Rust was not like the other squirrels. Where they saw the forest as a larder of acorns and a theater for chases, Rust saw the hidden language of the woods: the whisper of dry bark, the crack of a fallen branch too brittle with heat, the smell of a thunderstorm that had birthed a single, stray spark three days' run to the west.
But Rust did not run. He had seen the deer bolt and the birds flee. He had seen the panicked scattering of his own kind—siblings and cousins chittering, stuffing their cheeks with last-minute stores. They did not understand. This was not a storm or a fox. This was the mountain waking up. fire red squirrels 1636
Fire, his ancestors' memory whispered. Run. Rust was not like the other squirrels
In the summer of 1636, the village of Oakhaven lay drowsy under a bronze sun. The people knew drought, but they did not yet know fire. The one who did was a red squirrel named Rust. He had seen the deer bolt and the birds flee
Then he saw them. A dozen of his kind, frozen on a rocky outcrop. Their eyes were wide, their noses twitching at the strange, hot smell. They were trapped. Behind them, a dry streambed offered a path to the river. Ahead, a wall of flame was beginning to crown the ridge.