“Wisdom Trap.” Nin had used this phrase before, had thought the words to be true, but he didn’t yet have a proper, tangible, working definition. It tingled just outside his perception, his mind grasped for it, but he could not see it clearly.
Nin decided to ruminate on these words—his words—and decide for himself what he meant.
The fox chased Nin through the forest, nipping at his heels. Nin’s only escape was to dive headfirst into an old weasel’s hole. He squeezed himself inside, but the hole was narrow, and he got stuck, leaving his tail exposed to the air.
The fox came up and tried to fish Nin out. He snipped at Nin’s tail and pulled up on it, like he was trying to uproot a rather juicy carrot.
A fog crept in over the meadow. It was so thick and came so suddenly that young Nin thought perhaps it was smoke from a nearby farmer’s field.
“This is an evil fog, and an ill-omen,” said an elder rabbit. “Let us return to the burrow, little ones, where it is safe.”