He did not know how long it went on, but when he finally opened his eyes again, the child was gone and Juneau was watching him with concern.

"Are you all right?"

Bismarck didn't think he was ready to speak yet, so he just nodded. Juneau's face was grim.

"That's why I'm going to the wilderness," said Juneau. "I'm leaving now."

"You're - what?"

"I can't live like this anymore. I don't want to spend my life fleeing from crazed children every week."

"It's not every week."

"Even one like today is more than enough."

Bismarck sighed. He could see that Juneau's mind was made up. "At least wait until dark."

Juneau shook his head. "No more putting it off. I hope you'll join me some day." He gave Bismarck a gentle cuff. "Remember what I told you."

He smiled and hopped up the run. He looked around for a moment to be sure the coast was clear, and then he was gone.

The next week passed as normal. Denver the squirrel stopped by on occasion, chattery as ever. And though Bismarck often talked about Juneau, he was beginning to miss talking to him.

The days became lonelier and lonelier. There was no one to joke with in the night. No one to watch the sun come up over the White Mountain. No one to play with in the cool spray of the rain holes. Without his brother, Bismarck found himself questioning just what it was he loved about Partner's Corner. The fence seemed to constrict day by day. What had seemed a vast open plain was surely being revealed as the tiny little lawn it had always been.

One evening, as the last kiss of pink faded on the peak of the White Mountain, Bismarck wondered if he had been too harsh. Juneau had understood something that Bismarck hadn't. Rabbits, while they enjoy company, need freedom to roam, to explore and indulge their curiosities. The seed of the wilderness that Juneau had planted had now sprouted into full-fledged desire.

If only he had listened! Then he and Juneau could have journeyed to the wilderness together. But his dogged resistance had defeated Juneau's persistent pleas. In the end, his brother had left without him.

But Juneau had left a door, a way for Bismarck to find him whenever he changed his mind. Bismarck clung to this hope. He needed only to be clever enough to figure out the last hint.

That night, Bismarck watched the explosions in the sky and listened to the music that went with them, his small shadow growing longer with each shellburst, the thunder pinning his ears back flat.

He waited under the leaves of his juniper bush as all the people filed past, heading somewhere to the south, beyond the white twinkle of the street. He wondered where they all went. Perhaps to their own bush, to bed down after a long day.

He dozed softly as the night work commenced, lulled by the sound of pressure washers and cleaning machines and the low murmur of human voices. The haze from the nightly explosions slowly dissipated, drifting past the gleaming white peak of the mountain far in the distance.

At some point, deep into the night, when all the people had gone and all the activity had ceased, the silence woke him.

Bismarck cautiously poked his nose through the metal bars of the railing and sniffed the air. As far as he could tell, night outside of Partner's Corner was the same as inside. He put one paw through the rail, touched the bare concrete ledge, then pulled it back.

If he was going to do this, he needed to start soon. "Ask the stars," Juneau had said. Bismarck had only a few hours before the stars went to bed.

He wriggled through the iron bars easily enough, stood for a moment on the concrete ledge, then hopped to the sidewalk.

He crossed the short distance in the moonlight, hurrying to the protective shadow of another planter across the way. He hugged the concrete ledge for several steps, then hopped across a paved expanse to another low wall.

He was startled to find that the horizon in front of him had altered substantially. His plan had been to head for the treeline, where some stars appeared low to the ground. But the closer he got to the trees, the taller they seemed to grow. Already they blotted out most of the White Mountain. The low stars that were familiar to him from Partner's Corner seemed to have been swallowed up by the forest.

He could still see the silhouette of his juniper bush behind him. He squinted in trepidation. His home seemed strange, elongated and dark, not at all like the protective canopy under which he normally slept.

There was so much about the world that he did not know. Did trees grow as you approached them and shrink as you receded? Bismarck was not an expert on anything except Partner's Corner. He knew every inch of home, but the world was a much bigger place. He was not five minutes into his journey and already he began to despair of a happy ending.

Onward he trod, until the trees were thick around him, their branches shielding all but the faintest light. He told himself that the stars had merely fallen into the forest and he would have to hunt them out. At one point he caught the glint of something shiny half-buried beneath the leaves, but it turned out to be just an old pin, such as the humans often wore. Of all the stars that had vanished, he could find not a single one.

