Today was an ‘almost-winter' Saturday.

They wore their heavy coats.

They left the ‘Snow Bear' ice creamery, and wandered, slowly, time to spare, past the bread shop, where everything smelled of honey-wheat and baguettes, and blueberry bug muffins (for the discerning customers). Oh, the wafting whiffs of cinnamon and cream! Where the window-lights were gold, red, and green, all glittering as the season warranted, tinsel-like, and with striped, candy cane decorations taped to the thick panes, colorfully playing with your reflections.

You couldn't help but mosey.

And they continued, ambling past the big, fancy bookstore, with its ‘rooted-by-the-big-windows' shelves, the ones made with fancy wood, the ones that were overflowing with fresh, crisp books, as well as music and videos. With everything. Artistic produce. It was hard, wasn't it, to resist the temptation to pause for just a moment, to resist thinking about going in there, with your rosy-pink nose and your ‘waving-about-to-regain-its-circulation' tail, and proceed to browse while you warmed. Keeping your eyes wide. Putting your nose in the books. Putting your ears on the albums.

And, finally, walking past the outdoor ice-skating rink, the little, frozen pool. With all those whiter-than-white blade-marks from all those skate-blades. Where furs in scarves and paw-mittens and too-big coats were moving in slow, frosty circles, both big furs and little furs, to the tunes airing out over loud-speakers.

And, in this moment, the Christian mind might think: isn't it truly like the world is an upside-down, glassy snow-globe? Held in God's paws. And isn't it only a matter of time (oh, a matter of time) before He turns it right-side-up? Before everything is righted, revealed, and all the purity and truth filters down? And all the loud-speakers would stop playing the songs of holiday pop, and would broadcast true redemption songs.

Couldn't it happen like that?

Oh, but keep thinking, young fur. Keep walking. Keep by your faith.

Your Hope is here. Your Savior is humbly stable-born.

Believe it.

And they (the squirrel and the otter) soon reached the wide pedestrian bridge over the white, whirling Wabash. And began to cross it. Their shoed foot-paws (they'd had to wear shoes today, with the cold being what it was) padding over the concrete.

"Do you really think we should be eating ice cream," the squirrel asked, taking a lick. A lick. A swallow. "Before going to the movies? Aren't we gonna get popcorn and candy and drinks and stuff? Cause I've had, like, too many sugary foods today already. I don't need this stuff building up in me ... " Another lick. "And it's a bit too cold, you know." Her whiskers did a few twitches. And a few twitches more. Her bushy, luxurious squirrel-tail flagged in the air. There was no wind, no breeze, really. It was mostly still.

"Cold?" The otter looked about her, holding a clear, plastic dish in one paw. And a little, plastic spoon in the other. Her purse slung over her shoulder, securely. "It's only thirty-four degrees, silly." A grin. "That's above freezing."

A giggle-squeak. "Slightly. Slightly," the squirrel repeated. "It's still nipping my nose. And nipping my ears."

"And eating away," Rhine waxed, in her pretty, sing-song ‘church-hymn' voice, "all our cares and fears!" Her rudder-tail trailed behind her, like a sturdy, brown-furred balance. It swayed lightly with the movements of her legs and hips.

Another giggle-squeak, and a shake of the head. "Show-off."

"Show-off?" the otter asked, scooping some of her ice cream. Walking, now, closer to the right side of the bridge. Closer to the firm, stone railing. As if subconsciously gravitating to the water. Eyes, indeed, looking at the flow of it, the eddies and the currents of the ever-streaming liquid.

Ketchy, however, was hanging back, keeping Rhine between herself and the bridge's railing. A bit uneasy. Oh, she had a fine head for heights. She was a squirrel, after all. However, the water part was a bit unnerving. She was afraid of deep water. Or any water, really, where you couldn't see beyond the surface. "Yeah, you're ... you and your pretty voice. Putting me to shame," the squirrel teased.

"Aw. You know I'm not doin' that," Rhine objected.

