Torrent glared. "Not my problem."
Torrent turned his back. But that night, as he lay half-submerged in water barely covering his knees, a sound came from the eastern bank: a soft, desperate whimper.
Each morning, the waterline retreated another finger's width. The frogs had fled. The lilies lay rotting on cracked clay.
Growling, he waded to the fox. His fingers, thin as reeds, worked the root loose. The fox slumped, panting.
