Of all the complications of the crow’s new state of being, none were more distressing than the effects it had on his thoughts. For the most part, he mentally felt like himself. This body was still as foreign as it should be, despite him starting to adjust to moving it. His emotions and inclinations didn’t clash with his memory of himself, either. He wasn’t obsessing over shiny things or compelled to peck at the ground or whatever a real crow’s instincts would tell it to do. It was one of the few pieces of solace he could draw from the situation. He’d read about enough malicious transformations in tabletop games and fantasy novels to recognize that the greater horror was losing one’s mind to that of the animal, not one’s body.

But he wasn’t one-hundred percent the same. The way he understood language was different. It was obviously a boon in this situation. Neither he nor the squirrel could vocalize the way humans could, but they understood each other all the same. Chirps, squawks, squeaks, caws, gestures with wings and paws, and even more nuanced body language like posture. All of it came across clear as day as if they’d spoken with their old voices or expressed with their old faces.

This understanding, however, came at a cost. To communicate in meaning rather than sound meant that many words and phrases simply ceased to exist, even in their own thoughts. What used to be metaphors were instead “translated” literally, or otherwise mangled into less succinct similes, and many proper nouns were replaced with their definitions instead. This included their names.

For the crow, any attempt to express or think his name simply produced “me,” “myself,” or “my name,” while the squirrel expressed similar difficulties, so much so that it was distressing to even try. As it turns out, neither of them had bothered to learn the definitions of their names in their native languages, the crow’s parents having simply picked a nice sounding biblical name for him that he’d never bothered to investigate. They eventually worked out some basics like the fact that they were both men who had been passing through the same stretch of backwater highway before waking up here, but that was all they could manage without taking the time to really dig into how this worked.

He knew that this was a small price to pay to avoid being isolated by an inability to easily communicate, but the loss of his name ate at him. He even recalled his own memories differently, with text and even people’s voices being interpreted through the same filter of meaning as everything else, the sounds of his and others’ names having been reduced to an inexpressible onomatopoeia. And if his memories could be altered, even in such a small way, how could he be sure that nothing else was?

“Good to keep going, Friend?” A small squeak from the squirrel brought him back to the present. He’d apparently gotten so lost in thought that he’d stopped walking.

“Yeah, sorry,” he nodded, fluffing up his feathers in an apparent bid to shed some anxiety, a reflex he wasn’t exactly happy to learn he had. “Just got distracted. Let’s keep moving.”

“Got it. Just don’t be afraid to let me know if we’re pushing it, okay?”

They’d hadn’t been walking long. It was impossible to tell time precisely, but the sun had just set enough for the entire forest to be blanketed in the final purple hues of twilight. He’d never had to wonder how well a crow could see in the dark before. The answer? Not well. The best he could do was follow the bobbing tail of the squirrel in front of him, its brownish grays standing out a bit against the darkness in front of them.

“Can you see where we’re going?” The crow asked. “My eyes aren’t any better at night than they used to be, how about a squirrel’s?”

“Only marginally better than a human’s, I’m afraid,” the squirrel answered. “But I can smell where we’re going. It’s really strong, we’re practically on top of it.”

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“Let’s just hope that whatever it is, it’s worth finding. I don’t really fancy sleeping out in the open now that I’m small enough to snack on.”

“Hold up, I think we’re here,” The squirrel said, night haven truly fallen and plunged the forest into darkness. “Let me feel around for a moment… Huh?”

“What is it?”

“There’s… stuff on the ground here.” Wooden clattering and light metallic clinking filled the still air at the squirrel rooted though assorted objects. “I think they might be tools?”

“Tools? A human was here?” The crow immediately perked up. “Then we’re close to civilization!”

“Not… human tools.” The squirrel replied, his voice uneasy. “I can’t see them, but these paws can suss out the shapes of things really well. They’re sized for us, and our scents are all over them.”

“What is that supposed to mean? We were here long enough to craft tools and just… forgot everything?” A much simpler and more likely answer immediately occurred to the crow, but he quickly dismissed it. Contemplating it would complicate things.

“Maybe we…” The squirrel trailed off, clearly grappling with his own theories. “I don’t know,” he lied. It was easy to tell when he didn’t mean what he said when his underlying emotions and intentions were as clear as the actual words. “But it looks like we can camp here. There’s a hollow beneath the tree roots, and our scents are inside.” A soft pattering noise came from ahead as he scurried into the hole he’d found. “Follow my voice! There’s just enough room for you.”

“You’d better be right. I don’t think I know how to back out of a tight space.” The crow gingerly stepped forward until his beak bumped up against the bark of the tree, and then poked around until he found the top of the opening. He crouched down as best he could and tried to shuffle in. “Okay, this is definitely not something these legs are made for.”

“Need help?”

“No, I just need to…” The crow shifted from the initial crouch he’d attempted to a wider, somewhat more uncomfortable stance, enabling him to waddle his way in. “There, that was awkward- Oh!” Both creatures chirped as the crow’s beak poked the squirrel in the forehead. “Sorry!”

“No worries, let me move over.” The squirrel shifted to the left, giving the crow room to squeeze in next to him. “You’re… really warm.” He squirmed a little bit, the crow being large enough to eclipse his whole body while pressed up against him.

“Same goes for you, fluffy,” The crow croaked. “It was getting chilly anyway.” He sighed, his feathers once more fluffing up reflexively. “But honestly, I’m just scared. I know we barely know each other, but you’re all I’ve got right now. You’ve been far kinder to me than I’ve been to you. It’s impossible not to be direct speaking like this, so I just want you to know that I appreciate it.”

“I don’t know if I’m as altruistic as you think I am,” the squirrel chittered softly. “When I first woke up here, in this body, I wanted nothing more than to run off into the woods and escape, as stupid as that sounds. It was hearing your voice that pulled me out of it. I just didn’t want to be alone, and felt guilty that I'd considered leaving you alone. That doesn’t make me kind.”

“Then I guess that makes us two similar people.” The crow paused for a moment before cawing with attempted laughter. “God, I just wanted to make a comparison to peas in pods and it came out like that. We’re doomed.”

“Well, at least we’re doomed together.” The squirrel sighed, shifting in an attempt to get comfortable, though the direct contact made the crow keenly aware that they weren’t quite able to.

“Are you hurt?” The crow asked.

“Just… sore in places that don’t make sense,” the squirrel answered, needing to pause to give his answer some thought. “Nothing lines up with the way I’m used to picturing my body, so I can’t tell if I’m just moving wrong, if I was injured before waking up, or if I’m just coming down with a squirrel cold or something trivial like that.”

“Well, getting enough sleep is important for animals as much as people, as far as I know. Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning?”

“Yeah, I hope. Sleep well, Friend.”

“I’ll try.” The crow closed his eyes and tried to let himself drift off. Unfortunately, sleep never came.