I should have left. I should have gunned it home, locked every door, and called the sheriff from a landline. But instead, I found myself opening the door and stepping out into the cold, pistol heavy in my grip.
The fog closed around me, swallowing my breath, dampening every sound. The wolf’s eyes tracked me as I approached, but it didn’t move. I crouched a safe distance away, every instinct screaming to stay in the car, but unable to leave it suffering.
I raised the gun, thumbed back the hammer. I thought of mercy. I thought of Daddy, of the way he’d put down a horse with a broken leg, fast and clean, no hesitation.
But as I stared down the barrel, the wolf did something I’ll never forget. It bared its teeth, not in a snarl, but in something close to a grin. Then it winked.
I blinked, convinced I’d imagined it. But no, the wolf’s left eye closed and opened, deliberate as a handshake.
I stared, gun trembling. “What the fuck—” I whispered.
Behind me, the crack of a branch. I whipped around, pistol raised, but saw only trees and fog. When I turned back, the wolf had shifted, dragging itself upright on its front paws. The movement was slow, agonized, but determined. It planted one paw, then the other, and levered itself to a sitting position. Blood smeared its fur and dripped onto the road.
The human part of my brain short-circuited. Wolves don’t wink. Wolves don’t grin. Wolves don’t look you in the eye and dare you to shoot.
I lowered the gun, just a fraction, and the wolf’s tongue lolled out in a pant, almost like it was laughing at me. The pain in its eyes was real, but so was something else—defiance, maybe. Or pride.
Another sound from the woods—a low, guttural snarl, not canine. My skin crawled.
I made a choice then, one I’d have to live with. I tucked the gun into my coat, took three steps forward, and put myself between the wolf and the trees.
“Don’t ask me why,” I muttered. “I guess I never liked bullies.”
The wolf gave a low whuff, like it approved.
Together, we waited for the next threat to show its face. I stood in the cold, shivering, the fog wrapping around us like a shroud. The blood pooled at my boots. The wolf’s breathing was ragged but steady, its intense green eyes locked on mine.
In that moment, I realized I was as lost as the animal in front of me. Hunted. Cornered. Alone.
And, like the wolf, I wasn’t planning on going down easy.
The phone in my pocket buzzed—miracle of miracles, a bar had flickered to life. I wiped my hand on my skirt, got blood on it anyway, and dialed Roy Pike, the only vet in three counties who owed me enough to answer after dark.
He picked up on the second ring, voice slurred with sleep and the faintest aftertaste of bourbon. “This better be good, or you’re buying breakfast, Carrie.”
“It’s good,” I said, trying not to let my voice shake. “I need a favor.”
There was a pause as he recognized the tone. “Are you drunk, or just in trouble?”
“Neither.” I squinted at the wolf, half expecting it to fade into the mist. “You ever treat a wild animal? Something… big?”
Roy snorted. “How big?”
I hesitated. “Wolf big.”
He laughed, but then I heard him sit up, sheets rustling. “You’re shitting me.”
“Swear to God. I hit one on Mill Creek Road. It’s alive, barely. Bleeding like hell.”
“Jesus, Carrie. You know they don’t do well as pets.”
“It’s not a pet. It’s—” I searched for the word. “It’s just not normal. Please.”
He groaned, already pulling on clothes. “Okay, listen. If you can move it, get it in the back of your car. Muzzle it if you have anything, but don’t try to tourniquet. Pressure and hope. Don’t get bit. I’ll meet you at your place. And Carrie?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t get soft. If it goes for you, shoot it. That’s a fucking order.”