Hollow Ridge was not ready for a real clinic.
They were, however, apparently ready for a rolling, semi‑sanctioned med bay, because by the end of Eli’s first week, the “storage room we keep extra blankets in” had acquired shelves, a secondhand exam table, and a lock Ivy had hand‑installed with extreme satisfaction.
Lyra stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching Eli organize.
They moved with a kind of restless precision—labels in neat block letters, gauze stacked just so, bottles lined up by type and expiration date. Their wolf hovered close under their skin, lending an edge to their focus.
“You know this used to be where we kept broken chairs and unclaimed mittens,” Lyra said.
“Now it’s where we keep broken wolves,” Eli said, deadpan. “Upgraded inventory.”
Lyra snorted. “You’re goin
