Field sat by a tall, clear window. Looking out, unblinking, at the not-so-clear day. The fog and the clouds ... that got in the way. And the perimeters of persistent patience were evident in his breathing. The obvious clues of him being an outsider.

He closed his eyes.

Stuffed porcupines. Swirling, kaleidoscope-like vases (of greens, blues ... ambers, too). Glass art. Feathers of birds both majestic and meek. Dangling beads. Canvases. From one room to the next. A far-away history.

Field's college art appreciation class was on a field trip (voluntary field trip, so as not to cause scheduling conflicts ... but you got bonus points for going, so most furs who'd been able to come had done so). They were at the Eiteljorg Museum (for Native American art) in White River State Park. Downtown Indianapolis. They were between tours.

Most of the students were mulling, were chatting, were goofing off. Yanking tails and laughing about this or that. It reminded the mouse of his high school field trips. But, he thought to himself, at least he hadn't gotten the old "hey, FIELD, I bet you love FIELD trips" routine ... "hey, FIELD, this trip's for you!"
Not that the mouse didn't have a sense of humor. He did. But ...

... he squinted. Watching the trapezoidal top, watching the spires of the Bank One Tower ... absolutely vanish behind cloud. Like the building was gone. He felt a chill run through his spine at the sight. And swallowed, waiting, watching ... until the low-lying clouds ... allowed the tower back into view. But more clouds crept toward. It was an overcast, foggy day. The temperament of things ... would probably stay this way. That of: a shifty idleness. That of: hide-and-seek. Quest for sleep.

"Seem like you'd rather be elsewhere."

Field blinked. Looked up. Broken of his revelry.

"I mean, you're ... zoning out," spoke the jaguar. Stocky and silky-furred. Akira. A fellow student. In the class, but ... Field had never really approached her. They'd exchanged eye-glances and small smiles. But no words. He'd been to shy, too. Hadn't had an excuse. But, she, apparently, had tired of that ... and was now doing the work for him. First contact, in the midst of this lull, had been made. Just like that. It was now his move.

"Um ... well, I don't know," was his response. Classic Field. Classic, evasive Field (put up a neutral front ... and hope they won't dig deeper; cause, if they do ... if they do dig deeper, you'll open up for them; and where will it go from there; the now knowing; that was the fear). But, to be fair, she had caught him off-guard. Caught him aloof.

"Well," she said, taking a seat next to him (on the window-bench). Her sleekness, her muscular grace, her curves ... her tail and it's swaying. Her body spoke without words. And next to the shy, slender mouse, she seemed, by far, the more dominant of the two. She was a hunter. She'd just found her prey.

The mouse blinked.

"Well, what would you rather be doing, then?"

The mouse fought the urge to shrug. Shrugging was a bad habit. One shouldn't do it.

"Anything ... you know, if you could be anywhere doing anything," she continued, "rather than being on this field trip, what would it be?"

The mouse said the first thing that came to mind (and the last thing that had been on hers): "Betting on trains."

She tilted her head. A very feline gesture. Eyes narrow and gold. Fur orange, black ... that very "hot" pattern. A pattern and texture to her fur that spoke of heat. Of blood. Of passion. Of teeth.

Field looked to her. Swallowed. His own eyes blue-grey but limpid. Showcasing a soul who'd been forced to be a fighter ... against his pacifist nature. Showing a soul who was growing every day. Who was yearning and hoping in ways he simply couldn't say. His large, dishy ears went swivel-swivel. And his tail, his whiskers ... moved to that beat. And his nose sniffed the air constantly. Never stopping. Sniffing silently. As if his motor had fused to the "on" setting ... and he couldn't stop it. His fur, a honey-tan, was short. Soft in most spots. But not anything of luxury. Not anything outside of ordinary.

She raised her brow. Waiting for an elaboration on what he'd said. And, seeing he was intent on playing "quiet as a mouse," she asked, "Betting on trains?"

"Well ... yeah."

"Well, how does that work, exactly? I mean, how does ... like train races? I don't understand."

The mouse shifted a bit, cleared his throat. Seeing the Bank One Tower was, again, gone. Come back, come back ... wherever you've gone. "Well," he said, looking away from the window, briefly at her predatory eyes, and ... to his own foot-paws. "You know, I'm ... a country mouse, so ... "

"Didn't know that."

"Well, I am."

"Really?" She squinted. Her tail snaked, snaked ...

"Yeah." His own tail twitched, twitched. So, he held it in his paws. To still it. And to occupy himself. His nerves could always be calmed if he was holding something. His tail. A book. A plush. Something dear.

