[A letter sits, folded and wedged in the doorjamb of Zaanthe’s room, written on a spare half-sheet of parchment in a slow, crude hand that bespoke lack of practice but also care, each word written painstakingly in black ink. A few smudges from fur marked the page.]
I am sorry I almost hurt you. I am [several scratchouts]not good rite now. I did not meen to. [Another scratchout, this one longer.]Thank you for trying to help me.
I am verry sorry. I hope we can still be frenly. I am a litl better now.
[In front of the door when he comes back from his morning run is breakfast: several steaming fried buns filled with fruit and drizzled with honey, and hot tea.]