"I know," Ketchy replied warmly. "Just teasing you." A scoop of her own ice cream. It was peppermint flake. Pink peppermint, with little green and red shards of mints, and ... oh, winter-like. Oh, tasty. Oh, the best ice cream. A pity they didn't offer it year-round. Only during the cold. "I complain about getting the ice cream, and I can't stop eating it. What does that say about me?"

"That you like ice cream? That it's a ‘peppermint' kind of day?"

Chitters. "Perhaps." A breath. A pause. Continuing the recently-dropped conversation, saying, "You do have the loveliest singing voice, though. Honestly ... "

A blush from Rhine. And she shook her head.

"You do. I've been to your church before. I've stood beside you," she whispered, "and heard you sing ... "

"Well ... you're making me flush." Another shake of the head. The otter was steadily humble, ever-modest. Wonderful qualities to have. "Anyway, you said the cold was nippin' at your ears, yeah? How can the cold be nippin' your ears, then, if you've got a wooly hat on? I'd like to know."

Again, chitters, rat-a-tat squeaks. Let loose into the air. And a smile. "Mm." A breath. "Well, maybe ‘nip' is too strong a word. Still ... " The squirrel continued spooning ice cream into her muzzle. Letting it melt on her tongue. The cool of peppermint mimicking the cooler chill of the air. Giving her such a feeling. Like she was breathing, EATING winter. Sighing, swallowing. "Mm. This gets better with every spoonful. Honestly. What did they put in this stuff ... "

"Milk," Rhine said. "Ingredients," was her second response, a bit cheekier. And she smiled, and then further changed the subject (away from herself). "It's not even that cold. You wanna know what the coldest it's ever been up here was?"

"Sure ... "

"Well, guess, then," she challenged.

"Guess? Like, uh ... negative seventeen. I don't know."

"Negative thirty-three. In degrees." The otter, with her rural form of speech, emphasizing the ‘in degrees' with a serious nod.

"Seriously?" The squirrel smiled. Whiskers twitching. Nose sniffing. Tail flicker-flicking.

"Mm-hmm. I read it somewhere. In the newspaper, I think." A swallow, and a nod, the otter's own tail steering slightly about. "Yeah. Well, cause, one time, Orinoco and his dad, they went to one of the Purdue games here, and they brought back the county paper. And I clipped out the little ‘records' box and put it on the ‘frigerator. Just cause I like to know stuff like that." An exhale. "But that was in 1885," she said, trailing. "I don't know what the second-coldest was ... "

"Well, I'm not complaining, mind, about the weather. I'm just saying that it's chilly. Which it IS," the squirrel insisted. "I know we got fur and all, but ... I hate wearing shoes," she said, sticking out her tongue a bit (just because). "My foot-paws are suffocating. My toes, too."

"Well, your toes would, wouldn't they, bein' that they're ON your foot-paws."

A smile. And no response.

"Anyways, at least we got all four seasons. Most places don't."

A nod. "True," Ketchy whispered.

"The cold teaches you things," Rhine said. "Just like how the heat does. It's all ... beautiful," she declared, her breath showing as light fog. "You know?"

Ketchy warmly nodded. "Mm. I know, I know," she insisted. "I've not forgotten that. I'm a rural soul, too, you know."

"I know ... good thing, too!" A pause. "I wouldn't trust walkin' about a big town without a fellow country fur with me. Town-furs and city-furs, they're all off-kilter. They got that ‘caged' look in their eyes, like they're liable to lose it at any time. I gotta have someone reliable." A nudge. Nudging the squirrel. "That's you."

Giggling. "Stop nudgin' me ... gonna make me drop my ice cream. Playful otter."

"Well, I AM playful, I'll grant you that. Otters are playful," Rhine admitted. "That's one of our trademarks," she claimed. "I like to think so, anyway."

