“You’re doing great,” I said. “You hear me? Really great.”
His eyes flicked to mine. “Am I going to turn?”
I didn’t lie. “Yes. But we’re going to make sure that you’re okay.”
That seemed to be enough for him. He squeezed his mother’s hand and breathed.
Tamsin stood at the foot of the cot, watching, reading the room, handing me supplies when I needed them. When Finn’s breathing hitched again, she took his other hand.
“What do wolves do when they’re scared?” she asked him softly.
He sniffed. “Run.”
“Sometimes,” she said. “But mostly they depend on their pack. You’re not alone here.”
He stared at her, then nodded once, solemn as a priest.
Hours passed in small increments. Finn’s fever broke in stages. His pulse slowed. His breathing deepened. When he finally slept, the room exhaled with him.
All of us left the room to allow him to rest.
In the kitchen, Tamsin spoke with the family while I washed my hands. She told them who we were, what we were trying to stop, and what help looked like beyond just running to somewhere supposedly safe.
“I’m the leader of the Accord. I run a network to help wolves,” she said. “We connect them. We give them food, medicine, and places to rest. If you choose to move later, we’ll help you do it safely.”
The woman listened, chin lifted. “And if we choose to stay?”
“Then you stay,” Tamsin said. “And we’ll check in when we can.”
At dusk, we ate together at a long table scarred by years of use. The stew was simple and perfect. Bread torn by hand. A jug of milk passed around. Their three children watched us with curiosity that eased into comfort as the meal went on.
Finn woke long enough to sip water. He smiled at me, shy and crooked. Later, when we were preparing to bed down in the loft, he was able to get out of bed. Then he padded over to me with something clutched in his fist.
“For you,” he said, holding it out.
It was a little wolf carved from scrap wood, a bit rough, the ears a little too big, the tail merely a suggestion. I took it carefully, like it might break if I squeezed it too hard.
“Thank you,” I said earnestly.
He beamed, then yawned and leaned into Tamsin’s side without asking. She rested a hand on his hair, easy and comforting.
Later that evening, Tamsin and I sat on the steps alone together with our backs to the house, the stars bright and indifferent overhead.
“He’s going to be alright,” I said.
She nodded. “You did that.”
“We did,” I corrected. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
She smiled, small and tired. “I’m learning.”
I hesitated, then said what I was thinking, because some truths need air. “You’re going to make a good mother one day.”
She went very still, sitting in silence for a second before she laughed softly.
“That’s a bold assumption.”
“I’ve watched you,” I said. “You see people. You take care of them. You’re a natural.”
