Disclaimer: I own no characters or elements of Over the Hedge. They belong to Michael Fry, T. Lewis, and DreamWorks.

Oswald Osborne.

That is my full name for those of you who don't know me; my friends and family know me as Ozzie.

I'm one of the forest animals residing in the last bit of wilderness in Rancho Camelot Estates, more precisely the possum that has perfected playing dead to an art-form...not that it does me much good right now. In fact, I'm starting to see what my daughter and my partner warned me about being overreliant on it.

Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do to remedy that mistake at the moment. With the nearest of my family miles away and me under the baleful eye of my overweight captor, it's a safe bet I won't be going anywhere anytime soon.

How long have I been missing anyway? A few hours, I surmise, on account of the fact there was still some light out when Vincent snatched me away. Why he hasn't eaten me yet, like I expected him to, I'm still in the dark about, although I have hazarded the apparent notion of revenge among other theories.

'At least I haven't been digested yet,' I admit as I stare out at the moon from the entrance of the cave, seated on my haunches with my arms on my knees, 'Hopefully I'll remain that way.'

"Yo, possum, fetch me that can of Spuddies."

On the other hand, I also intend not to lose my dignity as a prisoner. Just because he's stronger than me and could outrun me if I tried to escape is no reason for me to be his throw pillow. Alas, my mouth proves faster than my rationality. "I'm not your servant, Vincent. Procure that can yourself."

"What was that?" he replies in a dangerously low tone.

"I said," I repeat like the fool I am without looking back, my words slow and patronizing like I'm speaking to a child, "'procure that can yourself.'"

That's another problem I have: even before RJ, I've always had a part of me that ignores my sense of self-preservation. Ninety percent of the time, I can control it. Every time someone jabs at my pride, however, like Vincent just did, that mellow and meek shell of mine starts tearing off. And God, it tore off so quickly this time I barely noticed.

Because of that, I suddenly find myself dangling by the tail above that brute's sneering deathtrap of a maw, his yellow irises flashing with too much joy to be healthy. There's no fear in me, though; only a deep calm defiance. Don't bother asking me why; I can only assume all that time spent with RJ rubbed his boldness onto me. I'm not sure if I should be grateful for that.

"You got some nerve defyin' me, possum."

Resisting the urge to gag proves difficult. Ugh, dear Hippolyta, his breath is foul.

"It's Oswald, bear."

That snarky response of mine gets Vincent narrowing his eyes at me—not a good sign. I still refuse to be pushed around, even if doing so means becoming the main course. I'm not the weak little man I once was, so yes, I am definitely grateful RJ's boldness rubbed onto me.

I am also going to slap that raccoon senseless for rubbing his boldness onto me once I get home—if I ever survive to see home.

Fortunately, that becomes a distinct possibility when Vincent unceremoniously dumps me onto the unforgiving stone floor of his den. I'm still in one piece, thank God, but I can tell Vincent dropped me on my posterior like that on purpose to get his point across without ending his 'fun' too soon, evident when that uncouth ursine huffs and smirks in amusement at my discomfort.

"I liked you better when you were as spineless as the rest of those twerps."

"Well, sorry to disappoint, my good man," is my dignified and unhesitant retort. Resisting the urge to shout at this thug for insulting my kin takes all of my willpower. When I finally manage to sit up despite the soreness in my rear, I shift my eyes up at Vincent in wonder. "So is that it? Do I have permission to leave now or would you like for us to continue this inane conversation until daybreak or until my family comes to pick me up?"

That question earns me a toothy growl but I refuse to stand down. Monsters gain power through intimidation so whatever he does to me, I'll never give him the satisfaction of seeing my— Hang on, why is he peering at me like I'm a tree or piece of fruit he can't identify all of a sudden? He shakes his head at me, long and slow, his hands gesturing out at me as if I'm some unknown concept he can't grasp.

"How the hell did ya end up with someone like RJ?"

His question has piqued my curiosity. He had to have spied on us for a while to know RJ and I were together, a highly discomforting notion to say the least. I finally allow my façade to slip a little and gaze at him through mystified eyes, unsure if there's an angle here. "What do you mean by that?"

A pig-like snort escapes Vincent before he rolls his eyes at me and darkens his glare even more than before. "Why the hell would you choose a squirt like that for a mate?"

