Room 422, Tuesday Afternoon
It was strange, how quickly certain things became routine. Like falling asleep with a puppy-sized bear cub snuggled in your arms, or walking down to the cove twice a day so that Elsa-bear (Ursa, Eleanor had begun calling her, though never out loud) could hunt for fishies, or baby-talking your way through honks and growls.
Comforting, having a small affectionate furry companion, but the comfort couldn't outweigh the growing fear in the pit of her stomach.
It had been over two weeks, now. At what point did one begin to fear that such changes were permanent? At what point did it become more difficult to reverse the process? Everyone advised patience, but patience was strikingly hard when you could lose a dear friend to her cuddly counterpart.
"Almost time for fishies," Eleanor said, absent-mindedly. "Who wants fishies? Who's a good Elsa wants some fishies?"
Philosophical concerns could wait. It was almost Ur -- Elsa's dinnertime.
(expecting one, but open!)
Comforting, having a small affectionate furry companion, but the comfort couldn't outweigh the growing fear in the pit of her stomach.
It had been over two weeks, now. At what point did one begin to fear that such changes were permanent? At what point did it become more difficult to reverse the process? Everyone advised patience, but patience was strikingly hard when you could lose a dear friend to her cuddly counterpart.
"Almost time for fishies," Eleanor said, absent-mindedly. "Who wants fishies? Who's a good Elsa wants some fishies?"
Philosophical concerns could wait. It was almost Ur -- Elsa's dinnertime.
(expecting one, but open!)