her. Her pelt was just soaked with sweat. She could only hope there weren't any snakes in here. Wait, wait.

Wait a minute.

WERE there snakes in here? She'd heard of mouses getting killed and eaten by snakes. All the time. It was in the news last month, wasn't it? On a dry, desert world like this, with the sparse population and small government, there wasn't much you could do about keeping predators in line. If you ventured into their territory, and they got you ...

Sometimes, it was every fur for himself, or herself. Desert living was harsh. You could shed as much blood as you did sweat. It was just the way it went, and you learned, from a young age, not to fixate on that. Not to moan about it. To be grateful that you even had food to eat and water to drink every day. For, often, such things were hard to come by. Sometimes, you had to fight for those things.

You dealt with it.

You pushed through.

You survived.

She shivered with fear, though. Even in the heat, she shivered with fear.

Snakes, she kept thinking.

There are no snakes. No snakes. Okay? Okay, calm down! You're spiking your adrenaline. This isn't good for your heart. You're scurrying. Focus on the movement. Focus.

Focus.

Dear God, protect me from snakes, she pleaded, as a late addition to her earlier prayer. Please, oh, please, protect me from snakes.

And she let out a deep breath, and she shook her head, and she stopped again, almost collapsing onto the arid, grassless ground. Oh. My. Gosh. She ravenously unzipped her backpack again, downing a whole bottle of water, gulping, panting. Her whiskers twitching, reading the breeze. Sensitive to everything going on around her, both consciously and unconsciously.

Oh ...

... breathe, breathe. Breathe.

She wiped her paw across her forehead. It came back damp. She felt somewhat ill. She grimaced, shaking her head. She was gonna lose a few pounds from this, for sure. Oh, gosh. She swallowed, clearing her throat. Looking straight ahead. The land shimmered between the towering, tall walls of the canyon, like mirages.

Maybe this is all a mirage.

Maybe this isn't really happening.

Maybe this is a dream, you know. Yeah. Yeah, like, a dream where, uh, where you're gonna wake up in a cool, dry room. With cactus for breakfast. And the sheets are so nice against your bare fur. And maybe there's someone in bed with you, she added, starting to smile hazily. Yeah, someone in bed with you. A caring husband who'll kiss you on the lips and tell you how beautiful you are, and ... and ... well, that WOULD make it a dream, wouldn't it?

A heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging. Her smile faded. Both at the lack of romance in her life and at the physical, environmental task currently before her.

Why was she doing this?

The Furry Olympics? Who cared? Who cares, right? They're just games.

Just games. She squinted. Drawing in a hot, deep breath, and letting it out, her muzzle staying open. Panting, panting. Just games. No, they weren't just games. They were proving grounds. Pride for herself and her species. Her home. They were her ticket to safer places, to getting into the Furry Fleet ...

... not just games.

She was going to do this. She had her reasons.

I am going to do this.

I didn't acquiesce to this training, to doing these qualifications, she told herself, with the intention of not succeeding. I love to run. I want to run. I can't fail.

I can't.

I won't.

Surely, if I can reach the end of this, I can reach the end of anything. At the very least, it'll be a great learning experience. Now, see. See, that's positive thinking, right there, Arabella. You're a positive thinker.

"I am," she huffed, as if it were a mantra, "a positive thinker ... I am ... a positive ... " A huff. " ... dammit." She didn't have the energy to talk. Okay, no more talking. You're only wasting precious breaths.

So, she started moving again. Like a furry blur, panting, pounding, heart hammering in her breasts, eyes focused ahead. Just go. Just go. You can do this. You were built for this. This is your world. Your home. You know it, and it knows you, and you can get through this canyon.

No reason you can't, right? No reason.

Scurry-scurry, sweating, weakening, getting a bit dizzy, even. She needed another water break. So, she took it. And then, again, she was moving, allowing the elements to work to her advantage, now, instead of bemoaning their presence. The sunlight? It was her close ally. It was brightening the path. What's wrong with a goodly amount of heat, huh? Nothing wrong with the heat. Nothing wrong with being drenched in sweat.

I love a good sweat.

Hello, sun! Yes, you're burning my ears, but I don't care, cause I forgive you!

And her pace slowed, and she shook her head, swallowing, gulping, huffing. Her whiskers drooping, now, and her ears pinker than she would've liked. She'd lathered her fleshy, dishy ears with sun lotion before coming out here, of course. And she'd lathered her tail, too. But the sun was so hot and so high and so fierce. It was the dead of summer. And she felt like she was getting burned even through the lotion. And she fought the temptation to constantly feel at her ears. As if that would do any good.