"Well, it's a good characteristic to have ... "

They were in Lafayette, the two of them. For a ‘femmes'-day-out.' Ketchy and Denali had driven up to Denali's parents' house, and then Rhine and Ketchy had driven down here. It had taken an hour to get here. But, then, in this region of Indiana, it took an hour to get most anywhere, didn't it? Depending on your definition of ‘anywhere.' Often, ‘nowhere' was more rewarding. But the town was actually two towns. Twin cities. Lafayette (the bigger town) and West Lafayette (the bustling ‘college' town), divided by the Wabash River.

But it had been a fun drive. It hadn't seemed as long as the in-car radio-clock had told them ...



" ... where are we?" Rhine's nose was almost to the window. Sitting, as she was, in the passenger seat, buckled in. "Mm? What did that sign say?" One of those green, roadside signs passing by. The kind that had the white letters for towns, and the numbers of how many miles until you got there.

"I don't remember. Uh ... " The squirrel blew out a breath, both paws on the wheel. "Really, why am I driving? You know this area better than I do."

"Cause you're a better driver, is how come," the otter replied.

"I don't know about that ... " A pause. "Turn the heat up? Just a little?"

Rhine did so. Adding, "Anyway, I like to window-watch."

"I like to window-watch, too," Ketchy defended, smiling, eyes darting to the speedometer, to the rearview mirror, to the road ahead. And subtly repeating the cycle. "I'll have you know I'm quite a good window-watcher."

"Yeah? You didn't even know what the last sign said ... "

"Well, neither did you."

"Hmm." A pause. "I guess we're both pretty lousy window-watchers."

"Or we're both out of our minds."

"Yeah. More than likely, it's the latter."

Chitter-squeaks. "Our husbands should be glad they didn't come. They'd be clawing to get out ... all our jabbering. All our giggling."

"Clawing to get out?" Rhine asked, leaning back in her seat, adjusting her seatbelt. "Or clawing at US? Mm?" A knowing smile.

Ketchy laughed. "Huh. Well ... "

"He ever do that with you?"

"What?"

"Denali. He ever mess around with you ... you know, in the car?"

"In the car?" the squirrel repeated, lowering her voice a bit. "Like ... on the road?"

"Orinoco did that to me last week. We were coming back from Pearl's house, you know. His mom and dad's, and ... I was driving. It's only a few miles, and it's rural roads." A contented pause. And an admiring, "His paws were all like an octopus. They were all over."

Ketchy laughed again. The pleased tone in the otter's voice made her squeak.

"Even when we got home to our driveway and got parked, it was forty minutes ‘til we got out of the car."

"Mm ... nice," Ketchy whispered dreamily, eyes sparkling. Eying the rearview mirror. As a car (going too fast) got impatient and passed them. "Well, yeah, I ... to answer your question," the squirrel admitted, "I got some car-time logged with Denali. But, I mean, I don't PREFER the car. There's no room. It's kinda ... all squished-up."

"I do know what you mean," Rhine agreed. "Sorta restrictive." A pause. A sly, spreading grin. "There's always the hood."

"What?" A giggle. "The hood?"

"In the summer, I mean. Or whenever it's warm enough. Or, even if it's just a bit chilly, but you come home and turn the car off. When you get out, the front's all warm from the motor. Come on ... " A nudge. "You know ... "

Flushing, incessant chitters. Giggles. "Uh ... okay, okay. I DO know. But, uh ... "

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. You just seem ... I don't see you as the type to be, uh, on the hood." A shake of the head, but clearly enjoying the conversation.

"Hey, I get yiffy. I got a husband. I'm head-over-tail in love," the otter defended, smiling to herself. "Why not?"

"Why not, indeed," the squirrel agreed. "No, I can't fault you. I ... sometimes, I get swept away." A pause. Admitting, "We did it in the library. Me and Denali. You know, where I work. A few weeks ago."

"Ooh ... "

"Yeah ... " A nod. "Mm ... " And a sigh. "Oh, gosh. I don't know how good a topic this is."

"Hyping you up?"

