The soft whuff of a body colliding with the base of the tree pulls Peter's attention before the voice does, and he squints down through the shivering branches. Shaking leaves tip a smattering of clear, cold raindrops onto his head and down the back of his neck, his furry friend chirping irritably beside him. It was a perfectly good blueberry now lost, she says. He can't argue with her there, and silently passes another over into her tiny, grasping fingers.

"Some of them, maybe," he calls down, and then flicks a glance up at the horses — Or, horse-like-things. "Is that how you look for yours? Because I gotta tell you, I think there might be less violent ways to go about it."