“Now we find. Keep an eye out for tiny white flowers. That’s ashbalm.” I go back to sifting through ivy and shuffling forward, inch by inch. He observes me for a while and then buries his snout in the brush, sniffing.

I don’t know if he’s actually foraging. I can only keep an eye on his area and hope we’re not missing anything. It makes me less nervous, though, with him searching beside me instead of staring. His scent is pleasant, too, and as we muddle along, some of the tension leeches from my body.

I do like having company when I’m foraging. Does Preston’s wolf count as company? I...