"A little," she admitted. "My paws are sweating something fierce on the wheel. Okay, okay ... I know I said to turn the heat up, but turn it back down. Turn it back down." A deep breath. And another. While the otter lowered the heat a few notches. "Mm. We gotta last six or so more hours, you know, ‘til we get back to them," she said, referring to their respective husbands. "Let's change the topic."

"Aw, but yiff's fun to talk about." A wink. "It's fun ... thinkin' ‘bout it ‘til you sweat. That's how you know you're alive." Another wink.

"Fun, yes. Distracting? Yes, also." A helpless smile. "And you can stop winking at me."

"Mm." A giggle, and a continued smile from her. The otter leaned back, comfortably, in her seat. "Alright. Change the subject. Uh ... well, seeing as I didn't see the road-sign, and you've obviously gotten us lost ... "

" ... I have not gotten us lost! I just follow this road down there."

"Yeah, but where are we ON the map?"

"We didn't even bring a map," the squirrel said.

"Yeah, but if we did, where would we be on it?"

Giggles. "Rhine ... "

The otter chuckled. And sighed. "Mm. Oh, but there's this town, right, called Otterbein. It's not on this route. But it's, like, all farming otters. I know a few furs from there."

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm." She looked out the window. At all the open stretches of fields. At all the slightly-rolling hills. At all the bare trees. At the seasonally-affected nature in which they lived. Which they'd grown up with. Which they loved. And the conversation started to fall aside. As they both drank up the scenery of their Hoosier home ...



"What time does the movie start? I forget," Rhine admitted. "Was it at three?"

A nod. "Mm. Well, three-fifteen, actually, but ... we got over an hour, you know, before we need to be back here." The movie theater was behind the bookstore. "I hope this ice cream doesn't mess me up ... maybe I should've gotten a bagel instead. From that bread place."

"A bagel? Bleh ... bagels are no fun."

"It's not about fun," the squirrel insisted. "It's about how much sugar's in ... mm ... well ... I should be fine," she said, shaking off the worry. "There I go again. Double-thinking everything. Worrying. I'm supposed to be relaxing today. Having a fun day."

"Fun day," Rhine echoed. "And it IS fun. I've had fun," she insisted. "Have you ... "

" ... had fun. Yes," the squirrel insisted.

Rhine gave the squirrel a half-hug. "There ya go, then," she said.

The squirrel giggle-squeaked. Letting out a breath. Letting herself be hugged.

And Rhine let her go, scanning around.

The two friends (family, really; though by marriage and not by blood ... though, to them, there was little distinction) continued walking. Reaching the end of the pedestrian bridge, walking down the steps, off the little platform, and ...

" ... wait, wait," Rhine said.

Ketchy stopped on the steps, half-turning. Whiskers twitching. "Mm? What?"

"I wanna watch."

"Watch?"

Rhine just waved a paw. Her ears flattening a bit, and then perking. Listening. "Come on, lazy-tail. Don't you know the train's gonna come?"

Ketchy walked back up onto the platform, which was poised above the tracks. The tracks running along the sides of the river. And not just one route of tracks. Several of them. "I don't hear a train," she said, her own, angular ears swiveling on her head.

"Well, you don't need to. You just gotta stand here long enough," the otter said, "and one will come. When I was little, whenever we came down here, that's what we'd do. We always saw one."

Ketchy made a bit of a face.

"You don't believe me?" the otter asked.

"I don't hear any trains," the squirrel repeated simply, spooning the final bit of her ice cream into her muzzle.

"Well, we'll just wait a few minutes," Rhine whispered, looking, gazing out. Down to where the rusty-brown tracks curved away, lost in the skeleton trees and the river-winding land.

Ketchy nodded, padding a few steps away. Stopping. "You done with yours?" she said, of the otter's peppermint treat.

Rhine nodded. Smiling, handing over her own dish and spoon.

And Ketchy took them, padding away, putting their done-with ice cream dishes and spoons into the nearest trash can. And then looking out, to the south, right in front of them. The town. The Downtown of Lafayette.

Ketchy relaxed. Looking.

