His paws devoured the ground beneath him, leaving patches of flattened grass to mark his passage. The forest canopy cast its mottled shadows over his shaggy pelt. Following no path, he tore his way through the forest, relishing in the sounds of bird calls and the feeling of his claws digging into the soil. He brought his dash to an end at a rock out-cropping. It jutted out from the mountainside, far enough to break from the canopy. It offered a view of the forest, and in the distance, the town. A winding scar, carved into the land marked the main road. From here his eyes could make out the motions of a vehicle, scuttling its way along the road like a black beetle.<br/><br/>He knew that he couldn't stay here very long. That they would come again. Each time his father found him it came closer, his escapes narrower. But he liked this pack. The strange motley group of rag-tags, all banding together despite their opposing personalities. And they were people. It had been so long since he had indulged in the normality of being human, of reading books, of buying clothes. It was a good pack, but he knew he couldn't stay here long.<br/><br/>His lupine ears pricked at the rustling of a bush. A hare looked back at him, its muscled tensed and ready. In a flash of fur it bolted, its hind legs sending it careening over a rock, and in a heartbeat he followed bounding over the bush and after the hare. He soon forgot the black beetle of a vehicle bringing its passengers towards Whistler.