Chapter Twenty Five

  The

  night air was crisp and humming with insect life as we ran, paws

  pattering against the gravel beside the train tracks. For a brief

  stretch, the wolf followed the rails, her body drinking in the speed,

  the space. But soon she veered off, crossing over into the woods on the

  other side—not aimlessly, but with purpose. Following the path she'd

  carved the night before, when for the first time, she'd been free to

  roam a forest of her own. My body—no, the wolf’s body—moved with

  effortless grace, slipping in and out of shadow, a creature built for

  this. The freedom, the sheer exhilaration of motion, sent a thrill

  through me that was alien and intoxicating.

  Was

  this what it felt like to be in shape? To have a body that didn’t rebel

  against the slightest bit of exertion? I’d done sports before—track and

  field in high school, mostly at the insistence of my stepmom. It'd get

  me in shape, she said. Be more athletic. That I'd feel better about

  myself the more I did it.

  What a miserable affair that had been.

  But this? This was flying.

  And

  yet, beneath the rush of movement, something gnawed at her. Hunger.

  Deep, insistent, primal. No joy could fully conceal the hollow ache

  steadily growing at her core. All that speed, all that strength—it had

  to come from somewhere. The moon gave her the power to change, to

  amplify her body beyond the natural limits of her kind, but she still

  had to provide the basic building blocks herself.

  She needed protein. And lots of it.

  With a body like hers, she was basically a 2,500-calorie furnace in need of fuel.

  Boden

  was still her top priority, yes, and she'd get around to that soon

  enough. But, right now, the wolf wanted—needed—one thing more than

  anything else.

  Food.

  Fortunately, she’d left herself a snack for later.

  The

  wolf followed her nose, weaving deeper into the woods with

  single-minded purpose. The scent she tracked was pungent and potent,

  laced with something earthy and metallic. To her, it was alluring. To

  me, it was... itchy. Familiar in a way I couldn't quite place, like a

  half-remembered dream.

  Despite

  our shared, smell-o-graphy memory, I was being thrown off by the fact I

  was using her nose and not mine. Her perception of smell was so

  different, so much more vivid, that I struggled to match the sensations

  with my human experiences. But we shared a headspace. If she could rifle

  through my memories like an encyclopedia, then maybe I could do the

  same.

  I thought.

  she replied, blunt and obvious.

  Helpful.

  I focused, digging into the olfactory data like I was tuning a radio dial. Trying to figure out what she was after.

  Venison.

  Day-old, sun-warmed, half-fermented venison.

  Oh, no.

  Absolutely not.

  The

  wolf pushed through the last of the underbrush and stepped into a small

  clearing—one she and her dog entourage had trampled into existence the

  night before, gathering here like a pack for dinner under the stars.

  And there it was.

  The deer carcass. The mostly eaten, fly-ridden, dead deer I'd come across earlier. Right where she'd left it.

  If

  I had been there in person, the scent would have turned my stomach and

  left me retching—a wave of thick, overripe decay that my human instincts

  would have immediately recoiled from. The wolf's reaction, however, was

  disturbingly enthusiastic. Vultures and black-feathered scavengers

  scattered as we approached, dark wings beating against the night. What

  had been a fresh kill was now bloated and slack, hide peeling, flesh

  glossy with rot. The air buzzed with flies, and the soil beneath the

  body glistened dark with fluids that had soaked into the earth, forming a

  rank, squelching halo around the carcass. The trees stood still and

  watchful around us, as if unwilling to get involved. Even the moonlight

  dimmed here, as if in deference to the grotesque banquet awaiting us.

  Through

  the wolf’s nose, though, it wasn’t rot. It was richness. Aged, cured

  carrion. An aroma layered with complexity and promise.

  I said firmly.

  God forbid I woke up with some of it still in my teeth.

  She sniffed at the exposed ribs, her eyes glinting with anticipation.

  I argued.

  the wolf thought.

  I

  scrambled for leverage. If she ate that, I’d have to sit through every

  bite of it—experience every taste, every texture, every chew from the

  inside. And as much as I hated the idea of waking up with a shred of

  decomposing venison stuck between my teeth, what disturbed me more was

  how vividly I would feel her enjoyment. I wouldn’t just witness it. I’d

  it. The revulsion, the horror, the grotesque sensory overload would all

  be mine to process. And worse yet? A part of me might even like it.

  Again.

  The subjectivity of it all being a double-edged sword.