The rodent's eyes, as they scanned about, affixed (as most eyes did, upon drinking in the city) to the white, majestic courthouse, which looked like one of those overly-ornamented wedding cakes. Something of permanent and durable character. A height of 226 feet, with five stories, made of Indiana limestone, with over one hundred columns on the outside. Oh, and the 3,300 pound bell, tuned to the key of C-sharp. With all those clocks on the spire, and the five hundred pound walnut doors at the entrances, and ...

... all in all, quite possibly the most attractive courthouse in the entire state.

No doubt about that.

One that had prompted Mark Twain, upon his visit here, to remark, ‘Very striking courthouse, very striking indeed. It must have struck the taxpayers a very hard blow.'

"It's pretty, isn't it?" Rhine asked, coming up behind the squirrel.

Ketchy blinked, turning her head slightly. Meeting the otter's eyes. And smiling a bit. "Yeah," she whispered. "It is."

"Prettier than ours," Rhine said. "Ours isn't even a proper courthouse. Doesn't look like one, anyway, I don't think. Too simple." A pause. "But at least we got a cannon, though."

"Mm?"

"A cannon. That's how you know it's a courthouse. It'll have cannons in the lawns. Look at that." A pointed paw. "You can just see one."

The squirrel squinted. "Maybe if we get closer."

"No, it's a cannon. I know what I'm talkin' ‘bout. It's like a law or something ... "

Ketchy giggle-squeaked, shaking her head. "There is NO such law."

"There is."

"Rhine ... "

"Ketchy, if it isn't a law, then it SHOULD be. That all courthouses ... "

" ... this is ridiculous ... "

" ... have cannons in their lawns, cause they already DO, anyway."

Chitters. And mirthful nods. "Mm." A breath. "Mm. Okay. Whatever." Gesturing with her paws.

The otter gave the squirrel a friendly shove. "You're bein' difficult today."

"Am not," Ketchy defended, nudging the otter back. Smiling. "Am not," she repeated.

"Well, maybe it's the ice cream. Isn't their some kind of saying about feeding sugar to squirrels?"

"That's probably ‘sugar to mouses' ... "

"Pretty sure it's squirrels." A pause. "I shouldn't have let you convince me to make us stop and get ice cream."

"It was your idea!" the squirrel accused, laughing. "Don't even start. It was your idea ... you were in that door before I could stop you."

Rhine, eyes shining, put on an innocent, "Who? Me?"

"Yeah ... yeah, you."

The otter giggled, padding back to the railing of the raised platform. And she closed her eyes and breathed deep, and sighed, "Isn't it lovely?"

"The air?"

"Well, no ... well ... just the chill of things, and the grey of things. And how you can hear music from most everywhere, and how all the lights are strung up." A pause. "I just love it." A deep, deep breath. "Oh, I love the sound of Christmas hymns. So beautiful ... singing how the ‘Lord is come,' and all the joy, and ... Noel," the otter whispered, closing her eyes. Breathing softly, steadily. "I like to think that Christmas Eve, when it comes, is the darkest night of the year."

Ketchy listened.

"The darkest night. The quietest night. And that, when the sun rises on Christmas, it's the BRIGHTEST morning of the year. That all the light comes. And reminds us."

The squirrel nodded quietly. "Yeah," she whispered, and gave a dreamy, little sigh. Biting her lip. "Yeah ... I know what you mean." A pause. "Though, with all this Daylight Savings Time business, it seems like EVERY night is the darkest night of the year anymore. Maybe tonight will be. And tomorrow night. But ... yeah, I know what you mean. How the Spirit will almost lead you to see and feel things in those shiver-tingling ways. Those revelatory ways." The squirrel was back beside the otter, whiskers giving a cold, little twitch. "Mm. And I do admit, it is ... it does have an affect." She trailed. "Going back to the weather, I mean. Just the temperature of the air. I mean, I can't imagine November or December, or even January, or any of those months ... in a warm climate. I just don't think that feelings would FEEL the same."