I have been through plenty of shocking moments in my life, some of which still haunt me to this very day. Unfortunately, none of them could have prepared me for this one. And when I'm unprepared my hidden temper tends to comes out yet who could blame me in this case?

How dare this thug sink so low!

"Now see here, young man," God, that sounds bizarre in this context, "that 'squirt' is a wonderful mate and you have no right to judge him when you lack even the faintest idea of how kind and caring he's been to my family, particularly to our daughter."

Yes, I just said 'our daughter.' If that doesn't reveal how real my feelings for that amazing raccoon are, then I'll simply scourge the ends of the earth to find out what will. "And besides, you've most likely lived the majority of your life by yourself, so you're hardly any proper authority on what constitutes a true mate!"

Vincent is so quiet now...deathly quiet. That scares me far more than the threat of being dinner did, impossible as that sounds.

No, I'm still not running away; I'm still standing here, arms crossed and face scrunched in a glare. Running would definitely be the smart thing do and yet...something is keeping me here, urging me to stick around for whatever will happen next.

I don't fancy waiting around for no reason, though. No words, hmm? Very well, I've wasted enough time here.

Just when I'm on the verge of departing from this godforsaken cave, unwilling to play this bear's game any longer, Vincent drops posterior-first onto the ground. His glare doesn't even seem to register my presence anymore. It's as if he's staring off at something else...

I gasp when I recognize that gaze. How could I not when it had haunted my reflections every day after my wife died? My head shakes at the mere thought—the idea—that this scoundrel could have been someone's husband once, that he and I once shared something in common.

That simply couldn't be possible...right?

"Really..." the solemn tone in his voice startles me, despite the hollow chuckle covering it in vain, "you think I don't know exactly what you mean, possum?"

No, don't soften your face, Ozzie. Keep silent. Keep your face neutral and attentive.

"My wife and son meant more to me than anything else in this goddamn world," Vincent shakes his head, his voice low and even (I can still hear the pain regardless), "so I lost everything when those humans in the orange suits killed them. I failed them and there ain't no bringin' 'em back."

Nothing reaches my mind. Nothing escapes my lips.

His eyes don't lie. They truly don't.

For one hot second, sympathy floods me. It floods me and for a moment I feel like I'm staring into a mirror, a mirror melded from memories so warped together I almost let the sting in my eyes give way to tears so that my distorted other can feel something close to the comfort he once knew.

Then I recall who I'm dealing truly with.

That flood evaporates as quickly as it came. My body stiffens, my chest puffing out from daring bravado. I wonder if this is how Hamlet felt facing Laertes. "Do you intend to do the same to mine?"

His sharp eyes pierce into mine, his yellow trying to melt the resolve in my ice-blue. He never succeeds and we both that know that, which is why after what feels like eons he eventually stands back up with a sigh, waving a shooing paw at me.

"Just get outta here already, possum. Get back ta yer cosy termite heap in the woods so you snuggle up to yer sappy family." He made sure to sound as mocking as possible at the end. Somehow that action brings the pity flooding back even harder than before.

My feet bring me one step closer to Vincent and not a step more, his eyes never daring to meet mine. "I see your killer instincts aren't what they used to be. Perhaps they're saying they've had enough isolation"—my voice beats his to a retort—"and don't mistake my advice as sympathy. I haven't forgotten the cruelty you wrought upon my family, especially on RJ. Consider my attempt more as an unspoken duty, from one heartbroken husband to another."

A scoff escapes Vincent at my assurance. I expected no less. "Are you always this sentimental? Cuz if you are, I don't know how RJ stands it."

"Oh he manages." A faint glimmer of concern touches my face. "Speaking of whom, I have to get home before Verne tries to send him six feet under for Lord knows what. So if that is all, then I shall bid you adieu. Thank you for...not eating me."

Vincent scoffs again. "Whatever."

And just like that, I'm gone. But not before I pause to look over my shoulder; Vincent still refuses to look my way.

He can't fool me.

I know I've struck a chord that's been in disuse for years.

My only expectation, almost hope, as I walk away is that he's willing to take the risk of contact.

Time can only tell. Fate is out of my hands now.

Besides, I've been gone long enough. I have a spouse and child to return to, and a bright future to share.