KNOX
The Cascade facility was three hours east of Seattle in a valley that the highway maps didn't bother naming. Pack-owned since 1987, maintained by a rotating crew of six, large enough to host forty wolves comfortably and the better part of a hundred if everyone was willing to renegotiate their personal space.
I'd been here twelve times. Every time I walked in I had the same reaction — the old-wood smell of the main hall, the quality of the light through the high windows, and the specific stillness that comes from a space that has held serious decisions for decades and absorbed some of their weight.
Grayson drove. Riley sat in the passenger seat and didn't look at the facility when we arrived, which meant she was building herself up to looking at it and I gave her the time.
She got
