Patter-patter-pat-pat, sang the rain. Oh, how it sang!

They had turned onto a gravel road. They had reached the gravel roads, and it was late-morning, a Friday. In the great Northern Hemisphere. In Indiana.

This was Hoosier weather in a Hoosier winter. This was variety run amuck.

"Thank you," said the squirrel, staring blankly out the rain-streaked window. At the slate-colored sky. Seeing. "For rescuing me, I mean. I mean, I'm sure most ... "

"Well, it's ... it's not a problem," said the human. "Isn't," he corrected himself, stuttering. "A problem." Hands on wheel. Gripping the steering wheel too tightly, as if doubting his own ability to drive. Looking ahead, and then to the squirrel ... and then back ahead. A real-life fur was in his passenger seat! A real-life fur was sitting here and talking to him ... while the world spun around, while phones were ringing, the squirrel and this human were making a getaway into Indiana's north. They had passed Ulen and Stringtown. Were nearing Cyclone.

The radio was on. Mimicking them, complimenting them ... making their minds primp and pose ... to woo meanings from the prose:


"Oh, through the dog-paths and the hazel,
Through every place I've entered,
I've looked for you to come ... years ago, or sooner."


The human's wispy, grey-blue eyes quietly watered. He blinked.


"And if ... and if I count on you,
Oh, do not fly away.
I dare not count on you.
It is too early to say ... "


The squirrel's pointed, anchored ears swivelled at the words. At the music. At sound and song. Noticing the human's emotional undercurrent, but not asking of it. Only remarking, "Less than half a percent of your species ... has the dormant ability for telepathy. Most don't know it, so they can't hone it. When I sent out a message, how did you ... know?"

"I don't know. I was driving," was all he said. "And I just ... felt it." It had been his day off. He's been out taking pictures (yes, in the rain ... how silly was that), and ... had just ... had just known. And had found the squirrel in a barn, in a person-sized cage. Waiting for rescue ... and it must've been fate. It must've been ordained. Mustn't it have been?

"I was separated from my ship-mates. We were ... an away team," said the squirrel, Wren. His name was Wren. His fur was a mahogany-colored brown. Was rich and shone with luster. "I was able to retrieve my comm-badge ... before we left. I thought the humans had destroyed it, or ... taken it apart. But it was lying on their tool table."

The human nodded. Remembering the squirrel sifting through the odds and ends. Grabbing some, putting them in a pouch, pausing ... nose to the air and sniffing. And telling him, framed in front of the bales of alfalfa, "We need to leave." What a deadly urgency! What a potent survival instinct! And the squirrel wore it well. The way he twitched, the way he moved. Such an agile acrobat, one could tell. And the human was jealous. A bit. Maybe. He didn't figure he had a right to be, but ... he kept stealing glances at the anthropomorphic rodent. As if attracted to him. And the human was effeminate enough ... that he very well could be.

But, now, sitting here in the car, the squirrel began to fiddle with his comm-badge.

"Is that like a cell phone?" the human asked.

"Like it, yes. Though not as annoying."

The human smiled lightly at this, driving steady. They were coming to railroad tracks, and he stopped at the stop sign. Despite there being no train (now or ever ... maybe there was never a train ... maybe these were historical imprints, footprints, used once but ... no more). Despite there being no one. He stopped, looked both ways, and went over the tracks, and the tires and the car went bump-a-bump! Bump-a-bump!

They were jostled in their seats. But both had seat-belts on.

The squirrel activated his comm-badge, speaking to it (but not into it). "Field ... " A squeak sound. Squeak, squeak ... not a natural squeak, but a mechanical squeak. The squirrel sighed. "He's on that damn wheel again." His nose and whiskers twitched in irritation. "Field," he said, raising his voice. And, telling in whispered tone to the human, as if confiding, that, "He's a tad OCD about physical fitness. He can't sit still."

The squeaking stopped, followed by a (slightly breathless), "Yeah?"

"It's me."

"Wren?"

"No, painted bunting." A roll-eyes. "Yes, Wren. Who did you think?" And a double roll-eyes cause Field had missed the avian joke. But, then, Wren did have a dry sense of humor. But so did Field.

"Um ... well ... "

"I've been missing for two days. The humans caught me."

