And then, slowly, impossibly, he reaches out his massive, clawed hand. He doesn't take the stick.
His finger, a black, dagger-sized claw, traces the air over the word "Betty."
Then, his claw touches the dirt. And he scratches.
He copies my letters. They are huge, clumsy, but unmistakable.
B-E-T-T-Y.
My breath leaves my lungs. It is not a gasp. It is a theft.
He is not just a beast who can be tamed. He is intelligent. He is learning. My god, he is trapped in that cursed body, isn’t he?
A new, aching pity—no, empathy—twists my heart.
"Yes," I whisper, my voice thick. "That is me. Betty."
I point to his scratching. "Threk."
He grunts, a low, pleased sound. He knows this.
I draw another symbol. A simple, six-pointed flake. I point to the patch of snow still visible through the hole he boarded up.
"Snow," I say.
He stares at the symbol. He looks at the snow outside. He looks back at the symbol.
His eyes widen.
He understands. It is not a name. It is a thing.
He lunges—and my heart seizes—but he is only reaching for the stick.
He takes it from my fingers. His touch is gentle, his claws carefully not touching my skin.
He draws.
He copies my snow symbol. Then, with a growl of concentration, he points the stick at the door.
"Yes!" I cry, a small, joyful laugh bubbling up. "Yes, Threk! That's snow!"
He likes my laugh. His head tilts, and he makes that low, rumbling sound, the one that vibrates in my bones.
He is proud. He is a warrior who has won a prize.
He looks at the stick. He looks at the empty dirt.
And he draws again.
But he is not copying me.
He is not drawing "Betty" or "Threk" or "Snow."
He is drawing from memory.
His clawed hand moves with a new, strange surety. The stick scratches deep into the earth.
It is not a word. It is a symbol.
