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. And, as though the fact of the dreaming
wasn't enough, the dreams themselves were decidedly odd.
He dreamed about people. Not the gray-furred, broad-
tailed squirrel people. Humans walked in his dreams, and a
dwarf, and a long-eyed half-elf with hair the color of a fox's
pelt. In his dreams he knew who they were; sometimes he
spoke with them and they with him. And when they spoke
with him he knew - though he didn't quite understand how
he knew - that they were not speaking to a squirrel.
It was almost as though he were having someone else's
dreams.
Yawning now, stretching first his hind legs and then his
front, he poked among the neatly piled acorn shells for
some left-over tidbit. There was none.
He looked around the cottage, noted that the man was
gone again, though his scent still clung to everything in the
place, and then felt a sudden tightening of alarm: the cat
prowled restlessly from window to door to window.
NOT HUNGRY AGAIN, ARE YOU?
ALWAYS, the cat murmured without looking around.
YOU SLEEP A LOT, SQUIRREL. HE'S OFF AGAIN,
LOOKING FOR THE WREN.
The wren . . . Yes, WELL, I'D LIKE TO FIND HER
MYSELF. I THINK I MIGHT HAVE SOME UNFINISHED
BUSINESS WITH HER.
The tabby did look around then, his green eyes alight
with a certain careful curiosity
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