Lala slunk from the shadows. “Fighting is stupid,” she sneered. “I’ll just take what I need. That’s what the strong do.” She darted toward Badger’s apples, but her paws were weak—she hadn’t eaten properly in days, either. She tripped on a root and tumbled into a dry ditch.
Lala lay in the dust, cold and ashamed. For the first time, she realized: Being wicked hadn’t made her powerful. It had made her alone. lala wicked weasel
Mole stared. “That’s not wicked. That’s useful.” Lala slunk from the shadows
“No,” said Lala. “I’m the same weasel. But I learned that ‘wicked’ is just speed without kindness. And speed without kindness runs in circles—fast, but going nowhere.” That’s what the strong do
Mole squinted. “We have a saying: ‘A weasel’s sharpness can cut a path or cut herself.’ Tonight, which is it?”
“We must share what little we have,” said Badger, holding out three shriveled apples.
One autumn, a famine crept through the forest. The nut stores ran low. Berries shriveled. The stream shrank to a trickle. The animals gathered in the clearing, frightened and hungry.