"I know. That was bad." An anxious chitter-squeak. And an audible drink of water.

"Yes ... " A pause. "And?"

"We tried looking for you." It was obvious Field was uncomfortable using comm-devices. That, perhaps, he didn't trust technology as much as he was told to.

"You did a good job of it." A sigh. "I'm with a human. He got me out of there, and I'm driving ... he's driving, rather, us to the landing coordinates. Can you send down a shuttle-pod?"

"I'll have Azure do it."

"Are you running that thing? The ship?"

"It's the night-shift," was Field's response.

The human blinked.

Wren, noticing, explained, "On our world, it's night right now ... where we're from. Our continent. And our planet has 27-hour days, not 24 ... "

The human only nodded quietly. Still driving.

"Anyway, someone better be there to pick me up," Wren said. "And, please, turn off the after-burners this time ... we leave anymore crop circles, we're gonna get caught."

"Alright," was all Field said. A mouse of few words. In other words: a true mouse. Though one could tell, just from his tone ... that his mind was seething, bursting, was on fire ... was brighter, so much brighter ... than one could tell. It was the mark of any rodent. Of prey. To look duller than you really were. To play dumb. It kept you out of trouble. Gave you an edge. Helped you to survive. But, sadly, it kept him from full flower. "Okay ... bye."

The connection was severed.

"I worry about him," Wren whispered, sighing. Tugging at his seatbelt. Frowning. "These restraints are uncomfortable."

"You get used to them. I mean, better to use them ... than not," replied the human, flipping the left turn signal. Going left. On another gravel road. "I mean, even if there's no other cars on the road, it's still good habit ... "

"We have inertial dampeners," explained the squirrel, craning his neck to look into the backseat. Squinting at all the items back there. All organized in a neat little pile. A blue and white football with a horseshoe logo on it. "Indianapolis Colts," it read. A state map ... crinkled and wrinkled. A few plastic CD cases ... "Small Planes" ... by someone called "The Innocence Mission." "Rabbit Songs," read one album, by something called "Hem." The squirrel squinted, trying to figure it out. There were a few notebooks. Purple and blue pens. An ice scraper. Gloves and a hat. An insulated, pliable pack that had a piece of masking tape on it, with the words, "winter survival kit" written on it. In black cursive.

"Dampeners?" asked the human, interrupting the squirrel's observational revelry.

Wren blinked, turning his attention back to the front of the vehicle.

"Is that like ... force-fields? Or, like, um ... "

"Something like that." The squirrel looked out the window again. Oh, it was raining. It was January, and it was warm, and it was raining. And how was this? Something on the human's face told the squirrel that this wasn't normal ... " ... you don't like rain?" he was pressed to ask.

"I'd prefer it acted ... it's part. It's supposed to be cold and snowy. It was, you know, for, like, three weeks, and now ... all lukewarm." A pause. The wind-shield wipers were on ...

Wish-wish! Wish-wish!

"I just ... if you don't like Indiana weather, wait fifteen minutes. It'll change," the human said, quoting the axiom.

"Is that true?" the squirrel asked seriously. Tilting his head.

The human smiled. "Well ... it seems to be, sometimes."

The squirrel nodded, taking a deep, deep breath. Letting it out. "I have no reason to trust you ... considering what the other humans did to me. They were going to sell me to a zoo."

"Well ... " The human shrugged, blushing. "Some people are just ... deadbeats, I guess. I don't know ... they're everywhere."

"You're not one of them?"

"I don't like to think so ... I mean, I have my moments, but ... you know, I'm ... striving for things. I have desire, and I have drive, and ... I prevail. I try, anyway."

The squirrel considered this. Before asking, "You don't seem shocked by my ... appearance. I'm not from your world. I'm not, to your eyes ... natural."

"Well, we ... imagine creatures," said the human, "like you. We dream them up. Some of us ... role-play as ... humanoid animals. It's all a big ... " The human thought for a moment.

Wish-wish! Wish-wish!

"It's a big allegory. We make up ‘furry' species, and they each ... represent a part of the human condition. Felines are ... grace, confidence. Allure. Wolves are strength, passion ... foxes are cheek and guile, maybe. And ... mice are shyness, vulnerability ... struggle and perseverance. I mean, each species ... represents a part of ... being human. Just takes the things, the emotions ... that are hard for us to deal with directly, right up front ... and makes them ... more palatable. Breaks them down into easier terms."

