Outside was November: an overcast grey sky, winter-bare trees. And ravens that Henry now knew were there for him. Why ravens looked after werewolves, he didn’t know, but they did. Henry wished he could go for another run like he had last night, and this time, take Jamey with him to see if he could remember how to fly again. Henry had gone down to the James River, and Pony Pasture Rapids, and then had taken off down a riverside path. To be awake, to be running, and experience the smells, the earth on his feet, the voice of the river. To feel his four legs stretch, to smell the world. He had run until he was exhausted, there and back again. He had so needed to run and to hunt. Henry told no one about the squirrel the wolf had eaten, how it tasted it, the warm flesh and the hot blood, the bea
