Lone Wolf Read online

  An alpha will put two wolves in front of the moose's shoulders, and then listen for its heart rate. The moose may stamp or snort or throw its rack around to show how mighty a foe it is, but it can't affect its own adrenal system. When the alpha cues a third hunter to the back of the moose, and its heart skips a beat, she may instruct her team to terrorize it. This may take hours; it may take weeks.

  It's not that wolves are cruel. It's that the alpha also knows, for example, that to the east is a rival pack that's bigger and stronger than her own. If this moose gets frightened, adrenaline will saturate its system--it's the emotional price of death. If her pack can then feed off that moose, those rivals to the east will smell the adrenaline in the urine and scat her pack leaves to mark the boundaries of the territory. And suddenly, her pack is less vulnerable. The wolves to the east would never come steal the food or kill the offspring of a pack whose scent is redolent with emotion, power, dominance.

  In other words, what looks cruel and heartless from one angle might, from another, actually be the only way to protect your family.

  EDWARD

  Suffice it to say I was not the most popular kid in middle school. I was the quiet one, the brainiac who always got A's, the boy you only struck up a conversation with if you needed the answer to number 4 on your homework. At recess, I was more likely to be found in the shade reading than dunking on the basketball court. That was long before I discovered the benefits of circuit training, so my biceps back then were about as thick as rigatoni noodles. And obviously, I didn't stare after girls with skirts so short that their panties peeked out from behind--but every now and then, when no one was looking, I stared after the guys who were staring.

  I had friends, but they were like me--kids who would far rather spend their days blending into the scenery than being noticed, because being noticed usually meant being the punch line to some popular kid's joke. Which is why, on my thirteenth birthday, I know I did the right thing, even though it wound up netting me a week of detention and a month of being grounded.

  We were lining up to head to the cafeteria for lunch, and had to wait for other classes to march out first. I had this part of the day down to an art; I was never at the front of the line (popular kid territory) or the back of the line (troublemaker territory), because either spot would make me an easy target. Instead I sandwiched myself in the middle, between a girl who wore a full-body brace for her scoliosis and another girl who'd recently transferred from Guatemala and hardly spoke English. In other words, I was very busy making myself invisible when something awful happened: my teacher, who was old and sweet and fairly deaf, decided to pass the time by drawing attention to the fact that it was my birthday.

  "Did you all know that today is Edward's thirteenth birthday?" Mrs. Stansbury said. "Let's sing to him while we're waiting. Happy birthday to you . . ."

  I turned crimson. We weren't five, after all. We were eighth graders. Having the class sing to you went out of vogue about the same time we stopped believing in the tooth fairy.

  "Please stop," I whispered.

  "You going to do something special to celebrate?" my teacher continued.

  "Yeah," said one kid, loud enough for me to hear but not for the teacher to notice. "He's going to have a gay old time, right, Eddie?"

  Everyone laughed, except for the girl from Guatemala, who probably didn't understand.

  Mrs. Stansbury peered into the hallway to see if it was our turn yet. Unfortunately, it wasn't. "How old are you now," she started singing. "How old are you now! How old are you, Ed-waaaaard . . ."

  I balled my hands into fists, and shouted, "Shut up!"

  That Mrs. Stansbury heard.

  So did the principal, moments later. And my parents. I was punished for being rude to a teacher, who was only trying to be nice to me by making me feel special on my birthday.

  A month after my dad grounded me (as he put it in wolf terms, a subordinate would never act that way to a pack leader), he asked me if I'd learned anything. I made sure not to answer. Because I'd have done exactly the same thing all over again.

  This is just my way of pointing out that we people who leap without looking are not stupid. We know damn well we might be headed for a fall. But we also know that, sometimes, it's the only way out.

  The interrogation room is freezing cold. I'd cynically assume it's a secret police tactic to get people talking, if not for the fact that the officers have been really kind--bringing me coffee and a slice of sponge cake from the staff room. Many of them are fans of my dad's, from the TV show; I happily trade on his fame for food. I honestly can't remember the last time I ate; this tastes like manna.

  "So, Edward," the detective says, sitting down across from me. "Why don't you tell me what happened today."

  I open up my mouth to respond, and then snap it shut. Years of Law & Order reruns on Thai TV have taught me something after all. "I want my lawyer," I announce.

  The detective nods, and walks out of the room.

  Never mind that I don't actually have a lawyer.

  But a moment later the door opens again and a man walks in. He's small and wiry, with black hair that keeps falling into his eyes; he's wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase. It takes me a moment to place him, because I only met him once--two days ago when he brought my mother's twins to see her at the hospital.

  "Joe," I breathe. I don't think I've ever been so happy to see someone. I had forgotten that my mom's new husband practiced law. I've done stupid, impulsive things before, but this is the first time I've been handcuffed for it.

  "Your mother called me," he says. "What the hell happened?"

  "I didn't shove the nurse, no matter what they say. She fell back when I . . ." I trail off.

  "When you what?"

  "When I pulled my father's ventilator plug out of the wall," I finish.

  Joe sinks into a chair. "Do I even have to ask why . . . ?"

  I shake my head. "I was going to donate my dad's organs, which is what he wanted--he was a donor, according to his license. I just wanted to carry out his last wishes, you know? The doctors had barely started when Cara came in and made a huge scene. As if this was all about her, and not my dad."

  "From what Georgie's told me, Cara wasn't in favor of terminating life support. You had to know that."

  "She told me yesterday that she didn't want to have to deal with all this stuff anymore; that she couldn't talk to the doctors about my dad, much less make a decision about what to do. I wasn't trying to hurt anyone. I was trying to help--"

  He holds up a hand, silencing me. "What happened, exactly?"

  "I bent down and grabbed the cord of the ventilator. I didn't push the nurse, she was just standing between me and the machine. All I did was pull the plug out of the wall to turn it off. Because that's what was supposed to happen."

  Joe doesn't ask me to explain myself. He just looks at the facts and accepts them at face value. "This is a bailable offense, a misdemeanor," he says. "In this state, if you've got no criminal record and you've got family around, you can be released on your own recognizance. Granted, you haven't been a resident for some time, but I think we can work around that."

  "So what happens?"

  "I'll get a bail commissioner down here, and we'll take it one step at a time."

  I nod. "Joe?" I say. "I, um, don't really have any money to post bail."

  "You can pay off your debt by babysitting the twins so I can get reacquainted with my beautiful wife," he replies. "Seriously, Edward. Your job from here on in is to sit down, be quiet, and let me handle everything. No outbursts. No grand heroic efforts. Understand?"

  I nod, but the truth is, I don't like to be beholden to anyone. I've been forging my own way for so long that it makes me feel totally vulnerable, as if I've suddenly found myself stark naked in the middle of a crowded street.

  As he stands up to find an officer, I realize what it is that I like so much about Joe Ng. "You're the first person who hasn't said how sorry you are t