  Yet,

  fully closing off my mind to the wolf came with the unaffordable risk

  of slipping into unconsciousness. Without the sensory input from the

  wolf, I'd lose all track of time, cut myself off from the world,

  trapping myself in my own little headspace. I'd closed my eyes for what

  seemed like a moment, only to find it to be morning, myself naked, and

  in someone's yard, yet again.

  Last

  night, when the deer had first fallen, I’d tried to shut it all out by

  finding a way to distract myself with things like mental math, going

  over excel commands, and coming up with an updated grocery budget. But

  the heat of fresh blood, the electric pulse of the kill, the grim

  satisfaction that followed—it had seeped into me. Making it not just

  hers, but mine too.

  And when the others joined in, tearing into their shared meal, she had radiated pride. Like a mother feeding her pups.

  First day on the job, and we were already dog-moms.

  And then there had been the Purina.

  We’d

  negotiated that meal. Or more accurately, she’d strong-armed me into

  eating enough food for four dogs. Granted, four dogs that were half her

  size, but still. She didn’t care that I felt bloated or uncomfortable.

  Thoughts of inconveniencing me rarely crossed her mind, particularly

  when it came to food.

  The real trick wasn’t just bargaining—it was understanding how she thought. How any food-motivated creature thought.

  Perhaps a bit of compromise was warranted.

  I bargained, I’ll

  help you find something better. There are restaurants along the tracks,

  with dumpsters full of leftovers. We could find you a burger. Fries.

  Another rotisserie chicken. Something fresher than this.

  I paused, letting the thought sink in.

  I asked.

  Of course she would.

  The wolf loved dumpsters. Loved them the way someone with a gambling addiction loved corner store lotto tickets.

  I

  knew this because, before I figured out how to properly lock her away

  inside my apartment, she used to go out on her own. Wander the streets

  during full moons, chasing strays and digging through trash. I

  remembered fragments of those nights like dreams soaked in fog. The many

  treasures she’d uncovered rooting through people's garbage. And her

  desires lingered in the daylight, bleeding into me as subconscious

  urges. Little things. The desire to peek into alleyway bins. To follow

  the scent of meat someone had tossed out unfinished.

  Dumpsters were her box of chocolates: never knew what she was going to get.

  Not

  only that, but the wolf loved human food. Even dog food was technically

  human food to her—created, packaged, and seasoned by people. It had

  complexity. Variety. Flavor. And we humans, in all our wasteful glory,

  threw out so much of it for no good reason.

  Grocery stores. Restaurants. Dumpsters packed with meals that never got eaten.

  The wolf loved to capitalize on it.

  But the worst part?

  Sometimes, I caught myself checking, too. Sometimes when the Auto-dog got the better of me. Sometimes out of sheer curiosity.

  Hell,

  there was a whole online community around it. Dumpster divers.

  Freegans, they called themselves. People who raided grocery bins and

  scored full hauls of fruits, vegetables, canned goods—entire boxes of

  perfectly good food. The wolf, naturally, was fully on board with such a

  movement, whereas I just abhorred the idea of waste. I who'd barely two

  dimes to spare on expense.

  So

  yeah. I was willing to swap rotten meat for garbage food anyday, and

  call it progress. Besides, if I wanted to keep the wolf from tearing

  into a bloated carcass like it was fine cuisine, I was going to have to

  make some concessions.

  The

  wolf weighed my offer with a flicker of consideration. And, just as I

  suspected, she was all for it. Dumpsters? Human food? A moving buffet of

  smells and surprises? Yes, please.

  The

  wolf stepped back from the carcass, suddenly eager to try her luck with

  the unknown treasures waiting in the many fragrant metal boxes

  scattered across the city.

  Relief washed over me.

  Now I just had to figure out how I was going to talk her out of eating actual trash when the time came.

  But

  then the wolf's stomach rumbled again—that second brain of hers already

  daydreaming about another rotisserie chicken haul. I felt her mind

  pivot.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She stopped.

  Turned.

  Because of course she did.

  She needed a snack for the road.

  Before

  I could stop her, she shoved her head into the deer's chest cavity and

  tore into the remaining flesh. I screamed in protest, tried to rein her

  back, but was overwhelmed by the sensory input. I would say that I was

  in agony, but the wolf was enjoying herself. Thoroughly. So objectively,

  the input itself wasn't bad at all. In fact, I could easily enjoy it

  too.

  You know, if I could overlook that fact we were eating a rotten corpse.

