Lone Wolf Read online

  I already know my brother won't be in my father's room. My mom told me she gave him the key to our house--something that makes me feel uneasy. Most likely Edward won't be poking around in my room--and it's not like I have anything to hide--but still. I don't like the thought of being here, while he is there.

  The skeleton staff in the ICU doesn't notice the girl in the robe with the bandaged arm and shoulder who gets off the elevator. This is a blessing, since I really didn't know how to explain my migration from the orthopedic ward to this one.

  My father is bathed in a blue light; the glow from the monitors surrounds him. He does not look any different to me than he did yesterday--surely this is a good thing? If he were, as Edward said, not coming back, wouldn't he be getting worse?

  There is just enough space for me to sit on the bed, to lie down on my good side. It makes my bad shoulder ache like hell. I realize I can't hug him, because of the bandage, and he can't hug me, either. So instead I just lie next to him, my face pressed against the scratchy cotton of his hospital gown. I stare at the computer screen that shows that steady, solid beat of his heart.

  The night after I went into the wolf enclosure for the first time I woke up to find my father sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me. His face was outlined with moonlight. "When I was in the wild, I was chased by a bear. I was sure I was going to die. I didn't think there could be anything more terrifying," he said. "I was wrong." He reached out one hand and tucked my hair behind my ear. "The scariest thing in the world is thinking that someone you love is going to die."

  Now, I feel tears coming, a feather at the back of my throat. With a steady breath, I blink them away.

  They can smell your fear, he taught me. Don't give an inch.

  LUKE

  Two weeks went by without any sign or sound of the wolf that had come so close to me when I was sick. And then one morning, when I was drinking from a stream, I suddenly saw an image rise in the reflection beside my own. The wolf was big and gray, with strong stripes of black on the top of his head and his ears. My heart started hammering, but I didn't turn around. Instead, I met his yellow eyes in the mirror of the water and waited to see what he would do next.

  He left.

  Any doubts I'd had about what I was doing vanished. This was what I had hoped for. If the big animal that had approached me at the stream was truly wild, he may have been just as curious about me as I was about him. And if that was the case, I might be able to get close enough to understand their behavior from within, instead of observing from outside.

  I wanted nothing more than to see that wolf again, but I wasn't sure how to make that happen. Leaving food around the area would attract not just the wolf but also bears. If I called to the wolf, he might respond--even if he was a lone wolf, having a partner is safer than being alone--but that calling would also reveal my position to other predators. And honestly, although I hadn't seen proof of any other wolves since I'd come into the wild, I couldn't be sure that this wolf was the only one in the area.

  I realized that if I was going to take the next step, it meant moving out of my comfort zone. Hell, it meant leaping blindfolded off the cliff of my comfort zone.

  I adjusted my schedule so that I was sleeping during the day, and waking at dusk. I would have to travel in the darkness, even though my eyes and my body were not suited to it. This was much more threatening than any night I'd spent at the zoo in the captive pack's enclosure; for one thing, I was walking nearly ten miles in pitch darkness in a single night; for another, I didn't have to worry about other animals when I was in the wolf enclosure at the zoo. Here, if I tripped over an exposed tree root or splashed in a puddle or even stepped loudly on a branch, I was sending up a flare alerting every other creature in the wild to my location. Even when I was trying to be quiet, I was at a disadvantage; other animals were better at seeing and hearing in the dark and were watching every move I made. If I fell down, I was as good as dead.

  What I remember about that first night was that I was sweating like mad, even though it was near freezing. I would take a step, and then hesitate to make sure I didn't hear anything coming toward me. Although there were only a scattered handful of stars that night, and the moon had a veil draped over its face, my vision adjusted enough to register shadows. I didn't need to see clearly. I needed to see movement, or a flash of eyes.

  Because I was effectively blind, I used my other senses to their fullest. I breathed deeply, using the breeze to identify the scents of animals that were watching me pass. I listened for rustling, for footsteps. I stayed upwind. When the long fingers of dawn cupped the horizon, I felt as if I'd run a marathon, as if I'd conquered an army. I had survived a night in the Canadian forest, surrounded by predators. I was still alive. And really, that was all that mattered.

  GEORGIE

  By the fifth day after the accident, I can tell you what the soup of the day is going to be in the cafeteria and what times the nurses change shifts and where, at the orthopedics floor coffee station, they keep the packets of sugar. I've memorized the extension of Dietary, so that I can get Cara extra cups of pudding. I know the names of the physical therapist's children. I keep my toothbrush in my purse.

  Last night, the one night I'd tried to go home, Cara had spiked a fever--an infection at the incision site. Although the nurses told me it was common, and although my absence wasn't correlative, I still felt responsible. I've told Joe I'm going to stay at the hospital as long as Cara does. A heavy dose of antibiotics has brought down her fever some, but she's out of sorts, uncomfortable. Had she not faced this setback, we might have been wheeling her out of the hospital today. And although I know this isn't possible--that you can't will yourself to have an infection--there is a part of me that thinks Cara's body did this in order to make sure she could stay close to Luke.

  I am pouring myself my fifth cup of coffee of the day in the small supply room that has the coffee machine in it, a godsend provided by a nurse with a kind heart. It's amazing, really, how quickly the extraordinary can start to feel like the commonplace. A week ago I would have started my morning with a shower and a shampoo and would have packed lunch for the twins and walked them to the bus stop. Now, it feels perfectly normal to wear the same clothes for days in a row, to wait not for a bus but for a doctor doing rounds.

  A few days ago the thought of Luke's brain injury felt like a punch in my gut. Now, I am just numb. A few days ago I had to fight to keep Cara in her bed, instead of at her father's bedside. Now, even when the social worker asks her if she'd like to visit him, she shakes her head.

  I think Cara is afraid. Not of what she'll see but of what she won't.

  I reach into the little dorm-size fridge for the container of milk, but it slips through my hands and falls onto the floor. The white puddle spreads beneath my shoes, under the lip of the refrigerator. "Goddammit," I mutter.

  "Here."

  A man tosses me a wad of industrial brown napkins. I do my best to mop up the mess, but I'm near tears. Just once--once--I'd like something to be easy.

  "You know what they say," the man adds, crouching down to help. "It's not worth crying over."

  I see his black shoes first, and his blue uniform pants. Officer Whigby takes the sopping napkins from my hands and tosses them into the trash. "There must be something else you need to do," I say stiffly. "Surely someone's speeding, somewhere? Or an old lady needs help crossing the street?"

  He smiles. "You'd be surprised at how many old ladies are self-sufficient these days. Ms. Ng, honestly, the last thing I want to do is bother you at a time when you're already under a lot of stress, but--"

  "Then don't," I beg. "Let us get through this. Let me get my daughter out of the hospital and let my ex-husband . . ." I find I can't finish the sentence. "Just give us a little space."

  "I'm afraid I can't, ma'am. If your daughter was driving drunk, then she could be looking at a negligent homicide charge."

  If Joe were here, he'd know what to say. But Joe is back in m