Hops would never be an athlete, but like most of the Fleen, he was nimble. He fought past the tall grass that sought to ensnare him. He dove into the hole that was his home away from home. Panting he shivered in the early night air. He was safe here, the hunters had never found him here. As long as they didn’t bring out the dogs he wouldn’t be found.
He heard gunfire in the distance. They were likely shooting at a Fleen that wasn’t as quick as him, or who didn’t have a bolt hole to run to. As the adrenaline from his flight wore off he felt himself becoming sleepy. If he let himself drift off he risked coming home late and being chastised by the den mother. But there were no cappuccinos out beyond the compound, no stimulation to prevent his mind from crashing.
Hops awoke with a start. It was now true dark. Stars filled the night sky. He pulled himself out of his hole. He gasped at the pain radiating from his arm. In the star and moonlight, it looked like there was a four-inch long gash in his forearm. He must have dragged it against a rock as he fell while fleeing. He gently prodded the gash with his opposite hand. It felt inflamed. The den mother would not be happy. Injured and late to the compound. He sighed looking up at the stars. Well staying out later would only make matters worse. Best to report in and see who had made it way from the hunters.