It was not long before he was hopelessly lost. Electric lights tantalized in the distance, just beyond the haze of trees, but he had no way of knowing if they led back home, or to some other terrifying new place. So thoroughly disorienting were the trunks, all so alike, that he no longer knew north from south, east from west.

He felt as if he had been searching for hours. Surely morning must have come by now! Yet the night seemed as black as ever. At last he stopped moving, buried his nose under his paws, and tried not to cry.

I can still go back, he said to himself. Home is still there.

To prove it to himself, he risked a peek from under his paw. But he met only the sight of yawning shadows, and it didn't matter anyway, because Juneau wasn't at home waiting for him. Juneau was gone to the wilderness. Could home be home without his brother? He felt a miserable certainty that the joy of his life was over. He was going to die, lost and alone, far from the comfort of his family.

A shadow flitted across the forest floor.

In an instant, the hair on his neck stood up. His heart rate accelerated. Had he imagined it? His ears tingled. He could hear nothing, and that made him all the more certain. Something was nearby. Something too small to be human. Something too quiet.

Bismarck held his breath. For a brief moment, he wondered if it was Juneau, come to rescue him. But he knew that was false hope. He sniffed the wind and caught the scent of something ripe and dangerous.

What a fool he'd been! He could almost hear the thing's fetid panting. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and whipped his head around, only to find more shadows. He knew he should bolt, but for some reason, his legs would not answer the call.

Something leaped from the brush, landing squarely before him. He slammed himself back against the tree trunk. There was nowhere to run now. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the worst.

The killing blow never came. He could hear the beast growling, steady and persistent like an engine. Conjuring up his last bit of courage, he opened one eye just a crack.

He saw nothing, felt a surge of hope, followed by a stab of terror. The beast was still there, but well nigh invisible. Its black fur hid all but its glowing eyes. Its steady growling continued.

The creature simply cocked its head and licked one of its paws. "You needn't squint like that."

It took all of Bismarck's inner strength, but he managed to rasp out a response. "What do you want?"

"What we all want," said the cat. "Dinner."

"You're still growling."

The cat laughed. "I've never seen you before. What's a little bunny like you doing in the Black Woods in the dead of night?"

"Looking for the stars," Bismarck said

"The stars!" roared the cat. Her purring throttled with delight. "You rabbits truly are an odd bunch. I suppose you'll be climbing the trees next then?"

"I'm only looking for the ones on the ground," said Bismarck. "If they're in the trees, I'll leave them to you."

The cat, whose name was Albany, cocked her head. "What does a rabbit want with stars anyway?"

"I have something to ask them," he said. "Something only they can see."

Albany narrowed her eyes. "Everyone knows that cats see everything. We see in the day, and we see in the night. What do you expect of a star?"

The truth of it was that he didn't have the faintest idea what he would say to a star, even if he found one. He only wanted to know where his brother went, and he couldn't see why a star would either know or care.

But perhaps he didn't need the stars now. Maybe fate had shown him a better path.

"Are you a cat?" he said.

Albany arched her back and gave him a disgusted look. "What fool creature do you take me for? Of course I'm a cat."

"Then you see everything?"

Her tail swished in the fallen leaves. "I see many things, rabbit. A great deal more than you."

"Then maybe you can help me."

She was still for a moment, the great green pools of her eyes taking him in. Slowly, her whiskers turned up in the hint of a smile. "Oh yes, rabbit. I think maybe I can."

Bismarck sighed in relief. "I'm looking for the wilderness."

"The wilderness," she repeated. "That is a strange request. I do not think I am the one to answer that for you."

Bismarck's ears drooped.

"But," continued the cat. "I'm sure the Feral Council would grant your request. They are only a short distance away. Can you walk, rabbit? Or do you only sit?"

Energized by her helpfulness, Bismarck rose to his feet and hopped over to her. She studied him for a moment and was about to lead the way into the forest when suddenly she whipped her head back towards his.

"On one condition, little bunny. When the Council calls you before them, see to it that you give me credit for having brought you there."

"Won't you be there with me?"

Albany chuckled. "Oh no, the council eats, sleeps, and dines alone."