  The

  rich, fatty taste burst across our shared senses, like some awful ASMR

  mukbang I couldn’t mute. I tried to recoil, to mentally turn my chair

  around and face the wall, but I couldn’t fully sever the connection.

  To

  abandon awareness was to let go of the wheel. There was too much at

  risk, and I wasn't ready to meet Childs face-to-face in court so soon.

  So I endured.

  The

  wolf’s delight was unfiltered and deeply inconvenient. The warmth, the

  yielding texture, of what was probably the deer's spleen. Or maybe the

  kidney? I didn’t know—JT was the vet, not me. All I knew was that she

  was having a great time, and I was having to suffer through it like I

  was stuck at the table with someone chewing with their mouth open.

  Bloated

  black flies buzzed lazily around our head, landing on our ears with the

  casual entitlement of creatures that knew they were unwelcome and

  didn’t care.

  Then I felt it—something creeping along the back of my neck. Slow at first. Then quickly.

  A flicker of movement. The faint squish of a dying fly as two inch-long fangs sank into it.

  Oh great. He was still here too.

  Elmo.

  Who'd managed to cling to the nape of our neck throughout the entirety

  of the prison break, had come to join us for dinner.

  Just the company I was looking for.

  The

  wolf had returned to the train tracks, her paws once again pounding

  over the gravel. We passed beneath a corridor of high-voltage power

  lines, the air thick with static, the wires humming like invisible

  wasps. The charge in the air made her fur bristle—thrilling,

  uncomfortable, alive. The tracks led us through a narrow ribbon of

  trees, threading a border between the sleepy neighborhoods of Shadow

  Ferry and Garden Creek, the rails serving as a border between these two

  lesser kingdoms of suburbia.

  We

  skimmed past Springfield Elementary, its dark windows like bland, empty

  eyes. Then we dipped under the yawning span of the Ashley River Road

  overpass, the underside of the concrete bridge decorated with graffiti

  and Virginia Creepers, before veering toward the same-named river.

  The

  wolf exited the corridor of trees as she crossed the Ashley River,

  leaving behind West Ashley—now just a smear of dark woods and scattered

  porch lights. Ahead, North Charleston glowed in the night, countless

  lights twinkling through the haze, the scent of the city riding the

  wind. The drawbridge was down and its control booth unmanned.

  .

  Here, I'd been hoping that the wolf's night would've come to an abrupt

  end. But there was no boat traffic at this hour to warrant raising the

  tracks.

  I could only be so lucky.

  The

  wolf stole across the bridge, paws whispering over the asphalt, the

  wind combing through our fur. Even at this pace—a casual lope, by her

  standards—we were easily breaking a four-minute mile. Who needed a car

  when you could outrun Forrest Gump? The wolf exulted in it—the speed,

  the power, the effortless rhythm of muscle and momentum.

  She could easily outrun any Olympic sprinters with what was basically a warm-up jog for her.

  I,

  on the other hand—or paw—was understandably fixated on the sinew still

  caught between our teeth. It wasn't the taste that bothered me—the

  wolf’s palate didn’t register it as foul—but I knew it would be there

  come morning. She’d had her snack, and now she was enjoying a nice jog.

  Me? I was obsessing over how foul my breath was going to be in the

  morning. I’d need to scrub my mouth with actual detergent, maybe gargle

  bleach. And whatever had ended up in my hair? I'd have to deal with that

  too, and the thought made me shudder.

  And

  then there would the inevitable crash. Returning to my own body after

  this—after feeling so light, so strong—was going to be hell. I hadn't

  properly slept in days, nor had I eaten any real food that didn’t come

  in a can with a dog on the label—aside from a sole bag of mixed salad.

  Tomorrow I was going to wake up sore, moody, and feeling like I had a

  hangover, but without the fun of partying. The wolf wouldn’t have to

  deal with any of that. She’d be long gone, curled up somewhere in the

  back of my mind, leaving me to pick up the pieces—with sluggish limbs,

  the itchy skin, the sour sweat, the aching joints.

  How

  was I supposed to go back to normal? To live in this meat suit of mine

  and pretend everything was fine? I definitely needed to hit the gym,

  maybe do some cardio that didn’t involve being chased by my own life

  choices. But if I could barely afford rent, who was I kidding thinking I

  could swing a gym membership?

  But

  then again, gym memberships were actually kind of practical when you

  were homeless. A locker to stash your things, showers to stay clean,

  equipment to keep yourself in shape. Working out helped with stress,

  too. But mostly, it kept you from looking and smelling homeless—which,

  let’s be honest, made a big difference when trying to hold onto a job.

