groping for entry. She opens her mouth to cry out one last time, then just as he is about to enter her, she closes her jaw around his neck and sinks her teeth into his skin. The taste stuns her. It is as if she has been starving and finally had her first bite of meat. She clamps down to secure his neck between her jaws and then shakes her head back and forth to loosen the meat from the bone. And now she can think of nothing but eating more, of filling her belly to steel herself against the oncoming winter. Effortlessly, she throws him off. She mounts his cowering body and attacks his face. She swallows and goes for his stomach, his thighs. She turns him over and bites down on the fleshy mounds of his buttocks. When she has finished, and there is nothing left of him but bone and sinew and hair, she lifts her head andhowls.
T he bullet is lodged in her flank. She twists around and licks the wound, trying to dislodge the nugget of metal, but it is wedged in too deep. She should never have gotten hurt. She should have been nimble and swift and able to run well out of the reach of the mob. But the meat she ate in the caravan was stewed in the same foul brew that drenches the sweat of her pursuers and it has made her slow. Now, as she begins to move again, she feels as if she were pushing her legs through deep mud even though the ground is cold and hard. A day ago, the first snow fell and although it melted quickly in the open fields, here in the forest where, despite a bare canopy, the sun seldom penetrates, it patchworks the ground and gathers in drifts at the bases of trees. The cold feels welcome on her paws, and when gusts of icy wind whip through the branches and seep into the outer layer of her fur, the dullness of her body abates and she feels physically alert. She wants to roll around in the soft snow and numb herflank, to eat mouthfuls of the stuff to moisten her dry tongue. But she hears the snap and splinter of wood, then heavy bodies crashing through thickets. They have been following her trail of blood and now they are close.
She lifts her snout and opens her jaw. The sound begins as a silence in her chest as the bellows of her lungs expand. She tilts her head back to make more space in her throat. The sound needs to travel, she doesnât know how far. For a moment, she hesitates. She is alone and injured. The men are near. Her sound will lead them right to her. But she will not survive on her own. The note vibrates in her gullet and against the roof of her mouth. It starts low, and then her throat constricts so that it rises, up the tree trunks, up to the top of the leafless branches, growing louder as it flies into the frigid, white sky just like the flock of birds that passes overhead. She waits, her ears twitching forward, listening. But she hears only the footfalls of men, and now their voices.
Then a deep sound penetrates the forest. The howl is unbroken and direct. It builds in intensity until it feels as if it is suspended in a long arc from its source to where she stands. Higher cries join in, riding above the first, followed by a percussive flourish of barks. When one call winds down, another layers itself on top so that the pack seems numerous. But she is sure there are only three singing back to her, and that they are not far away. She might reach them before either her leg gives out or the men pull close enough to fire on her again. She moves. The pain explodes and she feels it everywhereâin her leg, her belly, her teeth, the tip of her snout. Her senses close down so it feels as if she were racing blind except for a prick of brightness in thecenter of her vision. She aims for that light and runs as hard and as fast as she can.
â
T HE THREE WOLVES stand on a snowy rise. Two males are dark brown with black masks, but the third male is entirely white, so white that it is impossible to distinguish its paws from the snow it stands on, so bright that it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust.
T he bullet is lodged in her flank. She twists around and licks the wound, trying to dislodge the nugget of metal, but it is wedged in too deep. She should never have gotten hurt. She should have been nimble and swift and able to run well out of the reach of the mob. But the meat she ate in the caravan was stewed in the same foul brew that drenches the sweat of her pursuers and it has made her slow. Now, as she begins to move again, she feels as if she were pushing her legs through deep mud even though the ground is cold and hard. A day ago, the first snow fell and although it melted quickly in the open fields, here in the forest where, despite a bare canopy, the sun seldom penetrates, it patchworks the ground and gathers in drifts at the bases of trees. The cold feels welcome on her paws, and when gusts of icy wind whip through the branches and seep into the outer layer of her fur, the dullness of her body abates and she feels physically alert. She wants to roll around in the soft snow and numb herflank, to eat mouthfuls of the stuff to moisten her dry tongue. But she hears the snap and splinter of wood, then heavy bodies crashing through thickets. They have been following her trail of blood and now they are close.
She lifts her snout and opens her jaw. The sound begins as a silence in her chest as the bellows of her lungs expand. She tilts her head back to make more space in her throat. The sound needs to travel, she doesnât know how far. For a moment, she hesitates. She is alone and injured. The men are near. Her sound will lead them right to her. But she will not survive on her own. The note vibrates in her gullet and against the roof of her mouth. It starts low, and then her throat constricts so that it rises, up the tree trunks, up to the top of the leafless branches, growing louder as it flies into the frigid, white sky just like the flock of birds that passes overhead. She waits, her ears twitching forward, listening. But she hears only the footfalls of men, and now their voices.
Then a deep sound penetrates the forest. The howl is unbroken and direct. It builds in intensity until it feels as if it is suspended in a long arc from its source to where she stands. Higher cries join in, riding above the first, followed by a percussive flourish of barks. When one call winds down, another layers itself on top so that the pack seems numerous. But she is sure there are only three singing back to her, and that they are not far away. She might reach them before either her leg gives out or the men pull close enough to fire on her again. She moves. The pain explodes and she feels it everywhereâin her leg, her belly, her teeth, the tip of her snout. Her senses close down so it feels as if she were racing blind except for a prick of brightness in thecenter of her vision. She aims for that light and runs as hard and as fast as she can.
â
T HE THREE WOLVES stand on a snowy rise. Two males are dark brown with black masks, but the third male is entirely white, so white that it is impossible to distinguish its paws from the snow it stands on, so bright that it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust.
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