Rhine took a breath. And let it out. Nodding in agreement. And sighing.

"You alright?"

"Course ... " A nod. "Just a bit too excited, I guess."

A warm smile. "An otter? Too excited?"

"I know. I sound more like you, don't I?"

"I don't know about that. Am I excitable?"

"Sure, you are."

A small shake of the head. "I'm pretty low-key, I like to think, for a squirrel. No, I've met some wild ones," Ketchy said, eyes darting along the outlines of the tracks. Just staring out there. "I'm not a wild one."

"No," Rhine agreed. "But why would you wish to be?"

"I don't. I'm just saying ... you know, I look at you, and you get excited. Not wild-excited, bouncy, hyper-energy excited, like I do, but joyful-excited. You get all bright-eyed. You get all happy. You're just the brightest fur I know. You're, like, contagious. Like, I can't leave a room that you're in ... without smiling."
And, not for the first time, Rhine flushed, biting her lip. "Ketchy ... "

"Well, it's true. You're just such a genuinely bright soul." A little sigh. "I do envy that."

The otter wasn't sure what to say to that. Only, "You're bright, too."

The squirrel gave a little breath.

"You've got brightness in you," Rhine assured again.

"I guess ... "

"You guess?" The otter bit her lip.

The squirrel's whiskers twitched. Nose sniffed. She licked her lips a bit, still tasting the peppermint. The ice cream. The chill. And her paws gripped the railing of the platform, and her tail wavered, and ...

... Rhine watched her, intently, waiting for it. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for ...

... the squirrel to start squirming, start bobbing. "Okay, okay," she huffed. "I am excitable. I can't stay still." A worried look. And a heavy sigh.

The otter giggled. "Your whole body's bein' excitable, looks like. Did the floodgates just open, or something?"

"Well ... mm ... " It had been the ice cream. All that sugar and sweetness in the ice cream. And maybe the fact that, earlier, in the car, the squirrel had been sipping at some soda. But just a little bit. Okay, and maybe she had waffles with maple syrup for breakfast. Okay, and maybe ... well, suffice it to say, her sugar intake for the day had been high. The squirrel had been in the car for hours, hadn't she? Traveling. Not a chance to burn things off. The result: the hyping up of her hyper-prone ‘squirrelly' instincts. "I ate too many sugary foods today," Ketchy admitted. "I haven't exercised today, either. Uh ... okay, I gotta jog this off. Or I won't be able to sit through the movie," she said, frowning a bit.

"Alright," Rhine agreed. "But just a minute."

"Rhine, I don't hear ... "

... the whistle of the coming train. Loud, long, trailing. A call of ‘I'm here, I'm here, I'm here' ... chug-a-chug ...

" ... the train," the squirrel finished, whiskers twitching. Looking ahead.

"There it is!" Rhine pointed wildly, brimming with enthusiasm. Waving a paw. "Look, look ... Ketchy, wave ... "

"I don't wanna ... "

" ... wave!" Rhine insisted, gently grabbing one of the squirrel's paws. And waving it for her. As the train barreled down the tracks, full of many cars, full of freight, so loud, so much momentum, like a old war-horse out of the starting gates. Startling the handsome, hovering kestrels, who veered away in alarm.

Chug-a-chug. Chug-a-chug-a ... whoo-whoo! Whoooooo ...

Rhine giggled gleefully at the extended, ear-smothering whistle-call. Her muzzle beaming with a smile that spilled over to her whiskers. And it took several minutes for the train to pass, but when it finally did, and when it curved around the bend, out of sight, out of earshot, she sighed, "Oh, that was great. That was great." A pause. "Ketchy?"

The squirrel, bobbing on her foot-paws, nodding incessantly, replied, "Yeah. Yeah. Great, great." A swallow. "Great." Her ears were swiveling so fast that one could imagine them giving off steam.

Rhine nearly doubled over in amusement. "Oh, you DID have too much sugar! And you were so calm, too, before that ... oh, squirrels are the cutest. Just look at you."