"Wow ... well, I never would've guessed. You're so articulate. Your words, and ... your demeanor. You really don't seem it. You seem like the bookish type that ... grew up in a town and ... spent all his time reading books and sitting on sidewalks. You know, the type who ... stayed close to home. Afraid of his own shadow. I can't see you ... as a fur of the dirt and soil, as ... growing amidst wind-swept plains."

The mouse's turn to do a head-tilt. Squinting.

"Well, not," she offered apologetically. "Not that ... "

"I get that all the time," was all Field said, shrugging. The perception that, if you grew up on a farm, if you'd lived on a farm all your life ... if you were rural and rustic ... that you must be a bit dull. That you must show it. That you must be a "redneck" ... or something. That ... it would show in your voice. That you were ...

"Well, honestly, you don't seem the type," she repeated. However, upon second look, he actually did. He did, and ... she had to second-guess her assumptions.

He nodded. That was true. But, then, the mouse wasn't a fur able to be typecast.

There was quiet. From them, at least. The other furs were chatting. Waiting for the second tour guide to come and lead them through the remaining exhibits.

"Betting on ... trains," Akira whispered. Her voice held that purring promise.

Field nodded.

"Still don't get it. Is that, like, a country thing, then?"

"Well, say you're in a small town, right? Like ... Kempton, Frankfort ... um ... a lot of train tracks up farther north. In small farm towns. They carry freight. Carry grain. Lots of things. The tracks there ... you're in a small town, and you mull about. Say you sit on the steps of the court-house. In Clinton County, say. Or you go farther out ... way out, to where the roads are all gravel, and you lay in the grass and watch the clouds, and then ... you hear a whistle. The train whistles before it comes. To warn furs of its coming. So they can make way. When you hear the whistle, you come up with an off-the-head estimate as to how long the train will take to reach you. You start timing it. When the first car on the train, when the engine comes by you ... you stop the count. Whoever's guessed closest, they win the bet."

The jaguar smiled a toothy smile. Airily giggled. "Huh ... never heard of that before," she admitted. And she tried to imagine him (with bare-foot-paws, in tattered jean shorts and a button-up shirt with the top three buttons undone ... him sprawled in the wild grass) ... imagined him, upon hearing the whistle, twitching and sniffing the air, and exclaiming in a cute, mousey way, "Whassat?!" And then scurrying to the source. She giggled sunnily at the thought.

He peered at her, wondering why she was giggling.

She gave him a coy look. "So, this is a tried-and-true game, huh? Like, a country sport?"

"Well, it's not, like, an official game. I just ... started doing it."

"Betting on trains?"

"Uh-huh."

Their eyes met.

Field swallowed.

She gave an approving purr. Asked, "Well ... so, that's what you'd rather be doing right now, huh? I mean, really?"

The mouse nodded. Looking out the window. The tower was back. For how long? "I'd rather be there ... breathing of that black-and-white air. Where things have rust. Where they proudly show their age. Where ... the fields, they go for miles. Green and earthy brown. Where redemption can be found. And where the train chugs through with its many cars ... and sings of memories. Of hopes. And of scars. Where ... you can live free of excesses. Where you can know yourself. Where you can have a heritage. Where your birthright is shining all about you." The mouse's voice eventually trailed ... and his cheeks (and ears) flushed hot.

"Wow," she whispered. She didn't know furs spoke like that anymore! Only in books or stories or on movie screens.

Field just shrugged. As if trying to distance himself from what he'd just said. Though he'd meant every word of it.

"Keep going," the jaguar whispered earnestly.

The mouse bit his lip, looking to her. He frowned a bit.

"No ... really, keep going. I want to hear more."

"Why?" he whispered.

"I don't know," she spoke. Eyes on his.

The mouse blinked first. And took a short, sharp breath, looking to his paws. "I don't know what else to say about it." He was too self-conscious now ... for the poetry to come. It was something he could only do if he wasn't thinking. "It's not my doing," he said of his words. Of his art. "It's the Spirit's."

"Huh ... "

"You think that's silly?" He looked to her.

"I think it's ... " She looked for a word. "Refreshing," she said. "Most furs, you know, either ... they either have a big ego about their abilities. View everyone else as ‘naive' and ‘misguided,' and think they're on better academic footing. As if academics meant anything. Which they don't. I mean, in the scheme of things ... or they insult themselves at every turn. You know the types ... before they show you something they've written or drawn, they'll preface it with how bad it is ... but they'll show you, anyway." She looked to him. "I don't know," she said. "Just never had a fur tell me that ... his art is God's doing." She'd never encountered such deference.

"Art?"

"Your words. You were speaking in poetry, in ... lilting measure. Your words, Field." Though she happened to know he was a photography major, as well. The mouse's personality betrayed his artistic tilt.

"They're better on paper than they are ... coming out of my muzzle," he assured her.

"Well, I like them. You should speak more."

