He looked at the squirrel tail lying on the ground. He worried it with a foot, then kicked it away. It wasn't good to eat—and he thought of how the squirrel had looked scrambling off, and felt his lips stretch tighter.
He tried to think of the word. Finally it came.
"Funny squirrel," he said, through his tight lips.
He stuck his knife in his belt.
They stared at each other, feeling each other's pleasure at the peacemaking.
She bent, picked up a small stone and flipped it at him. He made no attempt to catch it, and it struck him on the hip. He half-crouched, instantly wary, hand on knife. A thrown stone had only one meaning.
But she was still smiling, and she shook her head. "No, little boy," she said. "Play." She tossed another stone, high in the air.
He reached out and caught it as it descended.
He started to toss it back to her, and remembered only at the last moment not to hurl it at her head.
He tossed it, and she missed it.