Pabiola watched onward with a frown, but didn't speak.
The mud dried as they made their way back to the cave and his limbs soon felt stiff. Bits of dirt crumbled off but enough remained intact to hide his fur. He was itchy all over by the time they were back inside the safe darkness of the den, as though zigzag beetles crawled up and down his skin. Despite being accustomed to the humidity of the rainforest, his body couldn't breath under the coating of mud, nor could he lick his fur to cool down. But he tried his best to ignore it, languishing on the rock bed of the den and longing for relief.
The next day he snuck out for a new coating of clay while his mother was away. None of the cubs knew when their mother would finally take them outside with her and Amias didn't want to risk being unprepared. But the day after that, he got caught in a rainfall on his way home, which washed all the dirt away. This filled him with dread as though he'd swallowed a stone; the clay disguise was not going to be enough. Nevertheless, he waited for the rain to cease, and returned to the wallow for another coat.
Up until now, Mother had been a safe bosom to him. The den being dark didn't matter—just having her there, or soon to return with food, was all he needed. But now he had to sleep by himself rather than snuggling up to his siblings, for fear that his mother would sense the mud; and when he nursed, he stayed far from her face to avoid being groomed. This isolation and loss of nurture was a new experience for him, and the stone in his stomach grew heavier still. Now the darkness did matter: it pressed inward, threatening to engulf him entirely. He couldn't even pounce around and play with his siblings anymore to pass the time—it would ruin his clay coating.
Then the much anticipated day finally arrived: Genoveva announced at dusk that it was time for them to learn how to drink from a stream.
His brother and sister left the den first and he reluctantly followed, hoping his costume was still intact. He trailed behind them, keeping within the cloak of fanning ferns and hanging vines. His mother's round eyes, luminous like wet leaves, narrowed whenever she looked back and met his blinking gaze. His chest soon deflated. After a while, he avoided eye contact altogether.
When they reached the clearing, though shady and grey-cast in the setting sun, he could no longer hide behind his siblings. Genoveva stopped him short with a growl. Then, shoulders rolling, she moved around him with a penetrating gaze.
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Amias looked down at the ground.
She was twice his size, paws leaving indents in the mud as she slinked. His heart thrummed in his chest and it was all he could do to avoid trembling, but he willed himself to stay still.
"Something's different about you," she snarled, "you're not quite like the others."
She opened her mouth to flehmen, lips curling back, exposing her canines, as she sniffed the air.
He held his breath.
If she came any closer, surely she'd figure it out: it would take just one chunk of clay falling to the jungle floor and he'd be exposed for who he really was. But she closed her mouth and seemed satisfied enough for the moment, though evidently still suspicious. If it had been dawn, rather than dusk, the gap in the canopy above them would have made the clay coating obvious.
