NOLAN
In my youth, I derived a rather peculiar delight from the sheer act of running. Elvis and I would often find ourselves dashing into the depths of the woods, stretching our bodies to the very brink of endurance. I must confess, there was quite a thrill in those moments—nothing short of exhilarating. The sensation of propelling oneself forward, leaping with a grace that one might associate with the divine, was a whisper of the wolf that dwelled within me, a part I embraced wholeheartedly.
“Do try to keep up,” Elvis would tease, casting a roguish wink over his shoulder, perpetually a few strides ahead of my own determined pace. He possessed a swiftness that often outstripped my own, while I, in turn, boasted a strength that was always a bit more impressive than Elvis’.
Yet, another
