Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-59-

I'm running on legs that shouldn't hold up. Pain is a distant memory.

I slam past Mr. Whittemore, knocking him over. Leap into the room, and spend precious seconds trying to find the black wolf.

I catch a glimpse of a black tail going out through the window.

Smell blood.

I shouldn't be able to leap through that window, over Zeke's rumpled bed, avoiding the broken glass.

But I do.

I land in the melted snow and mud, slip and try to catch my breath as pain flares in my shoulder. The scent is strong, and I follow.

"Daad!" Zeke screams, his voice deafening me. He's back in his room. I vaguely remember rushing past him, a Zeke-colored blur.

I sprint after that black wolf, who is now so far ahead I can't see him. I wish I'd been able to hurt him, just a little, before this. He's perfectly healthy, well-rested, well-fed. Who knows, maybe if I wasn't injured and had eaten more than bread and jerky for the past week I still wouldn't be able to catch him. But I might have had a chance.

A few miles in, the adrenaline wears off. I begin limping. The scent is getting harder and harder to follow.

Panting, I slow to a stop, wanting nothing more than to collapse in exhaustion.

The black wolf is gone, and with him any hope of finding Kayla.

My options are to keep going, maybe after I lie down and take a nap, or go back to the Whittemore farm, after I take a nap. I imagine showing up, naked and bleeding, and watching the realization dawn on Mr. Whittemore's face when he matches the gunshot wound on my shoulder with the wolf he shot. I imagine slinking back and getting in my clothes and trying to hide my new injury, and my true self.

I decide to take a nap.

Crawling under the snowy branches of an evergreen tree, into the cozy, quiet, warm area created there, I fall asleep.

In my dream, time slows down as I run past Zeke in his bedroom. Instead of focusing only on the escaping black wolf, I notice the blood pouring down the front of his shirt, dark red against bright white. His pale face follows my movements as I go by, one hand clamped on his neck.

I can smell his blood.

It smells of pine and sweat and milk, pure and clean except for a sharp edge to it. A wet dog edge, too clean or maybe dirty underneath the clean. It confuses me, this smell on Zeke, as I'd never noticed it before. So confusing that for half a slow-motion step, I turn toward him.

That's when he peels his hand away from his neck like a band-aid on a gunshot wound, and I see the ragged edges of the bite.

Birds call to each other when my eyes snap open, telling each other to watch out for the strange creature in the evergreen tree. What is it? they ask, hopping on the branches they hope are out of my reach. A wolf but not a wolf, one says. A human but not a human.

I yawn, surprised when my jaw opens wider than I expect. I'm still in wolf form. I test my muscles – sleeping on the snow must have helped to numb some of my injuries, although the stitches in my side still feel pretty sharp. I roll my shoulder, feel nothing. There's blood in the snow and my fur is matted and sticky, but no pain. When I lick the blood away, there's nothing. Like I never got shot. I guess I overreacted last night, the bullet just grazed me or something.

(I flew backwards off my feet definitely got shot how did it heal so fast?)

The sun shines like the high beams of a car when I emerge from the shade of the evergreen. My own scent hangs heavy from last night, a trail back to the Whittemores.