"So, you ... explore yourself ... through this role-play?"

"Well, it's ... we project ourselves. Most people project what they want to be, not what they really are ... I doubt most people would really be felines or ... wolves ... if we were all turned into the animal that best suited us. Me, I'm ... I've got my flaws. I'm timid, and I ... have problems with anxiety. I'm very mouse-like, so I ... play as a mouse. I think of myself as being mousey."

"Field's a mouse."

The human nodded quietly ... having guessed as much.

"Is that all there is to it? To your ‘furry' creations?"

"Well, it's ... it's also ... sensual," said the human, wanting to stop there. Feeling silly ... but continuing, with a flush to his cheeks and ears, that, "Sexuality, when put through a furry filter, is ... almost wide-eyed. Innocent. Cute ... you know? And that makes it ... " A flush. "Hotter. I guess. It's ... " A sigh. "Intimacy can be ... messy, can be very awkward. Love can give such great pleasure, but it can also destroy you ... it's so powerful. It can heal, and it can ... divide," the human whispered knowingly. "When it's put through a furry filter, or ... in that context, it's ... more ideal. More dreamy. Like, that fantasy ... is like a blanket. The love, the physical desire ... can nestle down in that. Can be basic and unfettered. Or something. It's ... but ... I mean, as much as I may want to be a ... an anthropomorphic mouse, I know I'm trapped in this ... as this," he said, shrugging a bit (an action he had been striving to give up ... shrugging was such a callous motion, showing such indifference; the human was trying to give it up).

Wren nodded quietly. The radio still on ... but quieter (for the human had lowered the volume). Quieter than their voices, but still audible ...


"Like it was written in the snow,
This light isn't kind to me, I know.
This light isn't kind to me. It only shines inside of me,
And how is anyone to know?"


The human paused ... just listening. To the song, the rain, and the wish-wish ... the wish-wish ... the ...


"Before the 11 church bell rings,
I walk the length of the village green.
The air energizes me. It moves around inside of me,
And we all live in the open air ...

"You're the queen of the village green.
The kind of thing you hear from the insane ... "


"I gotta remember," said the human quietly, half in jest, "to use that line one day ... "

Wren squinted.

"Well," explained the human, seeing he didn't get it. "It ... like, if someone meant so much to me, they'd be ... you know, unreal, you know. The kind of thing you'd hear from the insane. It's ... I don't know. Might be nice to tell that to someone someday." The human went quiet, smiling, giggling airily. But his smile soon faded into something more neutral.

The squirrel nodded. "Our music is different. It's ... from what I've heard, all your songs are about ... wanting love, having love, or losing love. Our songs have ... a more varied range of cultural significance."

"Well, not all our songs are like that ... "

"Just the ones you listen to?"

The human giggled quietly. "I don't know ... what can I say? I'm ... eternally wistful. I'm an artist. I'm ... am I supposed to hear the sleigh-bells ring? Do I think of love and better things? I ... do, you know. Often. I just ... I know life is about the journey, but ... you don't journey without a destination, so ... I ... imagine so many destinations. I mean, I've reached points, stop-overs, but ... those weren't destinations. Those were ... points of departure. And the rest, the recuperation I got, it was never good enough, because I was sleeping in light ... "

The squirrel, head tilted, said, "You speak in ... metaphor. You speak in poetry that ... I don't even think you, yourself, can make rhyme or reason of."

The human said nothing.

"But you speak poetry, all the same, and that's ... a gift."

"It's just ... "

"You have an ability. Whether or not others can understand it or relate to it, the ability is there, and once honed, I'm sure it can change the world. As all God-given gifts can."

The human shrugged, not sure how to ... respond to that.

"You never gave me your name ... "

"Ross."

"Raw-sh," mimicked the squirrel.

"No, no ... aw-ss ... like ... Ross."

"Raw-sh."

"No ... " A smile, a slight giggle. Again of the effeminate, shy tone. "No, it's ... you're using that cute ‘net-speak' thing. Don't ... there's no -sh ... no ‘h' ... it's ... Ross."

"Ross."