I thought you'd forgiven the sun? Besides, isn't sunburn just evidence of where the sun has made love with your body?

She almost laughed at that. Almost.

She looked around, through hooded eyes, so tired, but not giving up. But she took a short breather. She would've thought, at looking at this canyon, that there must've been a river or a creek or something at the bottom of it. But there was nothing. Just this flat ground. And just the skyscrapers of multi-hued, sandy rock.

Just her and the rock.

Just you and the rock.

You, the rock, and the Rock, she added. Isn't the Lord your Rock? Stronger than these canyons, and stronger than that sun. Stronger than the things He shaped. He can make you stronger, too.

If you focus.

If you breathe.

If you scurry.

Scurry, Arabella. Scurry.

And, so, she did. She did. Gritting her teeth, panting, her pace slowing, she scurried. She didn't care if she collapsed upon getting through this place, she was going to get through. She was going to qualify for the Furry Olympics at the ripe age of eighteen. And the Canyon Arrow wasn't going to stop her.

‘But one thing I do,' she remembered, using the memorized, ageless words to fuel her, to remind her, ‘forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.'

And with that provision, she knew there was no way she was going to fail, now. There was simply no way. Straining toward the goal, she knew that, one way or another, she would get there. For who was going to stop her?

Certainly not Canyon Arrow.



... present day ...

" ... you ... you've got," Wilco panted, "the best endurance ... " The flying squirrel rolled over onto his back, chest still rising and falling with a greater-than-normal rhythm. " ... ever," he finally finished, swallowing, licking his lips.

Arabella giggled, her head sinking into a white, fluffy pillow. Responding, "Well ... I'm glad you approve." Her voice was soft, flowery. She loved this feeling. This feeling she got after they made love. She felt so feminine. So wanted. And so satisfied.

He turned his head a bit, eyes glowing. "I always have," he whispered. He took a slow, deep breath through the nose.

"You got your own reserves," she promised, "of energy." She reached out with a paw, and her fingers meshed in his cinnamon-brown and grey-streaked fur. His multi-hued, soft, silky pelt, which was damp, matted with sweat. "You may not be a mouse, darling, but you got your own form of scurry ... "

" ... scurry, huh ... "

" ... scurry," Arabella whispered, putting her muzzle closer to his own. Their heads moving on the pillows. Lips eventually brushing, eventually meeting.

Eventually, kissing, he put a paw on her bare side.

And she sighed, her nose flaring, whiskers twitching.

And when the kiss broke, he whispered to her, "You're just ... I love you, you know?"

"I know," she whispered back, closing her eyes, putting her nose against his body. "Oh," she sighed, happily. "That was nice ... "

"Definitely," the flying squirrel whispered, in hazy, lazy agreement. His eyes closed, now, as well. "Darling ... "

"Mm?" Her furry form snugly against his own, she sighed. She didn't want to move. Not even an inch. She almost felt she could fall asleep right here, right now. So many years removed from all that vigorous training, all that pressure, all those expectations. And, sure, she faced those things on Arctic, too. All the time. But she had love, now. And her faith was so strong, now. And, right now, in the dark, in their bed, she found she didn't feel the compulsion to run. Didn't feel the compulsion to push herself to the edge. She could settle down, lay here, and ...

" ... rest," Wilco whispered, stroking her side, making little squeaky sounds. "Just rest, darling ... "

"Only," was her response, "if you rest with me," was her light, airy response.

And his wispy response of, "You know I'm not going anywhere."

She smiled. And sighed. Yeah, she knew. And neither was she.



"Ollie ... "

"Yeah?"

"How come there's no coffee in coffee cake?" Sheridan asked.

The white-furred mouse smiled, giggling slightly. "What?"

"Only, when I was helping Ross in the mess hall today, we made a coffee cake for dessert. But there was no coffee in the cake. Just cinnamon and stuff." Sheridan was sitting in the bathtub, covered in bubbles. His fur matted and snowy-white, and the bubbles clinging to him, all clear and invisible and making soft, fuzzy popping-sounds. "How come?" He looked up and over to Ollie.

The mouse watching over Sheridan, sitting on the floor, back to the wall. And simultaneously reading a computer pad. He took a breath and put the pad down. "Hmm. Well," he said, his thin, silky-pink tail snaking. "I'd say it's because ... cinnamon and sugar are sweeter. Coffee isn't really sweet. I wouldn't want coffee in my cake."

