I sat in the corner of the room while I watched the gray wolf move around. Arvel had finished changing and was completely disoriented as if he were trying to understand where he was. He wasn't violent, which was a good thing given the critical situation he was in. Two years was absurdly unacceptable for us. It made me think that, most likely, even if I had arrived in time, it wouldn't have done any good. The transformation had become a necessity for his body. It was inevitable.
“Arvel,” I called his name, hoping the wolf would stare back at me. I needed to check that it was safe to approach. “Arvel,” I said again, noticing that the wolf wasn't paying attention; it was still sniffing around the room, trying to identify something familiar. That was it; I needed to identify myself as a wolf
