air in her slipstream followed by a breeze from the north, the lowing of a moose, and a clearing of the sky.
The flap in the door opens and shuts, and a pup sniffs around Evie and Nils with a low whine.
“Nyala,” I whisper so she won’t wake them. As soon as she jumps up on my chest, my toe throbs in recognition. She turns around and around. I put my hand near her so she has something to cuddle into. Then with a big yawn, she sneezes.
The moonlight breaks through the window and Evie sighs. Putting my free hand gently on her thigh, I feel the pulse of her skin. I smell the forest-infused scent of Nyala’s fur. I’ve been told over and over that wolves and pack and land are one, but words are slippery, and while I heard, I never did understand.
Not the way I do now as I watch the moon clear the trees of the Holm to hit the waters of Home Pond and almost weep for the magic of this place that has turned an island into a home.
* * *
In the morning, Evie took Nils with her, along with a bright-pink bag stuffed with the ad hoc diapers, the regurgitated food, and the too-large clothes. Even a maggot belongs to the Pack, and the Pack would take care of him as they did when he had four legs, sharp teeth, and a measure of independence.
The one thing she did not take was my phone. Not first thing in the morning when her foot caught it and sent it sliding across the floor. Not later when I put it into her hand and curled her fingers around it.
Its once-familiar weight now feels odd in my pocket. I take it out and look through the contacts, many of whom are dead: August is listed in my contacts as AAA. Unnamed but always first. Also Antony. Under the D’s is a 604 number. Drusilla, the Bitch of Vancouver.
A stick breaks and I cram the phone back in my pocket.
Cassius stands suddenly still behind me. Then he turns and drives something that I can’t make out high into a tree. Whatever it is, it’s sharp enough to make a pale gash in the bark.
A moment later, I smell the sap bleeding into this wound and another one already beaded with amber.
“They’re very protective of their trees.”
“‘They’re very protective of their trees.’ They don’t bother to look any higher on a tree than the height of a raised leg.”
“What are you doing, Cassius?”
“Marking a path. If I’m going to be trapped here forever, I need to be able to find my way around.”
I realize that at some point I slid my hand into my pocket, trying to disguise the shape of my phone under the shape of my hand.
My thumb feels around, turning it off, so no alerts or alarms will signal to him that there is a line to the world outside, then I slide back into the woods, watching him. Soon, two wolves appear on either side of me, watching, too, until the evening comes and Cassius heads in for Evening Meat.
“I don’t trust him,” I say to the gray wolf on my right.
She shows her teeth and opens and closes her jaws rapidly, making a soft clacking sound.
“Exactly. You going to movie night?”
Tara makes a little expulsive cough.
“See you there.”
Back at the dormitory, I look around for a hiding place. There isn’t one, really. The lack of any old stuff makes it hard to hide new stuff. In the end, like a kid at summer camp, I unzip my cotton pillow liner, slip the phone in, put the pillowcase on, and turn it upside down.
* * *
You think you know somebody.
From the beginning, I’ve known Ziggy was the Great North’s Number One Werewolf Star Fanboy. I don’t know if he’s the GNNOWSF because he runs the AV equipment during movie nights, or he runs the AV equipment during movie nights because he is the GNNOWSF.
Either way, he’s nuts.
“Bill Nighy is an English actor and Bill Nye is the Science Guy. They are not the same.”
“Plug these in,” he says, holding a cord out to me. “Then I’ll show you.”
As soon as I’ve set up the power strip, I come back. “Look, here they are side by side.” Ziggy turns the laptop toward me. “That is the same man. Sickly, they have…light hair and the rims around their eyes.”
“Glasses, Ziggy. And he’s not sickly—they’re not sickly—just thin.”