The month with Ghost’s rogue pack was enlightening and challenging. They camped in the northern meadow as agreed, setting up temporary shelters that somehow looked both desperate and hopeful.
I visited daily, observing. Assessing. Looking for red flags.
Ghost proved to be an excellent leader. He kept his wolves disciplined. Organized. They worked hard on the tasks we assigned. Clearing brush. Repairing fences. Helping with harvest. Never complaining. Never causing trouble.
But I noticed other things too. The way some flinched when I approached too quickly. The scars that spoke of serious abuse. The hollow looks in younger wolves’ eyes.
“They’ve been through hell,” Maya observed during one visit. “Most of them, anyway. A few might be lying about their backgrounds, but the majority? They
