Evelyn
I
have never met a bear who didn't have what I call the fur alert. It's that instinct that makes the hairs on the back of your paws stand straight up to let you know something's wrong—that puts you on edge even when you don't know why. An alarm bell that comes from deep inside your squeaker. It's the feeling I think my ancestors must have had when they first saw a bow and arrow: an uncomprehending sense of danger. And it's the feeling I got the first time I saw Evelyn Bunnyacre delicately perched on the worn yellow upholstery of my waiting-room chair.
She had soft brown fur that had been washed and conditioned very recently, maybe that morning. Her long ears drooped down past her shoulders, and her fine whiskers stretched out past the edges of her face like translucent pieces of wire. She had an expensive-looking dress that came halfway down her legs and made it clear to anyone who was interested that she had stuffing in all the right places. But I wasn't interested—at least not in that. What interested me was her expression. She was nervous.
Coming 2013 …