The map on the kitchen table wasn’t supposed to exist.
It was human, for one thing. Paper, creased and stained, bought from a corner shop the first week I’d come back, “just in case.” I’d shoved it into a drawer and tried not to look at it.
Now it lay open under Mara’s hands, spread flat between a halfempty mug and a bowl of crayons.
“This town,” she said, tapping a dot two hours by train from the capital. “Dull as soup. One clinic. Three schools. Forest on two sides. Humans on the third. The only wolf scent for a hundred kilometers is a tiny pack that minds its own business and mostly complains about zoning laws.”
“Sounds ideal,” El said, perched on the counter. “I hate it.”
“You would,” Mara said. “You think ‘quiet’ is a disease.”
Grace leaned against the fridge, arms folded. “Safe