She turned and padded off into the darkness. Bismarck gulped down his nervousness and loped after her.

Albany did indeed lead them out of the forest, depositing them in a narrow ravine. Before them stood an expanse of water, and beyond it, a massive stone wall. By craning his neck, Bismarck could once more see the stars, shining ephemerally above the dark turrets.

"The Feral Council meets in the highest tower," Albany said. "But summon your courage, little bunny. To get there, we must first cross the moat."

Bismarck dutifully hopped down to the shoreline. He lifted a paw to test the depth along the bank.

"Don't move!" Albany hissed. "Are you out of your mind?"

He froze, his paw hovering an inch above the surface. Albany stood stock still on the hill above him, her eyes wide and glowing.

"What's the matter?" he asked meekly.

"You foolish beast! Where did you come from? Have you never heard that water is poisonous?"

"Poisonous!" He jerked his paw back and hopped a few feet away for good measure.

Albany sighed in relief. "It's lucky you have me around, little bunny. That's the second time I've saved you tonight." She turned to skirt the edge of the moat.

"What poisoned the water?" he asked as he trotted after her.

"It's water. All water is poisonous. Don't you bunnies know anything?"

But that wasn't true. Thunderstorms weren't poisonous. Bismarck had sat in a downpour many times. The water that came out of the rain holes each night wasn't poisonous. And besides...

"Don't you drink water?"

He considered this. "Maybe it's only poisonous to cats."

"All water is poisonous to everyone!" Albany said with a snarl. "Do not debate this with me. I'm already of a mind to tell the council not to see you."

At this Bismarck snapped his mouth shut.

Albany led them to a narrow strip of sidewalk that stretched out over the moat. "This is the bridge," she said. "It's safe to walk on."

She hopped onto the railing and proceeded to cross, as if she had no fear of the water below her. Bismarck stayed on the ground. Upon reaching the other side, Albany quickly located a hidden crevice in the wall.

"I'm warning you. There is no light inside. Remember what I told you. Cats can see everything. But rabbits cannot. Step only where I step. Otherwise you'll break your neck."

"But if I can't see, how can I follow you?"

Albany thought for a moment. With a light flick, she brushed his nose with her tail. "By that, you'll know where my hindquarters are."

She did it again. There was something about the touch of her fur that made his nose tickle. It actually kind of itched. He just managed to stifle a sneeze.

"Alright, rabbit. This way to the Feral Council."

Albany had not been lying about the darkness. Bismarck could see nothing. At first they walked on solid ground, but before long, Albany was climbing up a ramp of some kind, and he could feel the path getting narrower beneath his feet. More troubling was the fact that his whiskers could detect nothing on either side. He was getting higher. One wrong step and he would fall.

The swish of Albany's tail led him ever upward. He wished there was another way. With each brush of her fur, he felt his nose itch even more. His eyes were already watering, but he dared not lose her. He would never be able to back his way down across the narrow ledges.

As they climbed deeper into the rafters, he began to notice shapes in the darkness: small orbs of yellow and green that floated sometimes near, sometimes distant. At first he could not discern what they were, but then suddenly he realized.

They were the eyes of other cats. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. They were all around him in the darkness. The eyes never blinked. Every eye followed him.

He took another step and got a face-full of Albany's tail. She had stopped.

"Good size rabbit, by the smell of him," said the guard.

"I've come to ask-" Bismarck started to say, but Albany quickly whacked him in the face with her tail.

"He is most eager to see the council," Albany said.

"Wait here," said the guard.

Bismarck heard soft feet padding away on the rafter. A moment later, the guard returned. "He can go in. You stay here, Albany. You know the rules."

Bismarck felt Albany turn around on the narrow path, and then a whoosh as she leapt over him. She landed directly behind him, sending a shudder up the rafter. He dug in his claws.

There was a faint tickling at the side of his head. Whiskers. And suddenly Albany's voice was whispering directly in his ear.

"Remember. Give me the proper credit when you see them. The path is straight. Just keep going forward and you won't fall off."

Bismarck fought back another sneeze. "Thank you for this, Albany. Will I see you again?"

"No, Bismarck. I'm afraid this is the last you'll see of me. Now go. The council is waiting."

