We climbed the low slope to the ridge where the old path broke, and the new one had yet to be chosen. Snow had crusted there, and it sang beneath my pads. Someone bayed, loving the night for its own sake, and a dozen throats answered, mine among them. The sound skinned the air clean. By the river flats, we slowed, wheeled, and regrouped. Pups tumbled over each other and were nudged back by elders who remembered the edges of this land. Melinda’s wolf, old, rangy, grizzled, trotted past and snapped at a pair trying to sneak off for private mischief. They slunk back, grinning, tails high. Ace pressed his shoulder to Ray’s, then ducked away, teasing. She snapped at him and missed on purpose. I would have run another mile just to hear that sound again. At the bend where the river met the birch