Ketchy made an anxious face, twitching, twitching. "This isn't funny! I really can't slow down!"

"I know, dear. Okay, come on, then ... come on," she said, taking one of the squirrel's paws. "Let's go slow you down."

"I gotta jog," the squirrel insisted, upset, shaking her head. "Jogging's better. I would sprint, but ... all these sidewalks." The squirrel narrowed her eyes. "I might bowl furs over. Plus, I got all this heavy stuff on," she said, of her winter coat.

"Oh, I can jog," the otter insisted. "You don't think I can keep up?"

"Well, otters don't scurry, do they?"

"No, but we got endurance. Believe me, we got ... " But the squirrel, before Rhine could finish her words, was already jogging off. Off the platform, down the steps, and onto the east side of the river, into the Downtown of Lafayette. The sidewalks. The streets where, sometimes, you had to wait a bit for the cars to pass, but normally, the traffic was light enough that you could cross the street whenever you needed to. "Hey!" Rhine called, panting, looking both ways. And crossing a street. Getting onto a sidewalk running south, down the Main Street. "Hey, Ketchy ... "

The squirrel slowed her pace.

Rhine caught up.

"What were you saying?" the squirrel asked, flashing a smile. "Endurance?"

"Oh, you!" Rhine swatted at Ketchy with a gloved paw. "Stop it," she said, eyes shining. "You just got too much a head-start, is all."

"Gonna jog around the courthouse," the squirrel said, pointing, panting. Panting. Her breath coming out in little vapor-clouds. "Around that block. You can sit on one of the benches. I'll only be, like, twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes?"

"Better safe than sorry. If I'm gonna be sitting in the dark, in a theater, for two hours," the squirrel said, voice already trailing as she took off again, "I gotta be sure I'm leveled off ... anyway, it's my fault. I should've known better than to have the ice cream."

Rhine sighed. And took off after her friend (again). And found a bench in the shadow of the courthouse to sit on. As Ketchy jogged around the block. And, each time the squirrel passed her, the otter would say, "Lovely cannons, aren't they?"

Ketchy wouldn't respond, but Rhine could see her smile. The otter would also hold up a paw. With three fingers, four. A whole paw. To remind the squirrel of what ‘lap' she was on.

She did seven. Panting, panting, and then literally collapsing onto the bench. "Oh ... oh," the squirrel went, heaving, leaning against the otter. "Okay," she breathed. "Okay, I'm good. That ... was good," she breathed.

"Seven times," Rhine said.

"That ... that all? Felt like nine, or ten, or ... "

"No, only seven. Had I brought a trumpet, I would've sounded it until the courthouse fell," she joked.

The squirrel shook with giggles, getting the joke.

And they sat for ten minutes. The squirrel catching her breath, the fur of her forehead matted with a bit of sweat. "I ... need water."

"Well, the theater's not that far. I'm sure they have a water fountain," the otter said. "Don't we need to be heading back that way, anyway?"

A breathless nod. "Okay ... " And the squirrel licked her dry lips. "Yeah ... "

"You look like a steam furnace. All that panting. All that vapor-breath ... "

The squirrel looked up at Rhine.

Rhine gave a helpless smile.

And the squirrel gave a mock-squint. And then softened. And managed, "Shall we, uh ... make our way back?"

"Yes," Rhine said, standing, holding out a paw. Helping the squirrel to stand. "But I think we should take it at a mosey."

"A mosey ... "

"Or an amble. Whatever one you want."

"How ‘bout," Ketchy said, as they proceeded to easily cross a street, passing the ‘oldest drugstore in Indiana,' and the ‘oldest newsstand in Indiana, " ... how ‘bout ... I do the ambling. And you do the moseying."

Rhine liked the sound of the that. And said so.

And the two furs, the two friends, squirrel and otter, meandered, talking quietly. Of love, life, and faith. Of instinct. Of ice cream. Of the movie they were going to see.

And it didn't matter how grey or dark it got.

They were giving off plenty of light.