He bit his lip. Let his whiskers twitch. The implied, unsaid part of that sentence had been, "you should speak to ME more." But he wasn't sure he had the confidence for it. When alone, he felt he could do anything. When paired with another fur, he ... suddenly was exposed, and ... his confidence became dependent on what they thought of him. How they treated him. Every time he got intimate with a fur, he latched. He was needy and clingy. Emotional. Which is why he tended to stay away ... scared of the hurt that always came when they pried him off and gave him the shove. When alone, the mouse was sure of EVERYTHING. But when in the company of someone like Akira here, he simply ... wasn't.

Love sent reality nose-over-tail. Gave that "I'm on my second bottle" drunk feeling ... after the buzz, and now getting tipsy. A tipsy feeling. A feeling that would (in the mouse's experience) give you a headache when it retreated.

Which is why the mouse's mind screamed to his body, "She's a headache waiting to happen!"

But his heart (teaming with his body to overthrow his mind), replied with, "She could be our medicine!"

The mouse simply stared at her. Mind whirling with possibilities. And so soon. He was a hopeless romantic. Hopeless dreamer. Or maybe just hopeless.

"Anyway, so ... betting on trains. Never done that. I should like to, though. From how you describe it."

"You ever seen a train?" he asked, voice drifting in and out of focus. As he tried to pull out of his thoughts and anchor back into the conversation.

"Once or twice."

"Well, not ... passenger trains. Those don't count."

She giggled. "No?"

A small, shy smile. A shake of the head. "No." A pause. "What gets me, though, is when ... there's a tornado, on the news, afterward ... all the furs will say it sounded just like a freight train, but I can't imagine that most furs have seriously SEEN a freight train roaring by. In this day and age ... I mean, I'm not talking on TV, or ... but in the fur, in front of it. Seen it. I've seen it," he assured. "But ... when I look at furs, I think, ‘Are they the type that ... have laid witness to a running train?' My instinct tells me that most aren't. So, it just seems odd that furs would describe a sound they've never truly heard."

The feline tilted her head. Angular ears swiveling slightly. "You speak," she whispered warmly, "of the oddest things, mouse." And it was so endearing. And ... so distinct. She wanted to know more. What was in that mind of his? Countless, endless things! Well-springs!

"I tend to," was his whispered reply.

"And why's that?" Still whispering.

He hadn't an answer.

She took a clarifying breath. Caught whiff of his scent. Submissive and fragile.

He shifted. Not knowing what to say. Her own scent ... one of willingness. One of ease. But one of ferocity, too.

"What do you get," she asked, "if you win the bet?"

"Hmm?"

"When you bet on trains. What's the winner get?"

He eyed her. Marveling her. It was so ... different, this. Suddenly, this. To be conversing like this. About such things. With a fur he didn't really know (but really wanted to). He went with the flow ...

"Mm?" She purred and nudged him.

"Well ... I don't know."

"You don't know?" She blinked.

"I normally bet against myself," was his whisper.

"Oh."

"I'm a country mouse," he repeated. "You go it alone ... in the country. You go to small towns, and there's no one there. You're in the pastures, and there's no one there. It's you ... and the air. You and solitude. It's purity. Humility. The shadows snap playfully at your tail, and try to convince you you're no damn good, and ... you keep telling them that ... that's only halfway true. You wrestle with them. Learn their tricks. And you befriend nature. Creation. And, through creation, befriend the Creator. It's not lonely. It's far from it. It's just ... a very different way to live. You float through places like a ghost. And yet ... you'd never have it any other way, because the solitude, the gravity of your frolic and play, it keeps you so grounded. So natural and earthy and real. Keeps you so in touch with the land. And gives you perspective. And ... but, no, I didn't have friends," he said. "I'd bet against myself."

The feline wanted to whisper "that's so sad," but didn't ... it wasn't a very predatory response to such a thing. And she doubted the mouse viewed it as sad. Rather, he seemed to take pride in the fact ... that he'd grown up without tethers. And had floated through fields (and dreams) like feathers.

"So ... what did YOU win, then? When you won?"

"Satisfaction."

"Of ... ?"

"Living," was the mouse's whisper. His eyes were a bit tired, and (more than) a bit lonely. "The reward for betting on trains is ... the act itself. Like, to quote Northern Exposure ... you ever see that show?"

She shook her head.

"Well, it's not the thing you fling. It's the fling itself."

She squinted her eyes.

"I don't know. I just ... I'm odd." He gave a slight smile. "Hard to relate to."

"But you're so different."

He looked to her.

"Don't you think?"

"Well, I'm just ... me. I mean, why would you think I'm more interesting ... than any other fur here?"

