It was the first sleep he'd really gotten in how many days -- the boy has lost track. Upon happening across the little shack, exhaustion took hold him for hours and hours, and when he wakes it's with stiff bones and muscles, shivering from the morning chill. ...But he's alive.

Though he looks rather worse for wear, clothing and face dirty, hair tangled in places with mud and bits of twigs from hours of roaming through the woods. He looks the part of a runaway, a brown knapsack the only thing he has with him.

He slips from the shelter but sticks close by, looking around for any sign of water. Ordinarily he'd send out one of his best bees to scout -- but it's too chilly for them right now. They're sleeping inside the boy where it's warm and safe, and for the moment he's on his own. And that's when he hears something not far away -- footsteps, and an odder sound, slight clinks accompanying them. The boy freezes, blue-grey eyes widening like saucers. He should try to be more stealthy, but it's panic that grips him -- his running no doubt makes a sound through the trees as he quickly darts back to the shelter.

Perhaps it was only an animal out there. But perhaps it wasn't. He hardly dares to breathe as he tucks himself into a corner of the space, legs drawn up to his chest, arms wound around them.