Bismarck awkwardly felt for the edges of the path around him, then crept on into the darkness.

After a few steps, he discovered that he could almost see again. There was a shaft of light a few yards away. He hopped toward it, ducked under another rafter, and found himself in the center of a small chamber.

The smell of cat was palpable. He looked up into the eyes of the Feral Council.

They were old, much older and bigger than Albany had been. Every one of them sat stock still, except for their twitching tails. A few of them were purring, though it sounded low and menacing.

A hefty male, with a mottled leopard coat, frowned down at him. "It has been a long time since a rabbit has visited these chambers. Tell me, young one. Who has sent you?"

"Albany, sir," Bismarck replied.

"Albany!" snorted one of the others. "Such playing to the crowd! She obviously hopes to entice us to give her a seat!"

"She does make a strong case for a position on the council," smiled a third cat. "It's been a long time since I've hunted live rabbit."

"Indeed," said the leopard-coat, the apparent leader.

Bismarck had never had a taste for a politics. Their debate left him confused. "Excuse me, kind sirs," he said. "Albany said you may be able to help me find my brother. He went to the wilderness. I'd like to know how to get there."

One of the cats, a mangy gray, hopped down to his level, strutting around to study him from every angle. "The Council will find this wilderness. Depending on how you taste, we'll be happy to send out a party to retrieve him. And then you can be together."

"Look at him," said the leopard-coat. "He's actually got tears of joy."

As a point of fact, his eyes were watering from the great clouds of loose cat hair that drifted through the chamber. But the cat had guessed his emotion correctly. Bismarck was almost overcome with happiness. But something puzzled him.

"Why does it matter how I taste?"

In answer, the gray licked her lips. Bismarck's joy evaporated. He took an instinctive step backwards.

"Now he understands," laughed a fiendish tortoise-shell, leaping down behind him to block the exit.

"I love the taste of the innocent," said the leader, giving his claws a delicate lick. Bismarck cringed, panic welling up inside of him. He had been too trusting. Albany was not a friend. She was a traitor.

"What shall it be?" said the gray. "Throat or belly?"

The fear was bubbling up so fast he could no longer contain it. And as the cats drew closer, something else began to build up deep within him. The gray flexed her claws and crouched, ready to pounce. For one heart-stopping moment, he saw her gathering strength in her haunches. And then she leaped.

At that moment, Bismarck could fight it no longer. He let loose with a tremendous sneeze.

The spray caught the gray cat full in the face. She let out a shrieking caterwaul.

"Poison! My eyes!"

The leopard-coat hissed and crouched for a leap of his own. But once started, there was no stopping it. Bismarck, tickled and tortured by the dander of a thousand felines, unleashed a sneezing fit the likes of which the Feral Council had never seen.

One by one, the spray blasted the cats, driving them into corners, cowering them like kittens. Great drops of wetness coated their backs, sending them into convulsions in frantic efforts to shake it off.

More spray drenched the cats. They wailed and moaned in agony, until at last the leopard-coat leader howled out: "Your brother! We can help you find him!"

Bismarck choked off his latest sneeze. He stood quivering, trying to get his allergies under control.

The leopard-coat held up a paw, trying to ward him off. "The answer lies with the stars."

Bismarck's eyes narrowed. He had had it with these cats and their treacherous ways. Now here they were, trying to send him right back down the wrong path. Well, he had more sneezing to do, and he intended to do it all over this fat spotted old grump.

The leopard-coat saw him coming and squealed, burying his head in his paws.

"I thought cats could see more than stars," Bismarck said in a low voice. He felt that if he used his normal voice, the sneezing would begin again.

"Cats see the details. Stars see the long picture. If this wilderness exists, the stars can find it."

"I will take you there myself. Only spare us the poison, I beg you. Do we have a deal?"

Bismarck swallowed hard. He hoped he could keep his end of the bargain. "Done," he said.

The guard stopped them with surprise as they exited the chamber. "Miss Hartford, where are you going?"

"To the White Mountain," said the gray. "See to it that no one touches the rabbit on the way out. Oh, and one more thing: Tell Albany that the council wishes to see her. They have something they'd like to give her in return."

