May’s still in wolf form two days later, and the boys are acting like she’s seconds away from spontaneously combusting.
“Eat this,” Caden says, holding up a spoonful of broth.
She side-eyes him with the weariness of a mother wolf who’s raised ten litters of pups and is deeply unimpressed.
“She says she’s full,” I translate, even though she technically didn’t say that. Her exact words were “Tell Caden to back off before I bite him.”
“Don’t care,” Ryan mutters, pushing a bowl of sweet potatoes closer. “Keep going. Every bite helps her heal faster. Doctor said so.”
“She also said to stop force-feeding her like she’s a foie gras goose,” I add helpfully.
“She didn’t say that,” Ryan argues.
“She implied it,” I say with a shrug.
May huffs and buries her snout under one paw dramatically. “