"Yeah ... "

"It's cute to add h's to words that end in s?"

"Well, it's not necessarily cute, but it's ... silly and playful, which can ... I guess ... well, it can be ... construed as cute. But, personally, I don't think cute things can be done on purpose. I think that in order for something to be truly cute ... it has to be unforced. It has to be candid."

"An interesting take on cuteness. Perhaps you should write a thesis."

A chuckle. "Perhaps, yeah," said Ross, biting his lip. Still driving. "I'd get marked down for using too many ellipses, though. Or for not having an immediately recognizable point."

They were passing a huge series of grain elevators. The activity there was sparse. As if, perhaps, all the work went on at night. With cold resolve. As if ... this, like so much around here, was a remnant of a time when ... the world was so far away. And how Ross longed for that. How he cherished that heritage. That rustic, rural ... spirit. Of simplicity. Of being close to the land. Of having that certain knowing ... in your heart, in your soul. A knowing that could only be inherited. A knowledge of life and death. Of all cycles and circles. Harboring the seeds of eternal hope in one's heart. It ...

He stared out the window, feeling so proudly, stubbornly Hoosier. So rural. And they would never pry his heart away from here. He stared, silently, at the elevator ... and at the train tracks running alongside it. And at the hibernating, earthy fields all around it, and at ...

"I've implanted the directions to the landing site in your sub-conscious," said Wren. "It'll take us another twenty minutes to get there."

Ross nodded. That would be fine. It was his day off, right, and ... he wasn't pressed, and he had a near-full tank of gas ... that would be fine. That ...

"Are you not happy with being what you are?" Wren questioned, returning to the human's description of this furry culture he'd spoken of.

"Well, it's ... no, I am, it's just ... I mean, look at you. You're ... " Ross blushed. "Well, attractive. I mean, it's ... having a tail. Those little twitches you do. Fur is soft and warm, and ... it's all just so ... exotic. So sensual. Paws, tails ... swiveling ears. Heightened senses. Just ... I don't know. It's ... so much more, you know? It's more ... than what we are. In comparison, I mean ... compared to you, I'm just plain and awkward."

"You think being like this ... is a blessing?"

"So, what ... you don't ... like it?"

"I do, but ... before you belittle what you are, think it through. Wherever you go, there you are. And so it only stands to reason that whatever you become ... you remain yourself. It's the mind that matters. The heart."

"Yes, but ... "

"Let me put it this way," said Wren, interrupting. "Do you constantly have to deal with fleas and ticks sucking your blood, infesting your fur? Are you unable to spend any time outdoors in the summer because your fur traps all the heat and rapidly increases your rate of dehydration, making you sweat like misery? Do you visibly shed? Do you have an appendage, like a tail ... that gets caught in doors, gets stepped on ... have you ever tried kissing with a pointed muzzle? And is your average life-span fifty years? Animals don't have the genes of longevity that you humans have."

"No," Ross admitted. "I ... guess I hadn't thought of that," he admitted sheepishly.

"And that doesn't begin to address the issues dealing with unchecked predator/prey instincts ... you are one species," the squirrel told the human. "Furs, as you call us, are many. If you, as humans, as one species ... struggle to agree on any given issue, what chance have we? It makes interaction and social discourse far more complicated. Not to mention inter-species breeding ... social caste systems, and ... "

"Well, I'm just ... okay ... I mean, I get it ... "

"Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not giving my pelt for bare skin ... I am what I am, and I like it. It was by God's design that I was born as a squirrel. Just as it was by His design that you are human. To wish to change that ... is to miss the point of your grand purpose. Had He wanted you as a mouse, you would be a mouse. It's that simple."

"Well, I think ... you're reading too much into it. It's ... just for fun, as I said. For role-play."

"Is it? Is it just an escape to you, or is it more?" pressed Wren.

The human didn't answer. Only saying, "Well, I get what you're saying, and ... I don't think there's anything wrong with it."

"I didn't say there was. I'm just saying that ... you, personally ... I have no idea about the rest of your race, but ... as much as I can guess of you, you're the lonely type. Every relationship you've been in is, or was, broken. Not just broken, but ... shattered. You carry a lonely, quiet ... yearning. A desire to mend. To share. To glow. You have so much love and vibrancy to give, but ... no one you can lower your guard around. And, for you, I think ... you are the type that can blur the line between fantasy and reality without even realizing it. To keep yourself from that pain. In other words, you are addicted to the far-away, the flighty ... because it's so much more romantic, more sweeping ... than the up-close, the grounded."

