So I make myself think, coldly, clearly, the way my father trained me to think before I ever knew there was another way.
We can't run. That's the first fixed truth. I ran once and it bought three years and then they found me anyway, and now they have her scent and her name and her house, and running just means running with a target on both our backs, hunted, exposed, with nowhere that isn't strange and unprotected. Running is how she dies tired in a motel two states away. No.
We can't hide. Same reason. There is no hole deep enough. They are patient and they are many and I am one wolf with a human girl to protect.
We can't wait. The deadline is the end of the season and every day I do nothing is a day the patient man tightens his grip and enjoys watching me squirm. Waiting is losing slo
