Caught fast, Silas is more at ease than the average fox clamped in conibear jaws — resigned to his fate or confident in his escape. It’s very hard to tell. He doesn’t flinch from inspection any more than he has from contact.

A roll at his throat gums up the gearworks of his jaw at the brush at his palm, pins a trace of tension understated in through the scruff of his neck.

“Alright.”

Anything else?