  Hard to get a job, or keep a job, when you smelled like you never bathed.

  The

  marsh stretched out around us as we reached the eastern bank of the

  Ashley—a mile or so of black mud and reeds sprawling in every direction.

  The air was thick with salt and pluff mud, the night alive with the

  chirp of crickets and the click-bubble chatter of a thousand fiddler

  crabs. The night was quiet—no engines, no horns—just the kind of

  stillness that made every small noise seem louder by contrast.

  The wolf slowed as we reached the mainland, her gait relaxing. She listened, she sniffed—curious, alert. Taking in the night.

  And then she stopped.

  Her head turned. Ears flicked forward. Nose quivered.

  She’d smelled something that caught her attention.

  And it didn't require a lot of brain cells to figure out what it might be.

  It was food. Obviously.

  The aroma of seared meat, grilled vegetables, and charcoal smoke.

  It was the smell of a cookout.

  I

  had hoped the wolf would be too fixated on running, sufficiently

  satiated from her snack to notice something like this. I was already

  dreading how I’d keep her out of trash cans once we hit downtown—I

  hadn’t even considered that something else might tempt her before she

  even got there. Which, in hindsight, was shortsighted. It was a holiday

  weekend. People were apt to celebrate early. A little backyard cookout

  here or there. Some families jumping the gun by a day or two in advance.

  Hell, some folks were already setting off fireworks—sporadic pops

  echoing in the distance, some blooming into bursts of color, others just

  making a racket.

  So yeah. She had smelled food. A lot of it.

  A curious scent she hadn't smelled before.

  The wolf rifled through the ,

  pulling up old summer memories of backyards and ball games, folding

  chairs, paper plates, and meat that hissed when it hit the grill. I

  hadn’t always been a vegetarian—I’d grown up Southern, after all. I’d

  attended more church potlucks, park cookouts, and family barbecues than I

  could count. So yeah, I had a comprehensive mental catalog of

  everything edible you might find at a gathering like this.

  At

  first, the wolf was confused by the burnt smell, but once she accessed

  my memories of burgers and hotdogs and charred corn on the cob, her

  interest sharpened. Her mouth watered.

  I cursed myself. Me and my life experiences. I was only making her hungrier.

  She

  followed the scent into a neighborhood, slinking low as she left the

  tracks and passed through a shallow patch of marshy grass. The ground

  was damp and soft beneath our paws, reeds brushing our sides. She

  slipped into the brush that bordered the yard, the house a modest brick

  one perched along the water. It wasn’t much for size, but the lawn was

  generous—an open sprawl of grass edged by shrubs and patchy brush, with a

  few narrow footpaths snaking toward the marsh, likely for fishing or

  launching a kayak.

  It looked like half the neighborhood had shown up for the occasion.

  Tiki

  torches sputtered against the dark, casting golden halos over a circle

  of people standing around a fire pit. On the deck, someone manned a

  grill, flipping burgers with casual ease. Folding tables held trays

  covered in foil, plates stacked high, red Solo cups scattered across

  surfaces like petals.

  The

  wolf crept forward through the brush, drawn by the smell but wary of

  the crowd. She moved like a shadow—slow, fluid, calculating. Her mind

  was already working out the logistics: wait near the edge, snatch a

  burger from an unsuspecting guest who wandered too close, and disappear

  back into the thickets.

  A hit-and-run snack attack.

  To

  be fair, she wasn't the only one considering it. A handful of dogs

  already roamed the party, eyes locked on their owners' plates, waiting

  for that one distracted moment. Didn't matter if it was meat, coleslaw,

  or potato salad. Food was food.

  One

  of those dogs—maybe less hungry or more vigilant than the rest—lifted

  his head as we moved. His head turned, focusing in on our location.

  And then—a bark.

  The

  dog—muscular, maybe part Staffordshire, maybe part Doberman, definitely

  part high-strung—locked eyes with us. His hackles shot up, and he

  launched into a barking frenzy, yanking his leash free from his owner’s

  grip. Then he charged, crashing through the underbrush—

  And stopped dead.

  The wolf did not move. Did not bare her teeth. Did not even raise her hackles. She didn’t need to.

  She

  growled. Low. Deep. The kind of sound that made your spine tingle and

  your teeth rattle. She didn’t lunge or snap—just wanted to see how sure

  of himself this little tough guy thought he was. A test of nerves,

  nothing more. How he handled a taunt from a creature that knew she could

  end him in a single move, but chose not to.

