“Okay, boys. We’re heading east.”
Buff lifts his muzzle and howls into the wind.
“Shhh, moron,”Froggy snarls.“Do you want to give our position away?”
Buff lowers his head.“Sorry, but it’s Maggie.”
“Dig deep. If we take this detour, we need to make up time.”
“First one to Maggie’s gets the first shower,”Froggy says.
“In that case…”Buff takes off with a burst of speed.
“Fuck you, asshole,”Froggy growls, paws digging deeper into the mud as he pulls alongside Buff and shoves him aside.
This should make me feel better, but instead my guilt burrows deeper, settling in my gut like a tapeworm.
Their spark is back, and all I can think is that I’m the one who snuffed it out in the first place.
We run in silence, our energy too precious to waste on banter. With the promise of a hot shower and a full belly ahead, every thought funnels into closing the miles.
My wolf claws at my insides, urging me faster, harder. Home is close, relief is close, Maggie is close, and I hate how desperately I want all of it.
Finally, the trees thin, and the world opens into a clearing. The rain hits like icy needles, soaking deeper into our fur in seconds.
Thanks, Mother Nature. Screwing us even harder now—no lube, no dinner first.
The boys grunt and shake out their coats, but my gaze stays locked on the shape ahead: a tin roof with smoke curling from the crooked chimney.
Maggie’s.
The moment I spot it, exhaustion rushes me, like that finish-line collapse when your body realizes the suffering is almost over and decides to give up early.
My legs go weak with relief I didn’t earn, my chest tightening like it wants to sob. Not happening, not now.
C’mon, Jason. Don’t fall apart now. We’re so close. Hold it together for two more damn minutes. That’s all. Two minutes.
Dawn breaks somewhere behind the clouds like a heavenly light. Surreal. A beacon of hope. And I swear I hear a heavenly chorus—until I realize it’s the raccoons sitting on the railing, and the sight alone gives me one last surge. Mama “Raccoon” Maggie is right in the house. So close.
My wolf damn near whimpers at the sight of her porch. There is warmth, safety, belonging—all the things we don’t deserve.
The five porch steps might as well be Kilimanjaro, but somehow I make them, moments after Froggy and Buff reach the top.
We shift as one, sodden clothes clinging to me and Froggy, Buff naked as the day he was born. I shiver as the soaked fabric glues itself to my skin. I wish shifter magic were more sophisticated; if it can keep our clothes intact during a shift, why the hell can’t it keep them dry?
Cold knifes through me, a reminder that I barely have anything left to give.
Before Froggy’s shivering hand can hit the red door with its peeling paint, it swings open.
“Saints above, if it isn’t my favorite pack of disappointments.”
Mama Raccoon barrels out, barefoot, forest-green robe flapping, hair piled in a braided mess. She smells like sage, grease, and moonshine—she limits herself to one shot a day.
Her voice alone is a damn balm, so steady, loud, and unapologetic. Something inside me loosens just hearing her.
Buff drops to his knees, panting and grinning. “Mags! You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
“You’re a sight for sore everything, Beauford Bergen,” she huffs, then calls over her shoulder, “Jimmy, bring me three towels! Not the good ones.” She turns back to us. “You’re filthier than my compost heap. And you, Beauford—what in the goddess’s half-cracked crockpot happened to you? You’re as naked as a plucked chicken.”
