WHAT SHE'S MADE OF
The power came back slowly, the way heat comes back to cold hands, first at the edges, then moving inward, degrees at a time.
I sat on the stone floor and breathed and fed it, and the wolf surfaced in increments, shaking off the sedative the way a dog shakes off water. I monitored the process the way Della had taught me to monitor physical recovery without rushing, without forcing, patient in the way of someone who knows that pushing injured things makes them fail.
An hour passed. Maybe more.
The pilot light became a flame.
I stood up.
The room was the same. Stone walls, narrow window, solid door. But I was different. I could feel the difference in the way I occupied my own body, the groundedness of the wolf fully present, the anchoring power sitting in my hands li
