Remy
We took the path that peels off the back lawn and threads down through the cottonwoods, toward the river’s slow shine. I kept my hands in my pockets, because even a gentle touch can feel like an argument when someone’s bracing. When we reached the bend where the water widens and thinks it might be a lake, I stopped and let the sound of it cover the first few seconds. Then I gave her what she’d asked for—not the myth, not the pack-approved summary, but the whole, cut-close truth.
“The scar,” I said, touching the line that runs from my cheekbone to my jaw, a white ridge you can feel even when you can’t see it. “It wasn’t a bar fight, and it wasn’t a rogue who got lucky. It was my call.”
She didn’t fill the space. Good. Some stories need the air.
“It was late fall,” I said. “Logging