"I didn't know you were a psychologist ... I didn't know you could psycho-analyze me in just ... " Ross began to stutter, as he did when flustered.

"I'm just telling you what I see. And I'm telling you, from my own experience, for I have hurt, too ... I have lost ... too." A pause. A meeting of eyes. "I'm telling you that it won't go away. The rest of the world. Your life. Everything. The only way to get past it ... is to face it head-on. Wrestle with it, figure it out ... so you can overcome it. So ... your fantasy is fine. It's healthy. Just don't rely on it so heavily. If you find yourself coming to a point where you cannot live without that fantasy ... you are addicted to it. Could you live without your furry-ness? Could you do it? If not ... why? Does it give you a sense of belonging, of difference, of expression, of ... why is it so vital to you?"

"Well, we're ... can we stop? Please?" Ross asked, frowning, letting out a shaky breath. "I don't ... I feel like I'm being dissected here."

"I'm an anthropologist. I came here to study your species, your culture. To study you. That's what I'm doing."

Ross sighed, swallowed, and took a right turn ... still going on the gravel roads. Going at thirty miles per hour. Taking a breath, he said, "You say you're telepathic, and I'm ... I have dormant skills of telepathy, so ... why ask me these things? Why not just read my mind?"

"Because that which is spoken ... is more tangible than that which is not."

Ross frowned again. Kept driving. "Let's ... talk about something else ... we're almost there," he said.

The squirrel was quiet for a moment, nose and whiskers twitching, sniffing. Tail, like a glorious, furry banner, wrapped around his front. Held to his chest by both paws.

Wish-wish! Wish-wish!

Ross had almost forgotten it was raining. Had almost forgotten the sound of the windshield wipers ... so lost had he been in thought and dialogue. He'd almost separated from the details.

And the radio, still ... it played ...


" ... replace all the small disgraces of all the times and places
That I never really left ...
Did you leave the darkness without me?
You're always miles ahead.
And you're standing in tomorrow on the runway ... "


Ross took a breath. Took a breath.


"Sudden horses at the red light. Turn around,
See clearer ways to go now ... "


And, though Ross had asked Wren to speak of other things, neither spoke. They went the rest of the way in silence. Listening, in this interim, to the rain. To the rambling rhythms ... to the stray thoughts their minds were unable to catch.

And when they got there, to the field in the middle of (wet and glorious) nowhere, the squirrel opened the car door, saying, "They'll be here for me. But you should leave. You've already seen too much, and if you see our ship, too, they'll ... want to do a mind-cleanse."

Ross nodded quietly, biting his lip, clutching the wheel.

Wren undid his seatbelt.

Wish-wish! Wish-wish!

Doe-like Jersey cows, wet and chewing cud, stood behind electric fences. Eating of wet round bales.

The squirrel looked out ... smelling the rain. The unseasonably warm rain. So, this was January? So, this was Indiana? This was the Crossroads of America ... where one could find himself? Where one's faith could be fostered? What must it look like in the summer? What depth of green must it appear? And the birds? What of them?

This place held the promise of verdant things. Of beauty. If you were willing to see it.

Patter-pat-pat ...

"For what it's worth," Wren whispered, turning to look the human in the eyes, smiling warmly, "You would make a sweet mouse."

Ross giggled lightly, blushing, nodding quietly. Eyes watering. Wanting to hug the squirrel tight and talk all day. "Well ... thanks."

Wren smiled back, nodding ... "and thank you," he whispered. "God bless. And peace be with you." And exiting the car. Closing the door. Leaving for some further land.

Ross lingered there, in the car ... watching him go. Wanting to know ... so many more things about him. From whence he came. And so much more. But they had to part ways. Their worlds, however they may flirt, would collapse if ... they became exposed to one another. No, this innocent fiction would remain a private one. In Ross's little niche in his mind. He would remember, and ... wear his shy, secretive smile when he thought of it. It would make him less lonely.

And he put the car into drive. And drove home.