Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-48-

We stay on the road, near civilization, where wolves are unlikely to attack. It is bitter cold and more than once I think of how I could have a warm fur coat instead of these flimsy layers of fabric. We walk all day, stopping only to relieve ourselves and to share the rest of my sandwich from the night before. At nightfall we step away from the road and dig ourselves a hole in the snow. There is no shelter around for miles. The landscape reeks of desolation.

Kayla and I haven't had much conversation all day, and our telepathy seems to have run dry as well. My mind feels as blank as the sheets of snow covering the flatlands around us. In the hole it is only marginally warmer and we curl into each other for warmth. I breathe into her hair, which smells more of stale sweat and cold than lilacs now. I can't imagine the stink I must be emitting.

The shivering sets in after only a few minutes.

We cling tighter. I think

(wouldn't this be better with a fur coat)

She sighs.

(maybe, but if we are wolves, surrounded by clothes, and we are found, it could end badly for us)

The darkness is so complete that only the cold pressing against my eyes tells me if they are open or shut. I can't imagine anyone finding us here, in the middle of nowhere.

Kayla's breathing slows into a steady rhythm against my neck. I realize that I am rubbing her neck, right where her wound has healed into a tight white scab. I should have protected her. Even as a wolf, I should have protected her.

I stay awake all night, trying to protect her.

* * *

The next day on the road I am sluggish. It is an effort to pick up my feet above drifts of snow. Mid-morning, we catch a ride. The driver is a woman with rough red cheeks and flaming auburn hair under her cap. I have never been picked up by a woman before. For some reason it makes me feel safe, and I lean against the window and fall asleep within minutes in the heated cab, my breath fogging the window.

"Daniel." A rough shove at my shoulder. "This is our stop."

My eyes creak open. The sun is mostly gone; it is late afternoon.

"Thanks," I mumble to the driver, who gives me a wry smile in return as I lurch out of the cab and back onto the road. I squint around. Neon lights, rumbling motors, scents of gasoline and fried foods.

Truck stop.

"Do we have any money for food?" I ask, knowing we don't.

Kayla just looks at me.

We start off down the road into the twilight. My stomach growls and I hope Kayla doesn't hear. Her stomach isn't growling. I feel like a failure at survival, despite the three years I spent on my own.

Three days on the road like this. I can't sleep but fitfully, determined to somehow protect Kayla from whatever lurks in the dark. My nose detects no trace of those other wolves, yet my body refused to relax into sleep. Three days of letting Kayla find food for me during the day–stealing from gas station convenience stores, digging through dumpsters, scraping leftovers from plates at a recently abandoned table at a diner one night. A fistful of French fries, a half-eaten chicken tender and the bun from a hamburger brought to me in a napkin, because I couldn't even muster the energy to walk in there. "You're too conspicuous, anyway," Kayla told me. She meant I looked like walking death, and the other diners might smell me coming.

Three days, and three long, cold nights.

On the fourth night I leave her.