There is a blue Courser, long of ear and short of tail. In her mane, a tame ant, which she has named Myrmidon—or which it has named itself, if you ask her. A remarkable thing for an insect to do.

There is also a winding tunnel, and off of that tunnel, many more. They spiral like the bodies of ancient, chambered cephalopods. They twist and intersect like tentacles. They could very well go on forever, but it would take to long to say for certain.

It is rare for Foxglove and Myrmidon to stray too far from the surface, and indeed, the surface must be close, because the air in the tunnels is fresh and a slight breeze rustled the mane that the tame ant lives in, but close does not necessarily mean it is easy to reach. Foxglove creeps through the tunnels with growing dread—Myrmidon, are we lost?—until one path widens into a crashing waterfall, and high above: daylight. Much too far to reach.

So the blue courser, at a loss, calls for help, but the waterfall swallows the sound.