ISLA
The makeshift clinic smells like blood and desperation. Seven wounded wolves from the hunter attack, all needing treatment I can barely provide with our limited supplies.
"Hold still," I tell Marcus. He's got silver poisoning from a bullet wound. The metal fragments are still inside, preventing healing. "This is going to hurt."
"Everything hurts." But he grits his teeth, lets me work.
I'm using tweezers sterilized over a lighter. Not ideal. Not even close to proper medical procedure. But it's what we have.
The door opens. I don't look up. "If you're not bleeding or dying, wait your turn."
"I'm neither." The voice is male, cultured, unfamiliar. "I'm here to help."
I look up.
Human man. Late fifties, distinguished looking. Expensive coat, medical bag in hand. He shouldn't be her
