"Broken Arrow" was the name outsiders gave this place. To the dozen weasels
sprawled on rock ledges, it was home.
If hunger doesn't kill me, Cross mused, boredom will.
She shook her head, sunlight catching a tiny silver comb. Hm. Someone
would be overjoyed to have this back in their drawer.
She was off the ledge and running along the point before her drowsing
tribe mates could blink. I must be crazy, takin' this back.
Still, any port in a storm...

