"Hey—you're warm," Marcel said as he cupped the fur pile and heard a tiny, shocked chirp.
"Ow!" Star's voice came out thinner than Marcel expected. It was a small, quick sound, more like a peep than a word.
"Easy," Marcel said, softer. "It's okay. You were out here. Near the pines."
"Where—hutch?" The single word arrived slow. Star blinked against the ceiling light. Her fingers—too human to be paws—tensed at the sheet. She smelled sun-dirt and old straw and something metallic she couldn't name.
Marcel crouched. "You're safe. I'm Marcel. Bureau." He kept his hands visible.
"Marcel," she repeated. The name tasted strange and useful.
Marcel's phone buzzed, then slid into his palm. He watched her, measured. The roadside between the pine stand and the highway had eaten two nights and a ration bag. He had found a white tangle of fur draped over a hunter's lost scarf.
"You must be hungry." He peeled a paper cup from his jacket and offered a pastry. Star sniffed, then reached and bit with careful teeth.
"Sweet," she said, surprised. Her voice held a thread of rabbit memory—high, quick. Her hand brushed his thumb. "Warm hands."
Marcel let out a small sound that was almost a laugh. "You say the sweetest things," he said. "Come on."
He wrapped her in his jacket. She fit against his chest like a creature remembering a familiar rhythm and forgetting why it mattered