  The

  dog’s bravado crumbled. He shrank, ears flattening, tail tucking

  between his legs. He let out a small, panicked yip and bolted back to

  the safety of his people.

  The wolf held her head high, gloating, proud of having put the little tough guy in his place.

  But the victory was short-lived.

  Chairs

  scraped back. People stood, turning toward the dog that had just burst

  from the brush. A few backed away from that edge of the lawn, uncertain.

  Others crept forward, peering into the dark hedges.

  They didn’t know what had spooked the dog—but they all knew something was there.

  Saltwater

  crocodile perhaps. Or perhaps a bear—but let's not get ridiculous here.

  A bear, this far down the peninsula? That would be as unheard of as...

  well, a werewolf.

  The wolf began to retreat, slipping backward into the shadows before any eyes could find her.

  Alone,

  humans were weak, slow. But together, they could be dangerous. She

  would not test them tonight. She didn't fear a lone human. But a pack?

  That was different.

  Packs were always stronger.

  I chimed in.

  The wolf considered this.

  I pressed on.

  I

  wasn’t totally sure where I was going with this. Ad-lib philosophy at

  best. But the moment felt right—like I had a chance to make a point to

  her about something. Something about thinking beyond her

  single-mindedness. Something about the bigger picture.

  A thought flickered through the wolf's mind.

  Ah. So she was getting it.

  I said. Not just the dogs.

  I let that hang for a moment, then pushed further.

  It was a little "do as I say, not as I do," considering how much help I’d let JT offer me.

  Still. I wasn’t wrong.

  She

  absorbed this, thinking—circling around the idea as it began to take

  root. Not just Sandy’s animals. Not just the dogs. She was reassessing

  the way she categorized others. A quiet relabeling. People could be part

  of her pack. People like JT.

  But she kept sorting through my memories, evaluating more faces. Judge Childs surfaced.

  I said, not sure how to explain.

  I'd have scratched my head if I could.

  The next thought came with a voice. Vanessa, V, from the phone call earlier.

  I replied.

  The wolf decided friend was just another flavor of pack.

  Then came Patty, the woman from the church who helped with Phin and Ferb.

  I said.

  The wolf added that one to the pile, too. Another subcategory of pack.

  I continued,

  She didn’t resist the idea. Just turned it over, thoughtful.

  A

  memory surfaced—one we both shared. JT, seated in the grass, clutching

  his arm and chest, reaching over to pet Maggie. The wolf lingered on the

  image longer than I expected. I felt her thoughts catching on a snag,

  puzzling out a contradiction: if JT was supposed to be part of the

  pack... why had we hurt him?

  I stiffened.

  She disagreed.

  The

  wolf paused again, chewing over what I’d said. I could sense the gears

  turning, her frame of mind shifting—subtle, but familiar. The same shift

  I’d felt before, that moment she outmaneuvered me by thinking more like

  a human. When she’d tapped into her own Auto-Jane.

  Then came the question. Or more of an idea, but formed and directed at me with surprising clarity.

  This made me pause.

  The

  wolf had never acknowledged me directly like this. Not really. I’d

  always felt like her shoulder-angel, the nagging voice of reason perched

  behind her ear. Meanwhile, she’d been my shoulder-devil—my Auto-dog,

  barking for chaos and indulgence.

  And now here she was, actually addressing me.

  With a heavy question to boot.

  I hesitated, thinking carefully.

  I said slowly.

  If anything, it felt like we were more of a than a .

  Again with the heavy questions from left field.

  , I said.

  Silence stretched.

  Then, she spoke again.

  I thought, trying to parse this question.

  The

  wolf tried to clarify. She dug through our shared history, tracing

  backward. She recalled last night, when I’d called to her, woken her

  early, so we could face Carl together. The night before that, when I

  lulled her to sleep, and several other nights like that. The memory

  blurred as it stretched further back, dissolving into something

  abstract. A dream half-remembered.

  To something before. Before, when...

  She couldn't remember.

  Her

  stomach growled, and just like that, the introspective, borderline

  philosophical wolf vanished. The moment snapping like a twig. Whatever

  complex thoughts had been unfurling in her mind were replaced with a

  single, insistent craving.

  She nudged me—less a request, more a reminder. I'd promised her food, and she hadn't forgotten.

  Of course she hadn't.

  So much for a constructive conversation.

  I sighed.