Chapter 23: Twelve in the River

On the twenty-first evening, twelve wolves stood in the Skagit up to their knees.

The water was black with cold.

They stood in a row, with their coats off and their hands open, and their breath smoked in the dusk.

The Black Fir Beta was first in line.

He had come every night for three weeks and sat at the bank listening, and every night I had told him he wasn't ready.

Tonight he was shaking all over.

"Say it again," he said. "Tell me what I do."

"You put your hand in the water," I said. "You call your wolf by her name."

"Her name."

"She has one. She's been waiting for you to ask."

He turned his face to the river.

His wolf was a gray female with a torn ear, and he said her name out loud in a voice that cracked on the second syllable.

The rope between us pulled tight.

I felt it quiver, a thin hard line in my chest with his whole life on the other end.

"Now take it," I said.

"I can't."

"You can. Take it out of my hand."

"It hurts."

"It will. Take it."

His whole body went rigid.

He gave a hoarse cry, and his knees buckled, and the water splashed up around him.

I felt the rope slip out of my fingers.

My chest felt lighter by one man's weight.

The Beta knelt in the river with both hands over his face.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were wide and clear, and they were not looking at me.

They were looking inward.

"She's here," he whispered. "She's just here. She's mine."

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