The morning the hunt came through Ashfield Wood, a young fox named Rusk was still learning the rules of daylight. His mother had warned him many times: when the horns sound, never run in a straight line across open ground.

Rusk heard the horns before he saw anything. Then came the hounds, a wall of noise pouring down the hill, and behind them the steady drum of hooves. His legs wanted to bolt across the bright meadow, which was exactly what his mother had told him never to do.

Instead, he remembered the old log near the stream, a great fallen oak that was hollow and soft with rot and half sunk into the ferns. Rusk darted for it and squeezed into the cool, dark space beneath, pulling his tail in after him. He pressed himself flat against the damp earth and held his breath.

The hounds swept past in a storm of baying, so close that he could smell them. But their noses were full of the scent of the meadow, not the mud, and not one of them thought to look down. When the wood was quiet again, Rusk crept out, muddy and shaking, and trotted home the long, careful way.