A girl who has never spoken a word chirps a sound into the forest.

Flies land on her cheek, and she reaches into the mud, smearing it across her face to keep the bugs away. Mother taught her that.

The girl is hungry, and an unfamiliar smell leads her to a place that looks like a small, square forest inside the forest. She crawls along the ground, sniffing everything—big, round things the color of the sun, and long things that smell like water plants, and heavy things with peeling skin that make tears drip from her eyes.

The girl sits up on her knees and chirps again, putting a hand to her ear so she can hear better. Mother taught her that, too.

There is no response.

Something catches her eye, and the girl crawls across the square forest and holds it in her hands. It is soft and round, and the color of the bird that makes the yeep sound. She pushes into it with her finger and warm, sticky juice runs down her arm. The girl licks it. She can’t wait to show mother and brother what she has found.

The girl gathers as many things from this strange place as she can carry, and leaves the small, square forest inside the forest. She barks a stunted syllable into the trees, and someone barks back. The girl grins, bouncing on her knees. She takes a big bite of the soft, round thing with the warm, sticky juice, and then disappears into the forest.