"Then how come it's called coffee cake?"

"Well, probably because whoever came up with the recipe in the first place ... well, they must've thought that it went well with coffee. Like, have some cake and some coffee to drink with it."

"Like carrots and water? Or snow turnips and tea?"

A giggle-squeak, and a bright smile. "I was gonna say milk and cookies, but ... yeah, that works, too. Just, like, they go together. Though, personally," Ollie admitted, "I wouldn't have coffee with coffee cake. Or with anything. I don't like coffee."

"Neither do I," Ollie whispered, leaning to the edge of the tub. He put his paws on the edge, his eyes darting. "I think it tastes very bitter."

Ollie giggle-squeaked again. Sheridan was so cute, and so innocent. And so eager to know everything.

"I tried it one time, and I very nearly spit it out," Sheridan assured. "Only, mother used to tell me it's very bad manners to spit, so I didn't. I had to swallow it. It made me ... make a scrunch face."

Ollie smiled. "Well, your mother was right ... spitting's not polite."

"Is spit bad, then?"

"Well ... spitting is bad. Spit, itself, is ... well, we kind of need it. Like, to eat and stuff."

"Only, when I see furs kiss, I see they get spit on each other ... sometimes, they kiss in the mess hall, and then they leave real quick. How come? Are they breeding?"

"Uh ... probably."

"They don't get mad about the spit, though ... "

"Well, yes, that's ... saliva," Ollie said. "But that's different."

"How come? Aren't they the same thing?"

"Uh ... well, what else did you do in the mess hall?" Ollie asked, changing the subject. Sometimes, Sheridan could go on these tangents. And, being a young snow rabbit, was very curious about breeding.

"We made coffee cake. And we cleaned the pots and pans. And stuff."

"Well, you had fun, then?"

"I had a satisfactory time," Sheridan said, leaning back into the tub. The boy's paws skimmed the bubbles.

"Well ... did you have fun, though?"

"I don't have fun," was all he said.

"Sure you do," Ollie insisted.

"No ... I don't feel fun. Arianna knows," he said. He looked up and over and Ollie again. "She never tells me I have to have fun."

"Well ... " Ollie's whiskers twitched. "I just want you to enjoy yourself. To be happy, is all."

"I am happy," Sheridan insisted. "But I do not have fun."

Ollie just nodded. "Well, I ... I know. It's just something I say. It's just something I want for you. I didn't mean to make you feel bad ... "

"I do not feel bad," Ollie said. "I cannot ... "

" ... feel? Sheridan," Ollie said, gently, full of paternal instinct. "You DO feel, okay? I know you got a ... I know you're a snow rabbit. But I'm married to one, okay. I've known Arianna long enough to know that snow rabbits do feel. It's just ... in a suppressed, frozen kind of ... well, it's different. You do feel, but it's different. It's not bad to ADMIT that you feel something."

Sheridan said nothing.

"I know you probably ... have some things," Ollie whispered, "deep down. I know you ... about your parents. I know it wasn't easy. I know you're very young, and that makes it scarier. It's okay to admit that, somewhere inside, you're scared, or ... or anything, okay? I won't think you're less of a snow rabbit, or ... okay? You can talk to me about things."

Sheridan nodded quietly, his ears waggling. "Okay," he whispered, sticking his paws into a pile of bubbles. And he was quiet for a moment. "Ollie," he said.

"Yeah?" The white-furred mouse drew his knees up, his arms and paws going around his shins. Sitting, still, against the bathroom wall, watching his adopted son.

"I am afraid," he whispered, "of something ... it scares me." His voice was very, very quiet.

"What is it?" Ollie asked, worriedly. He shifted positions, getting to his knees, and moving closer to the edge of the tub.

"The Arctic foxes ... "

"Oh." Ollie nodded knowingly. "Yeah, I ... they scare me, too. I think they scare everyone on the ship."

"I don't like how they smell. Their smell makes my heart go. And it makes my paws shake."

"Well, that's called instinct. They're hunters, and ... we're what they hunt. What they used to hunt. It's ... it's hard to explain."

"I know about predators and prey," was all Sheridan said.

"Well, there's a lot more to it than what you already know," Ollie assured. "But don't worry, okay? Cause I won't let them get you. I promise. Okay?"

A weak, little nod. "When are they gonna go away?"

