They came at midmorning, not sneaking and not marching—just walking the way people do when they think a trail belongs to them. Two park rangers in green jackets, a county deputy with a sun-faded hat, and three hikers behind them with bright packs. The radio on one ranger’s shoulder crackled and went quiet. The deputy’s hand rested near his holster but didn’t touch it. They followed the stream the way water tells you the land will open, and then the trees gave way and there was the compound.
A wolf on the inner ring saw them first. He didn’t bark a warning or bare his teeth; he turned, slipped behind a boulder, and came back as a man with a blue band tied around his arm to mark him as a greeter. He raised both hands, palms empty. “Hold there,” he called, voice steady. “You’ve reached a pri
