Fisi stretched and 'yip'ped gently, luxuriating in the overwhelming scent of wet earth, milk, newborn flesh and sun-drawn nectar. He was loping effortlessly, satiated, over soft grass starred with white flowers, their petals spread flat to the ground. The air was full of insect wings and chirring, calling song. Song. And not song. Something else. A quiet rumble intruded, and grew. Hackles rising, he twitched. A seismic clatter ended abruptly with a crunch and sharp bang. Large, funnel ears pricked, his eyes shot open. Thudding and pounding broke out directly overhead.

He was on his feet and off. Blind in the brilliant sunlight outside, his short hind legs scrabbled to keep up as he powered across the dry gritty plain, head up, lips pulled back, teeth grinning into the wind. His heart and blood thudded and pounded as loud as the noise that had broken out over his refuge. Above his own panting breath, he listened for sounds of pursuit. And slowed. No pursuit. He circled, trotting now, to look back.

Two small spindly figures pointed at him and howled and cackled as they danced over the cool, dark tunnel under the track. Then they climbed into the husk they traveled in: that tasted acrid on his tongue and spewed out wide scent trails over their territory. Grey trails that stung his nostrils and caught at his breath.

He stood still, looking after the cloud of dust they clanked and roared away in. Why? He couldn't comprehend. He had strayed onto their territory, ok, but he wasn't threat, or rival, or prey. These creatures had no meaning. He couldn't fit them into the great give and take of life.

On the savannah nothing moved but a heat shimmer over the brown thin grasses. Not even the black dot of a vulture broke the bleached white-blue overhead with a hope of a meal. The sun beat down onto his thick, scraggy fur. He'd lost a precious quantity of carefully conserved energy to no purpose. His mouth was dry, still panting he took the risk and made his way back, cautiously, to the shade in the ditch.

Lot was happy. Very fuzzily happy. The stars were out in full glory. Full, hazy, double glory. He squinted at them with a goofy grin. He was all warm. Around the fire that night the beer had flowed, the drums had beat softly to Mlimani Park on the radio. Every time he'd caught Mama Lekule's eyes over the flames she'd suddenly been looking anywhere else, stroking her new-braided hair, giggling to her friends, hugging her knees while her bare toes twined, caressing...

He tried to wave at the stars. It didn't quite come off and he nearly fell over, but they winked back all the same, getting the message. He wasn't sure he could actually feel his feet, he certainly wasn't steering them very well, but who cared. Not him, nor the stars. Nice stars, perhaps they’d sing Mama Lekule's praises with him.

Fisi's stomach ached. That non-appetiser of a mouse had been a mistake, all fur and no substance; he could still feel the end of its tail in his throat. At least it wasn't wriggling. He'd remembered to crunch this one, catching it in his great back molars before it went down.

His ears quivered; there was something. A low humming, singing. It was approaching. He got up slowly. Poking his blunt snout just outside, his wide nostrils delicately sampled the air; oh. One of them. The humming singing shuffle drew close. It smelt… warm, fleshy. His stomach grumbled. Each muscle controlled and co-coordinated in slow motion, he slowly, stealthily edged out to look over the edge of the gully.

His stomach gnawed at his ribs. Energy levels at close to zero, it could be now, or never.

But one of Them.

But limp. Staggering - one of the weak and sickly…

It was Now!

Adam stopped the landrover, exchanged a look with David and turning to tell his clients to stay in the vehicle, jumped out resolutely and walked down the track, queasiness growing in his belly. Over the culvert, he stopped. There was a story written in the dirt there. It was scuffed and torn, paw pads and hand prints mixed. Dark-stained drag marks led toward the ditch. Adam didn't follow them.

He squatted down, picked up and pocketed the broken pair of glasses that had signaled in the sun at him. Then headed back. He pushed imagination and nausea down together, and constructed a reassuring, nothing to worry about, smile for the clients. This kind of thing was bad for business.

Fisi lay in deep, enfolding black, utterly relaxed, replete.