"It will be dawn in an hour or so," said Hartford.

She had guided him all the way back to the ground, back into the forest, and now out again to another copse of trees. They sat at the base of the White Mountain. Even the tower of the Feral Council was dwarfed by its height. If the stars could be reached at all, then he could reach them from the peak.

"Bismarck. Don't linger too long on the White Mountain. Ask your question and come straight down."

"It is dangerous, that's all. It is no place for cats, and therefore an even worse place for rabbits."

She walked off without another glance.

Bismarck watched her go without so much as a wave goodbye. He was grateful at least that she had kept her word, but happy to see her go, to be rid of her claws and the uncomfortable itch in his nose. Cats were a strange bunch. He wondered if the danger of the White Mountain, like the poison of water, was overstated.

From this close, he could no longer even see the top of the mountain. It seemed impossibly steep. He sniffed around the base for a few yards before finally detecting a small ledge, just wide enough for his body, a foot or two off the ground. He hopped onto it easily enough.

A few sniffs later, he found another ledge, higher and slightly to the right. This one was narrower than the first, but with a little contortion, he wormed his way onto it.

And so it went. He got better as time went on. The mountain, glassy smooth from a distance, was actually riddled with small hollows and thin ridges. He found that what worked best was to hug the wall and check the area all around him. Often times a lateral move made the most sense, as he might be able to reach a ledge that was hidden from his current location.

After several minutes like this, he began to feel the fatigue in his hind legs. Panting, he stopped to rest for a moment, and it was then that he first took a real good look down.

He had covered a good distance in a short amount of time. He could still make out the clearing where Hartford had led him, but he was surprised at how far away it was. There was no sign of the cat. Looking down the sheer rock face made him feel dizzy.

He decided to focus only on going up, and tried not to think about how much smaller the ground would look when he got to the top.

A few moments later, he made a twisting leap and found himself on a broad outcropping.

At first he was puzzled. He could not have reached the top so quickly, but this flat expanse of rock seemed very much like the peak he had always admired from the shelter of Partner's Corner. After a moment, he realized that the ledge was still bathed in shadow. Even early in the morning, the summit should have been lit up by the rising sun.

He peered around a stray boulder and realized that he was not very far up at all. The rest of the mountain still towered above him. He was on some kind of elongated shelf that skirted the perimeter. He followed the curvature for a few steps, and soon came across a yawning opening in the face of the mountain. The tunnel reminded him very much of his own rabbit run under the juniper bush.

He sniffed warily. The tunnel air was brisk, accompanied by the faint smell of oil. He could hear the draft whistling deep in the cavern. He gave an involuntary shudder. If there were giant rabbits in the White Mountain, Bismarck did not want to meet them.

He backtracked and soon located a series of craggy footholds, an ideal spot to resume his journey upwards. He was crossing the wide ledge to reach them, when he suddenly noticed the trench.

It ran down the middle of the shelf, following its path presumably back to the giant rabbit tunnels. There was something geometric about it, the kind of thing usually crafted by man. Two parallel snakes of iron ran along the entire floor of the trench, never touching one another, perfectly smooth.

He carefully hopped over the first snake, and when it did not move, he realized there was no harm. It was very similar to the railing that surrounded his lawn, though of course it was much lower to the ground. He hopped over the second rail and set about attacking the next slope.

Several minutes later, huffing and puffing, he came upon another giant rabbit shelf, as he had come to think of them. The same twin rails ran through the middle of it, exactly as before. He had already formed an opinion that the trench was nothing more than the harmless relic of some ancient civilization. He clamored over it and picked out a new face to scale.

The last section of the mountain was so steep that every jump was like a stab of electricity through his muscles. His ears drooped; he no longer had the energy to keep them properly upright. As he pressed on, a numbness crept over him. It seemed to him that he had always climbed. That he would continue to climb until he dropped dead. Perhaps he would go to join the mythical giant rabbits who had once made their burrow in the belly of the White Mountain.

He trained his eyes upwards again, straining to locate the next foothold, and a tremor of despair wash over him. He had climbed into a blind alley. There were no more ledges above him. He would have to go down.

That was when his tired eyes turned away from the blinding sky and Bismarck realized that he had finally reached the top.