Spine went down to the river alone the first time.

No hounds.

No cats.

Just her boots, her steady walk, and the question she needed answered:

Is this a good place to bring my hounds?

She’d heard the bend was quiet.

Shaded.

Cool water.

Room to roam.

But when she stepped out onto the bank, she stopped.

The river was beautiful.

The land was good.

But the place was wrecked.

Bait containers everywhere — crushed, sun‑bleached, some still reeking of old shrimp.

Styrofoam bait cups with raccoon teeth marks.

A busted cooler leaking something that should’ve been buried.

Beer cans half‑buried in the sand.

Plastic bags tangled in the brush.

Fishing line snarled in the roots like a snare.

Broken glass glittering in the mud.

Spine stood there a long moment, hands on her hips.

This wasn’t a place she could bring the hounds.

Not with sharp metal and tangled line waiting to slice a paw open.

She didn’t curse.

Didn’t fuss.

Didn’t stomp around.

She just rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

Day One

Five bags.

Day Two

Five more.

Day Three

Five more.

Fifteen total — a small mountain of other people’s mess, cleaned up by one woman who simply refused to leave it that way.

When she finally stepped back, the river looked different —

cleaner, calmer, safer.

Now it looked like a place the hounds might enjoy someday.

Not today.

But soon.

She stood there a moment, catching her breath, looking at the water.

And that’s when she saw it.

A blue‑tailed skink — bright as a dropped piece of sky — darted out from under a palmetto.

Not scared.

Not in a hurry.

Just… deliberate.

It climbed onto a warm root, lifted its head, and looked right at her.

A slow blink.

A stillness that felt like a nod.

Not a fairy tale.

Not a message.

Just a creature of the riverbank acknowledging the woman who’d made its home safer.

A tiny, quiet thank you from the land itself.

Spine nodded back.