Nothing about wolves. Nothing about shifting. Nothing that would explain the conviction in his voice when he talked about something inside him that wasn’t human.
My next appointment is with a woman named Grace who complains of anxiety and insomnia. Standard presentation, straightforward treatment plan. She’s been struggling since her mother passed away six months ago, and the grief has manifested as sleepless nights and racing thoughts. We discuss relaxation techniques, sleep hygiene, and the possibility of a short-term medication consultation. She leaves with a follow-up scheduled and a referral for a sleep study.
Then comes Marcus, a man in his forties who works at the hardware store. I recognize him from my first day in town; he nodded at me when I walked past his shop. He sits down with a heavy sigh and immediately launches into a story about a fight with his brother.
“He doesn’t understand what it’s like,” Marcus insists with his hands clenched in his lap so tightly his knuckles have gone white. “Trying to keep the beast at bay all the time. Some days I just want to let go and run, you know? Let the wolf have its way.”
There it is again. The wolf.
“Tell me more about that,” I prompt carefully. “The beast, the wolf. What do those words mean to you?”
Marcus gives me an odd look, like I’ve asked him to explain why the sky is blue. “They mean what they mean. The animal inside. The part of us that isn’t human. Don’t you have one? A wolf, I mean?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
His eyebrows draw together, and he studies my face like he’s searching for something. “You don’t… Patricia didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Marcus lurches to his feet, suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable. His earlier openness has vanished, replaced by something guarded. “I think I need to reschedule. This was a mistake.”
“Marcus, please. If there’s something I should know about, something that would help me help you—”
“Ask Patricia,” he tells me over his shoulder as he makes for the door. “I don’t know what she was thinking, bringing you on board.”
The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone with a growing sense that I’m missing something critical.
After Marcus leaves, I sit at my desk and review my notes from the past two days. Ethan’s mention of shifting and wolves. Marcus’s reference to “the animal inside.” Even some of my other patients have used similar language—talking about instincts, about urges, about parts of themselves that feel separate from their human minds. One woman mentioned “pack responsibilities.” Another talked about “running with the others” as if it were a regular social activity.
At first, I assumed it was metaphorical. People often describe their emotions in animalistic terms. The wolf of anger.The beast of depression. But the consistency of the language is starting to unsettle me. It feels less like a metaphor and more like shared vocabulary, a common framework that everyone here understands except me.
I find Skylar in the break room, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She’s the nurse who showed me where the good snacks are hidden, and over the past few days, we’ve fallen into an easy rapport. She’s kind, funny, and refreshingly direct. The kind of person I could see becoming an actual friend with if I end up staying in Silvercreek.
“Can I ask you something strange?” I ask as I join her by the coffee maker.
“Sure.” She takes a sip and leans against the counter. “What’s up?”
“Is there some kind of town mythology I should know about? Something about wolves, maybe? A local legend or folklore that everyone references?”
Skylar goes very still. Her coffee cup freezes halfway to her mouth, and I watch the color drain from her face. “Why do you ask?”
“A few of my patients have mentioned things. Wolves, shifting, animals inside them.” I try to keep my tone clinical, like I’m just doing due diligence. “I’m wondering if there’s a cultural reference I’m missing. Some kind of local tradition that would put their language in context.”
Skylar sets down her cup and replies, “Fern, I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
She glances toward the door like she’s checking if anyone is listening. When she speaks again, her voice has dropped tobarely above a whisper. “When Patricia hired you, didn’t she explain about the town? About the community here?”
“She said Silvercreek has unique challenges. I assumed she meant rural mental health access issues, maybe some cultural isolation factors.”
Skylar opens her mouth, then closes it. She looks genuinely distressed, like she’s stumbled into a conversation she doesn’t know how to navigate. She twists her hands together in front of her, and she won’t quite meet my eyes. “I think you need to talk to someone else about this. Someone with more authority than me.”
“Skylar, you’re scaring me a little. What’s going on?”
Before she can answer, a shadow falls across the doorway. I turn to find Connor standing there, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. His blue eyes move between Skylar and me, taking in the scene with quick assessment.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks.
