Thorn's whole body was a fire of pain, and he could feel blood trickling from his muzzle and brow and his mauled shoulder. It didn't matter. Mud hated him. Berry hated him. No one believed him. He wanted to curl up on the bank of the watering hole, to be left alone. There he could wait for night to fall, and the crocodiles to take him.
- Pages 163-164