I nod, my wolf thinks the same. I suspect Skylar and Fern half-offered just to give me a break, rather than because the tests matter. Either way, I’ll take it. “Thanks for the shifts, I’ll sort times with them.”
James slides a folder across the table. “We’ll keep you on perimeter routes. Easier to bail if you need to get back to the kid.”
There’s something like respect in his gaze, and it throws me off for a second. He didn’t trust me when I first arrived. I wouldn’t have trusted me, either. But he’s seen me at my absolute worst, and now he’s watching to see what I make of myself.
“Don’t worry,” Dylan says, returning with a mug nearly overflowing. “If you fall asleep on the job, we’ll let her run the patrol when she gets bigger instead. Bet she’s got a better nose already.”
I grin, despite myself. “Give her a month. She’ll be running the whole show.”
Nick settles back, looking satisfied. “Good. That’s handled.” He glances at the baby, then at me, and his face softens just a fraction. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, running a hand through my hair and trying to re-establish something of the persona I usually try to portray. “We’re just getting on our feet. I’m glad she’s here, though.”
I mean it. The words settle over me, a wobbly truth I didn’t think I was brave enough to say out loud yet. But I can feel it, deep in the soft middle of my chest where nothing good ever lasts. When I look down at her, it’s like there’s a thread tying me to her, tightly.
I didn’t have this on my bingo card, but I’ll be damned if she ever realizes I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
I say my goodbyes and scoop Alora into the crook of my arm, making a polite exit, shoving another mug of coffee into my system as a last defense. Outside, the cold clears the last of the tiredness in my head. I buckle Alora into the truck, her tiny fists kneading at the air, and we set off into town like we’re our own little two-wolf circus.
I pass the general store on the way to the clinic and already feel my soul trying to leave my body. I need more diapers, probably another pacifier, and whatever magic potion exists to keep babies from losing their goddamn minds between two and five in the morning. I promise myself I’ll stop in after, but even the thought makes me want to claw my own eyes out.
Last time I went in, Maggie practically staged an intervention in aisle three. She’s the owner, a woman built like an old oak tree; wide, sturdy, and likely to outlive us all. She caught me with Alora in the crook of my arm and immediately switched into wolf-grandma mode, not even pretending to be subtle. Questions came rapid-fire: “Where did you get her?” “Who’s the mom?” “Is she eating enough?” “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” That last one was more of a diagnosis than a question.
I tried to joke my way through it as usual, smiled, flashed the dimples, made a crack about her baby section being a minefield, but Maggie’s not the type to be distracted by charm. She just patted my arm, called me “sweetie,” and loaded my basket with a week’s worth of supplies I didn’t know I needed. I left with a receipt longer than my forearm, and the sneaking suspicion that she’d call in a welfare check the next time I bought my usual fifth of whiskey instead of formula.
I swerve the general store for now and decide to deal with Skylar and Fern first. Praying the clinic is quiet again, I pull into the lot and brave the cold. Inside, Skylar is at the front desk, typing with one hand and holding a granola bar with the other. She’s in her usual turquoise scrubs, hair in a wild topknot. When she sees me, she doesn’t say anything at first, just takes in the state of me, and raises a single eyebrow.
“You look like a man who’s seen combat,” she finally offers.
“I’d take a grenade over a colicky night,” I say, and she laughs, genuinely. The sound fills up the empty waiting room, making it feel less like a hospital and more like a living room with very bad lighting.
“Got a minute?” I ask, and she gestures for me to follow. Alora is already stirring, and I can feel the tension in her tiny muscles through the carrier strap.
Skylar leads us through a door marked STAFF ONLY and into a room painted a color probably called something like “optimism” by the paint company. There’s a full crib set up in the corner, plus a play mat and a changing station. It’s more intimate in here, and I realize this is where the younger patients must hang out when they need treatment.
“We’ve got everything set up for her,” Skylar says, taking Alora off my hands with practiced ease. “Crib, formula, diapers, even a sound machine. You want me to run those panels this week?”
“Please,” I say, a little too relieved. “And I can take perimeter routes, whenever. Nick said to work it out with you.”
She nods, pulling up her diary on the tablet and listing a few days they can cover. “I’ll keep her here during your shifts this week; it’s pretty light around here at the moment. Drop her off in the mornings, pick her up after.”
I nod, relieved, and Skylar discards the tablet and offers her hands to take Alora, who seems keen to go for a cuddle with one of the only other people she probably knows. Skylar coos over her and then turns a look on me that’s equal parts concern and calculation. “You know these shifts aren’t going to get any shorter, right?” she says, voice casual but loaded.
I cross my arms, bracing for the lecture. “I’ll make it work. You said it yourself…shifters are adaptable.”
Skylar snorts, expertly unsnapping the onesie with her knuckles. “Adaptable is one thing. Running on fumes is another.” She makes a face at the faint, sour smell rising from the diaper, but doesn’t break stride. “You ever think about, I don’t know, getting help? Like, actual help?”
The word makes my skin prickle. I picture the parade of failures that would come from letting someone else into my life, so I shake my head. “Don’t have any family. No one I trust, anyway. And she’s not old enough for pre-school.”
“What about a sitter?” she presses. “A nanny? Even part-time? You’re going to need someone.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. I have no idea what people do with kids this little. I’m winging it, and everyone can tell. Even the baby probably knows.
Skylar reads my silence and softens, working a fresh diaper under Alora with deft precision. “Look, I know it’s weird to ask for help, but the pack does this all the time. Babies are basically a community project for the first few months. You don’t have to white-knuckle it alone.”
I want to protest, to say I’m fine, but the words feel thin and brittle. “I don’t even know what I need,” I say finally, the admission burning my throat on the way out.
She wipes Alora’s face with a practiced gentleness, meets my eyes, and shrugs. “Start by asking. There are people who’d take the job. Luna will definitely know someone, I think she’s already been putting some feelers out to see who might be free.”
