𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐊⠀ ⁽ ¹ ⁾

PREQUEL: MOONSTONE

As the Italian proverb reads, a Boca di Lupo is their way of saying 'good luck.' In translation what it means is, 'into the mouth of the wolf.' Which is exactly where I'm heading. A sign whizzes by the other side of the train's window. Welcome to Wolf Harbor! Enjoy your stay!

The train stops as I finish writing. The passengers rise from their seats to grab their luggage from the storage compartment above their heads. While I shoulder my backpack, button up my jacket, tuck my documents and pen under my arm, and make my way to the front. The moment the heavy doors open, a salty smell of ocean water instantly hits my nose as I stand on the platform breathing it in.

Home again.

"Moira." The impatient tone of my name being called regrettably causes me to become anchored back in the reality. "You're blocking the way." Jake approaches me, lightly pulling my arm to the side as the other passengers disembark. He sighs letting me go shortly afterward. "I hope the train ride gave the 'inspiration' you wanted. You could've gotten the same experience in the car and save money on a train ticket."

"Knowing you, you probably had Metallica blasting all the way here." I chuckle. "What's wrong with that? You like it too."

"I do, but not when I'm concentrating. Besides," I say with an uplifting, nearly childish admiration. "Trains are fun." He shakes his head. "Not everyone can live in the same carefree frame of mind as you, Moira."

A gentle, November gust blows through the roofed outside portion of the station giving me a chill. Supported by aged wooden beams gradually being licked away by the salt carried in the air from the ocean. The matching foundation gives creaking way with our weight but just like the rest of Wolf Harbor; it has character. Taking a step down the short stairs of the platform leading into the parking lot, I'm blinded by the intensity of the sun as I raise my hand above my eye to block it.

My sight begins to settle in place after a moment of adapting to the lighting. To my left is the ocean, swishing forward and back due to the changing wind, rocking the small fishing boats like a baby cradle. On my left is the forest, tall and sturdy trees swaying as part of the same breeze, the disembodied melody songbirds chirping away. That was something I always liked compared to New York. The balance between two extremes.

"Moira!" Jake's face now resembles his irritating attitude, the condensation blowing out his mouth like an angry dragon. "I've been calling you. We need to head over to Uncle Jesse's with the documents as soon as possible." Quickening my pace, I open the passenger door placing some of the luggage aside and sit as Jake puts the key back in the ignition.

Uncle Jesse was our last living relative.

Glancing out the window and watching the transition from ocean to miles of vibrant emerald trees, reminds me of the time our parents would drop us off here for the entire summer. Coming back to it now as adults the circumstances are drearier. Jake would never admit to it but Uncle Jesse's death affects him just as hard as our parents. Jake learned how to sail, and how to gut fish with his bare hands. I think it was that experience of gutting and cleaning that lead to him wanting to become a doctor in the first place.

"Why do you keep staring at me like that?" I didn't realize I was, so I write it off as a joke as always. "I can't stare at my big brother?"

"Not like that you can't."

"Just making sure you're okay." I huff pointing my knees away from him and crossing my arms. "I'm fine." He responds after a moment of awkward silence. Glancing back at him I noticed the sight of stress wrinkles in his forehead, as I reach out and poke at them. "Maybe instead of a doctor, you should've studied plastic surgery. You're developing old man wrinkles and you're still in your twenties." He snorts, suppressing a smile by feigning annoyance. "Very funny, Mo."

With the mood significantly lighter, we pull into the gravel road of Uncle Jesse's cabin. But we aren't alone. A fancy-looking car was there before us, and a man is leaning against his car door in a sleek suit. Real estate agent by the looks of him. "We're here." Jake points out with a reluctant sigh. "So's the vultures," I grumble.

The falsely friendly agent with the toupee approaches Jake first, extending an olive branch of a collegial handshake. "Ah, Doctor Tate."

"Mister Tate will do for now," Jake responded shaking his hand while taking the head of what was left of our family role to heart. "I'm not a doctor just yet."

"Duly noted." The agent's smile looks more constipated than before as he turns to me with the same gesture. "Misses Tate." I unenthusiastically shake his also, conjuring a passing smile. "Moira, please. I'm his sister, not his wife. But I'll pity the girl who is." The agent slightly breaks character with a not-so-discreet laugh. Jake flashes me a look. "Moira, why don't you take a look inside." In laymen's terms, 'please stop embarrassing me.' I willingly oblige.

It hasn't been more than a few weeks since Uncle Jesse's passing, and unfortunately, it took all that time for Jake and me to take the semester off from college to organize not only his funeral but his entire life. Yet here the real estate companies are already baring their talons to repossess the cabin and have their estate sale. But I have faith that my brother's ability to bullshit his way through negotiation and put a temporary pause to their plans. He really should've studied law instead.

Entering the threshold of the cabin, the creaky floorboards announce my presence to the rest of the space. Uncle Jesse built this cabin for our aunt who passed away much earlier from the ground up. He was never really the same after that, but I vaguely remember her. Dad used to say he became a bit of a hermit because of it, which ultimately drove our cousin away.

The way I would describe him would be a Henry David Thoreau type. Solitude was his sanctuary. I remember waking up every morning to him sitting in the living room at this desk, looking out the window with a pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Running my fingers over the scorch marks on the surface I can visualize him nonchalantly flicking off the embers, and faintly catching the whiff of smoke in his beard. It's no wonder lung cancer did him in at the end.

Or at least, that's what we were told.