Celeste
The pack had a rhythm to it, I was learning. A pulse under the surface of the days that had nothing to do with clocks.
Mornings smelled like coffee and woodsmoke from whoever had lit the outdoor firepit before dawn, the sharp, sweet bite of burning pine drifting up through my window before I'd even opened my eyes. Somewhere below, a screen door would slap, a pot would clang, a deep voice would grumble something about who finished the good creamer, and the whole house would slowly unfurl into the day like a great, sleepy animal stretching in the sun.
Afternoons were filled with the low thrum of training out on the backfield. I'd taken to watching from the porch with a blanket over my knees and a book I never actually read, mesmerized by the way the wolves moved. Bodies wheeling i
