Lucky watched as more flakes tumbled onto the mulch of the forest floor. Beneath the flakes, the grass seemed to wilt and bow. Lucky rose to his paws, his heart thumping in his chest.

Black snow, falling from the sky! What’s going on?

He became aware of a powerful burning stench, like an invisible fire racing up his nose and making his eyes fill with water. It seemed to be coming from every tree in the forest. The heavy rain must have masked it at first, but now Lucky knew what it was.

The scent of the dark cloud was descending on him like a deadly enemy.

It wasn’t water that fell from the mysterious cloud, but curious black flakes that drooled a rancid steam. Lucky scampered to avoid them as they fluttered to the ground, throwing himself beneath branches. He yelped as he shook himself, wishing he were out in the open.

The black flakes did not drop evenly, the way rain did. They fell in hot clumps, spinning and tangling with branches, smoldering against the forest floor.

Lucky yelped in horror. The black cloud is falling to earth!

Swarms of ash slowly tumbled to the ground. It looked like the kind of dark, dirty clouds that longpaws made when cooking food outside on open fires. The food had smelled delicious, but there had been something wrong about the fires—the smoke’s odor was sharp and unnatural.

Had fire caused this black cloud?

Lucky gaped at the tumbling black flakes. Such a fire would have to have been unimaginably huge. Where was it? Where was the black cloud coming from?

He remembered Mickey’s conviction that the cloud was the shape of a longpaw, pointing the way for dogs to travel. Alpha had been just as sure that it had taken the form of an angry Sky-Dog. Now Lucky was certain that they were both wrong.

The black cloud had to be linked to the Big Growl. It had to be connected to the crumbling earth, the shattering skies, the poisonous water and bad smells. If it was a sign of anything, it was that nothing had improved: The world since the Growl was just as dangerous as ever.

Then the realization dawned on him. The longpaws have not returned. The city will be just as we left it. Deserted.

He thought of Mickey, wide-eyed and hopeful, still carrying his longpaw’s glove in his jaws. Had he reached the city yet? What would he do when he got there? Would Mickey try to enter his longpaw’s den, as Alfie had? He could get killed among the poisonous fumes and collapsing walls. Even if he stayed safe, how would he survive? There would be no food to eat and no clean water to drink. And what of the animals and longpaws who’d died there, with no one to bury them? Lucky shuddered.