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.
So Lala crept out. For the first time, she used her speed and cunning not to steal, but to scout. She found a hollow log packed with dried mushrooms and a stone crevice with wild onions. She led the animals there, one by one, without demanding payment or praise. lala wicked weasel
Then little Mole, whom Lala once tripped for fun, trundled past with a thimble of water. He stopped. “You look terrible,” he said bluntly. Lala lay in the dust, cold and ashamed
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. So Lala crept out
Lala took a shaky breath. “I… I want to help.”
“I am,” whispered Lala.
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.