Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

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In Rapid City Roy drops me off when he stops at the end of the off-ramp. "Thanks," I say, hopping down. I walk back up to the highway, and keep walking until finally the exhaustion catches up to me. I need food. No one's gonna stop for me on a highway this big, a highway peppered with signs prohibiting hitchhiking.

I veer off, away from the road. This is all barren, covered in snow. Rolling hills upon hills of white. I slog through over the crest of a hill and collapse. I'm not sure I can control my wolf when I'm this hungry. I'm not sure there's even any animals to hunt out here. Not many other options.

My clothes I leave in a heap on the ground.

Sharp, the smells are sharp, crisp. The faintest whiff of prairie dog and I'm racing across the crust of snow, sniffing and digging and crunching down bones and fur that I then have to cough up. Then I keep running. I'm tired but my wolf isn't; I give him enough free rein that he goes into autopilot, finding north with one of those animal instincts humans lost along the way. Finding home.

I've got a few hundred miles to go.

* * *

My paws hurt. When my wolf gets tired I take over. Running and running and running. In my waking dreams I see Kayla. Though her lips move, I cannot hear her speak.

I collapse after the second sunset. The paw prints leading to my location in the snow are bloody. In the darkness no dreams come, but I feel a presence in the darkness. Is it the black wolf, come to torment me in my sleep? The exhaustion doesn't give me any energy to worry.

A prickling scent awakens me in the late morning. It feels as though only moments have passed but night has passed into early dawn. I stretch, shake off the sleep, then crouch low to the ground while I try to discern the scent.

Smoke, from a distant chimney. The sky is a stark blue with no hint of any fire burning nearby.

A family must be warming themselves by their fireplace some ways off, behind the trees. I turn to continue north, when the prickling becomes less about the smoke than another scent behind it. A feeling.

Not a chimney. I inhale. Not a little fireplace fire. Something big is burning. An entire house, a forest? I can't explain the jittery feeling chattering over nerves. Though my stomach is empty, I close my eyes and let the wolf guide me.

danger help save run protect the pack

I rise up and we run together, my wolf's fear fueling us. My pack – Kayla, Zeke? I imagine them bound and gagged, at the mercy of the black wolf and his alpha, that unknown enemy. Running running running – beating the ground like a war drum, spurring me on.

And on.

And on.

In the wilderness there are no signs, nothing to say "Wolf Point – 5 miles." I run and run, the pounding of paws on earth becoming the rhythm of my breathing and my heartbeat. I stop only to eat and to rest long enough for my paws to heal.

The landscape blurs beneath us. I smell a familiar scent – a train – and suddenly I am transported.

Tracks run through Wolf Point. Every night I used to fall asleep with the lonely train whistle filling the night, the smell of rusting iron, the screech of metal brakes...

These would be the same for any railroad.

(the chances that this is the same track)

it is the same

(can't be sure)

home it leads home

I follow the wolf's instincts. We run alongside the tracks, in the level land beside the rails. Trains roar past, sending a flurry of icy wind against my matted coat of fur.

More and more familiar smells assault my nose, a combination of the exhaust from pickup trucks, cow manure, the roadside trash, the mushy slop from the school cafeteria, the fried oil of the local bar and grill, hiding under the thick greasy stench of fire.

Now I'm tearing through cow pastures, startling bovines drifting off to sleep in the twilight. I'm racing down familiar roads, cutting across lawns. I follow the fire, but I know where it is. Hoping I'm wrong. The whining sirens reach my ears and the adrenaline pumps in my veins.

Across a road, narrowly avoiding trucks and their blinding headlights. Up that long dirt road that winds up into the hills, away from everyone else, strobes of red and blue pulsating against the sky. The sirens' wail is deafening; without my hearing I find myself shrinking back into the trees, slowing down, approaching cautiously. The scent of humans is all around, and I can see them, clustered around the smoking wreck that barely resembles a house.

So many times I've imagined my return home. Trudging up the driveway, my mother framed in the screen door, sometimes happy, other times angry or sad. But always the house was there, and my mother always waiting for me.

Instead, my house is empty.