"I don't know. But I do. That's why I'm sitting here. Looking at ... talking to," she said, "you." She let out a breath through her nose. "You don't see many rodents, you know. Many mice."

"We're a minority," Field whispered.

"I know ... I just ... mice have a way, rodents," she said, expanding on it, "have a way of being more genuine. You know, more honest. You're aware of your faults and flaws and ... darker things. You deal with anxiety and fear in such fatal ways ... and, yet, at the end of the day, you're so wide-eyed. So innocent. How you maintain such a spirit ... in the midst of your frailty, I don't know. But I admire it greatly. You're not afraid to confront things. Deal with them. And press on. To grow and learn from them ... us predators," she said, "we ... you know, we show our teeth and strut our stuff, but we often ignore things we shouldn't. Physically, we run the table, but ... emotionally, I'd rather be like you," she said. "Predators play a good game of denial. Of distraction. Of ... biding their time. But our own image ... is our undoing. We don't allow ourselves to be emotional and delicate. Because we don't want to step outside our image. Afraid that, if we do, we'll be scorned by our fellows. But prey, they ... are aware of every moment, every time ... every part of the day. You live with such frantic energy. Not with a casual, lopsided gait, but with a clear and purposeful sprint."

Field wasn't sure what to say to that. He just bit his lip. Flushed. Looked away.

"I don't know. I mean, I ... "

" ... think you're pretty," Field whispered.

She blinked at him.

The mouse swallowed, throat dry. Shrugged, eyes darting. "You are," he whispered. "And I don't think that, as prey, I'm any better than you ... as a predator, I don't resent you. Despite the past of our ... kinds," he said, referring to when the predator furs hunted the prey furs for blood-sport. Referring to when the predators had dominated society and forced the prey into humiliating submission. They were only a hundred years or so ... removed from that. Instinctual memories lingered, but ... prey had found equal footing. Things were getting better (seemingly). "I mean, I envy your ... confidence. Your liquid grace. You know?"

"I'm not sure," was her whispered reply. She wasn't sure why he envied her. Wasn't sure why she admired him. Wasn't sure why, despite things, the sexual draw of a predator/prey relationship ... was so, so appealing. Though it often ended painfully. Predators and prey were too different. They came from different stock. Different mind-sets. Different instincts. And, yet ... the two parties were drawn together. Like moths to flames. Beautiful flames. Getting burned and spiraling to the grass, wings aflame ... lamenting, but not rejecting, the encounters.

"You're from ... Indiana?" he asked, trying to distance himself from sexual thoughts. From yiffy things. From the sudden, spreading lure of her.

"Carmel. A jaguar of the suburban jungle," she said, shrugging. Smiling. "Lived a very comfortable life. But ... you know, I don't know ... I fear it's lacked true personality. I feel it's been too generic. I fear things like that ... "

"You shouldn't," he said, aware of the irony. A mouse telling a jaguar not to worry. He fiddled a bit. "I worked in Carmel."

"Yeah?"

A nod. "At a restaurant. For a year and a half. After I failed out of school the first time ... before I was able to come back."

She nodded. Squinted. "How old are you, then?"

"Twenty-two."

She blinked. "Really?"

A quiet nod.

"I'm only 19 ... and a half," she added. She tilted her head. "You don't seem that old." Pause. "I think it's your shy, gentle demeanor. But ... you seem younger."

He smiled shyly. Wondering if that was a compliment.

Quiet. Save for their surroundings. But they, for a second, went quiet.

"So, why ... are you going to school here?" asked Field, piping back up. "I mean, if ... I assume you had the money to go most anywhere? I assume you had the grades?"

"Yeah," she whispered. Trailing. "I just ... don't have really have ambition. Don't know what I want to do. Don't know what I'm good at. Was afraid of going too far away from my family and all that. This was the closest place. Funny, huh? A predator scared of taking wing."

"It's okay ... "

Another pause. This time, broken by her.

As Akira eyed Field. Asked, wondering aloud, "Why haven't we talked before?"

The mouse was quiet. "I don't know," was his hushed reply. He closed his paws around his own tail. "But we're talking now," he whispered.

She smiled. Showed her teeth. That was true.

They were interrupted by a new tour guide, who was going to lead them through the other side of the museum. The students chattered and followed, and Akira, as they moved away from the window-bench, asked of Field, "Take me with you ... next time you go."

He looked to her.

"Next time you have a chance to go and bet on trains," she breathed. "Take me with you. Then you'll have someone to play against."

The smile melted onto the mouse's muzzle. And he just bit his lip, nodding shyly. Whispering, "Okay."

And she smiled back. Showing her teeth. And purring, she giggled and filtered back through the group, to one of her female feline friends. Leaving the mouse to take a deep, deep breath. Wondering, Lord, what was next.