I sleep for a long, long time.
I get up when my mother brings us food, then curl up once I've had my fill. I ignore the pokes and prods from my siblings, trying to egg me into play. Eventually, they go away, and so does my hope that they will wake me.
I continue to copy their mews for a while. Each attempt wins me a new pitying look; a sympathetic brush of the tail or a clumsy whisker lick. We grow bigger, taller, wider - our muzzles slope and our legs lengthen, until we are able to scamper about without trouble - and I start to understand.
My sister is sleek and silver; the rain that falls at the mouth of the den. My brother is kinder to me. He usually nestles beside me at night, his muzzle pressed reassuringly against my shoulder. He smells of the hickory tree our mother takes us to see one morning, on our first expedition outside the den.
The world, it turns out, is colossal. The scraps of light in our tunnel used to fascinate me so. It turns out they're only snippets. Everywhere, there is colour - overhead, underneath my paws, wrapped around me in vibrant swathes of green and gold and...
I am overwhelmed. It takes several minutes to get me to move.
When we get to the tree, I collapse, terrified I'll disturb something. Mother has to carry me back to the den. My siblings can only watch.
