She whispered, “Black Spike? Where is Black Spike? Please? I need to see him.”
“He can’t come, Shell Comb. Not ever again.” “Black Spike …” she mewed, then collapsed onto the matting, rolling herself into a fetal ball. Sobs racked her, and tears slipped down her soft cheeks in silver threads. Panther turned, walking slowly up the passageway toward the exit, and the clarity of the cold afternoon light.