Free Dragonhaven by Robin McKinley Page B

lot about, so I could make educated guesses just like real scientists, was marsupials. If I hadn’t known that dragons were marsupial-ish I think I probably still wouldn’t have recognized them, nuts or not.
    They look kind of lizardy, to the extent they look anything, because mostly what they look is soft and squidgy—just-born things often look like that, one way or another, but dragons look a lot worse than puppies or kittens or even Boneland ground squirrels or just-hatched birds. New dragonlets are pretty well still fetuses after all; once they get into their mom’s pouch they won’t come out again for yonks.
    This baby was still wet from being born. It was breathing, and making occasional feeble, hopeless little swimming gestures with its tiny stumpy legs, like it was still blindly trying to crawl up its mom’s belly to her pouch, like a kangaroo’s joey. I couldn’t bear that either, watching it trying, and without thinking about it, I picked it up and stuffed it down my shirt. I felt its little legs scrabble faintly a minute or two longer, and then sort of brace themselves, and then it collapsed, or curled up, and didn’t move any more, although there was a sort of gummy feeling as I moved and its skin rubbed against mine. And I thought, Oh, great, it’s dead now too, I’ve got a sticky, gross, dead dragonlet down my shirt, and then I couldn’t think about it any more because I had to watch for the way to Pine Tor. The moon was already rising as the day grayed to sunset, and it was a big round bright one that shed a lot of light. I could use all the breaks I could get.
    I made it back to Pine Tor and unloaded my pack but I didn’t dare sit down because I knew once I did I wouldn’t get up again till morning at least. I was lucky; Pine Tor is called that for a reason and in a countryside where there isn’t exactly a lot of heavy forest (pity you can’t burn rock) I was really grateful that I didn’t have to go far to collect enough firewood. The moonlight helped too. I hauled a lot of wood back to my campsite, being careful not to knock my stomach, because even if the dragonlet was dead I didn’t want squished dead dragonlet in my shirt. I hauled and hauled partly because I was so tired by then I couldn’t remember to stop, and partly because if the dragonlet was still alive I had a dim idea that I needed to be able to keep it warmer than my own body temperature, and partly because if it was dead I didn’t want to know and hauling wood put off finding out. There’d been too much death today already.
    I got a fire going and started heating some water for dinner. There’s plenty of water in most of Smokehill (except where there isn’t any at all), and pretty much anywhere within a few days’ hike of the Institute has streams all over it running through the rocks and tough scrub so it’s less a matter of finding it than of trying not to find it at the wrong moment and get soaked (or break something in our famous fall-down-and-break-something streambeds). I pulled out a packet of dried meat and threw the meat in the water. We don’t buy freeze-dried campers’ supplies in shiny airtight envelopes from the nearest outdoor-sports shop—there isn’t one nearer than Cheyenne, and the outdoors isn’t a sport to us. We live here. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. We dry our own stuff. One of the suggestions for the gift shop was that we sell some of our own dried meat but the Rangers already have enough to do, although the pointy-head tourist consultant guy seemed to think that tourists would go for wild sheep and wild goat and bison and stuff as exotic. Exotic. I ate at a McDonald’s once, and I thought their hamburgers tasted pretty exotic.
    But what I was thinking as the water got hot and I could smell the meat cooking is that we’ve always shared the dragons’ dinners. Old Pete had figured out