"Well ... they're not," Ollie admitted. "They're part of the crew, now. The snow rabbits and Arctic foxes signed a peace treaty. They're going to work together."

"Why?"

"Because it's ... better than not working together."

"Oh." A pause. "Ollie ... "

"Yeah?"

"What's ‘discombobulate' mean?"

"Discombobulate?"

"Yeah ... I heard one of the big snow rabbits say it, and I don't know what it means."

"Well, uh ... I think it means, like, ‘to confuse,' or ... yeah. Confuse. Muddle."

"What's ‘muddle' ... "

"Uh ... ‘muddle' is, like, ‘unclear'."

"Oh." A nod. A singular whisker twitch. "Well, then, by those definitions, I must get discombobulated most all the time ... there's always stuff I don't know."

"Well, you are still little. That's only natural. But you wanna know a secret, Sheridan?" A gentle smile, and Ollie leaned forward. "I get discombobulated all the time, too."

Eyes wide. "Really?"

"Mm-hmm. You never really ... can know everything," Ollie admitted. "It's just not our place. Only God knows everything."

"How come?"

"Well, see, I don't know ... that's one of the things I don't know."

"But ... " His little muzzle furrowed. "But, if you know that He knows everything, then how come you don't why?"

Ollie let out a breath, smiling lightly. "Well, how ‘bout let's call it ‘instinct' ... also, the Bible tells me so. It just stands to reason that, since God made everything, that He knows everything ABOUT everything, you know? Does that sound logical?"

A little nod. "Yes."

Ollie smiled, his whiskers twitching, and his dishy ears swiveling.

Sheridan ran his paws through the bubbles, and gave a few splashes of the water. Just because. And said, as the water rippled, and as the towers of bubbles continued to disintegrate, "Ollie ... "

"Mm?"

" ... I don't know. I think I may have run out of questions."

A giggle-squeak! "Well ... that's a first," Ollie said. "But it's okay. I'm sure you'll have plenty more tomorrow. All night long, the questions will filter into your head, and then you'll have to blurt ‘em out when you wake up, just cause there'll be so many."

"Well, that doesn't sound logical."

More giggle-squeaks. "Sometimes, it's best to let logic fail you, Sheridan. Logic ... only gets you so far. You gotta have more than that."

"Like faith?"

"Mm-hmm. And other things. But, yes ... "

"What am I doing tomorrow?" Sheridan asked.

"Well, I was hoping you'd come help me in the church ... and, uh, help me get ready for the evening service. And, then, after that, you can spend more time with Ross in the mess hall. But I think mommy ... Arianna," he corrected, "wanted to ... "

" ... it's okay," Sheridan said quietly. "You can call Arianna as my mommy." A pause. "She's my mommy, now ... "

"That's right," Ollie whispered. "But you don't have to call her that if ... "

" ... and you're my dad. I can call you dad."

Ollie's ears turned a rosy-pink. "You can," he whispered. "But, like I said, you don't have to ... I don't want you to forget your real parents."

"But, Ollie ... logic says that you are real ... "

" ... last time I checked," Ollie admitted, smiling, whiskers twitching.

"You are real, and you are parents, so ... you must be real parents. Anyway, you're ... my family. I love you," he said.

Ollie's eyes welled up. "I love you, too, Sheridan."

The little snow rabbit looked up, eye-smiling. "I'm done with my bath," he announced.

"Are you?" Ollie squinted playfully. "Did you wash your ears?"

"No," the little snow rabbit admitted.

"Well, you gotta do that first. Come on ... "

So, Sheridan did that. And then said, again, "I'm all clean!"

"Alright. Up, up, up you go," Ollie said, helping Sheridan to stand. And the mouse turned and grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his son. "There we go," he said, and he planted a loving kiss on Sheridan's cheek, his twitching whiskers brushing the rabbit's still whiskers.

"Your whiskers tickle," Sheridan said, eye-smiling.

A giggle-squeak. And Ollie beamed, saying, "Now, you step out of the tub and dry up, and I'll wait in the other room, okay?"

Sheridan eye-smiled. "Okay."

"I'll get you a snack. Some celery with peanut butter." Ollie started to pad out of the bathroom.

"Dad ... "

The mouse turned his head.

"Thank you," little Sheridan said, and he stepped out of the tub, his fur totally soaked and matted, dripping water all over the floor, and his towel wrapped around him.

"You're welcome," Ollie whispered. And he lingered, breathing deep, and left the room, feeling quite good.