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  Dr. Saint-Clare stands up, but before he can leave the witness stand, the judge interrupts. "Doctor," he says. "I have one more question for you. I don't understand a lot of the medical jargon you've used today, so I want to cut to the heart of the matter. If this man were your brother, what would you do?"

  The neurosurgeon sinks slowly back into his chair. He turns away from the judge, and he looks at Cara, his gaze bruised and almost tender. "I'd say good-bye," Dr. Saint-Clare answers, "and I'd let him go."

  LUKE

  I must have walked for six or seven days, trying to find my way back to humanity. Much of the time I cried, already feeling the loss of my wolf family. I knew they'd survive without me. I just wasn't sure if the same could be true in reverse.

  Understand I hadn't seen myself in two years, except for the occasional muddy reflection in a pool of water. My hair reached halfway down my back and was matted into unintentional dreadlocks. My beard was full and thick. My face was full of healing scratches incurred during play with the wolves. I hadn't fully bathed in months. I had lost nearly sixty pounds, and my wrists stuck out like twigs from the cuffs of my coveralls. I looked, I am sure, like anyone's biggest nightmare.

  I heard the highway long before I saw it, and I realized how keen my senses had become--I could smell the hot tar of the summer pavement miles before the trees thinned and the embankment of the road rose in front of me. As I stepped into the full sunlight, I squinted; a passing tractor-trailer was so loud I nearly staggered backward at its roar. The hot gust of wind it left behind blew my hair away from my filthy face.

  When I came to the chain-link fence, I touched it, the cool steel pressing like a lattice into my palm and so unlike anything I'd touched for so long that I stood for a moment, just feeling the strength and the clean lines of the metal. I started to climb up it, deftly leaping over the top edge and dropping to the ground silently: these were the skills I'd been honing. When I heard the voices, every hair on the back of my neck rose and I dropped into a natural crouch. I crossed so that I was upwind, so that they wouldn't know I was coming.

  They were a group of Girl Scouts, or whatever Girl Scouts are called in Canada. They were having a picnic at this highway rest stop, while their motor coach slept like a hulking beast in the shade of the parking lot.

  I felt edgy, wild, too exposed. There wasn't any tree cover; there wasn't anyone flanking me willing to fight beside me if I needed it. I could hear the high, ripping sound of cars whizzing by on the road, and each noise seemed to me a bullet skating too close for comfort. The laughter of the girls was deafening; it had me covering my ears with my palms.

  In retrospect, I can imagine what it was like for them: to be joking around one minute and the next to have a beast at their picnic table, hulking and ragged and reeking. Some of the girls started screaming, one ran for the bus. I tried to calm them down, but my immediate instinct was to lower myself, duck my head. Then I remembered I had a voice.

  One I hadn't used in two years, except to howl and growl.

  It was rusty, thin, a yelp. A sound I didn't remember.

  It hurt, to make this sound. To try to shape it on the bowl of my tongue into a word. As I stuttered and choked on the syllables, the bus driver came running over. "I've already called the police," he threatened, holding me at bay with a gigantic flashlight, a makeshift weapon.

  That's when speech returned to me. "Help," I said.

  It actually was a blessing in disguise when the police showed up. It was at first hard to convince them of my ID, even though in the breast pocket of my tattered coveralls was the driver's license I'd walked into the woods with two years ago. I'm sure, given the looks of me, they thought that I was a homeless bum who stole some guy's wallet. It was when they called Georgie and she broke down sobbing on the phone that they finally believed me and let me shower in the precinct locker room. They gave me a police-issue T-shirt and a pair of sweats. They bought me a hamburger from McDonald's.

  I ate it in about five seconds. Then I spent the next hour in the bathroom, throwing up.

  The police chief brought me water and saltines. He wanted to know what the hell would make a guy go live with a pack of wolves. He especially wanted to know how I didn't wind up as their dinner. The more I talked to him, the more my voice lost its rasp, and the words that had been hovering like ghosts on the roof of my palate landed softly, solid and real.

  He apologized for making me sleep in the holding cell, on the thin cot. It was the first bed I had been in in two years, though, and I could not get comfortable. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, even though the officers left the cell door unlocked. Everything smelled like ink and toner and dust.

  When Georgie was brought into the holding area in the morning, having driven through the night to reach me, I was fast asleep on the floor of the cell. But like any wild animal, I became one hundred percent alert before her footstep crossed the threshold. I knew she was coming because the scent of her shampoo and perfume rolled in like a tsunami before I could even see her.

  "Oh, God," she murmured. "Luke?"

  She rushed toward me.

  I think that's what did it--made the instinct take over, and the reason in my mind shut down. But at any rate, when Georgie came running at me, I did what any wolf would have done in that situation.

  I ducked away from her, wary.

  No matter how long I live, I will always remember the way the light went out of her eyes, like a candle flame caught in an unexpected wind.

  EDWARD

  While I'm on the witness stand being sworn in, I stick my hand into the pocket of my father's jacket, and feel a tiny piece of paper there. I don't want to be obvious and pull it out and see what it is, especially while I'm in the hot seat, but I'm dying to know. Is it a note? A grocery list, in my dad's handwriting? A receipt from the post office? A laundry ticket? I have a fleeting vision of a dry cleaner's employee, wondering why the trousers Luke Warren dropped off weren't picked up last Monday, like they were supposed to be. I wonder how long they'd keep the clothes, if they'd call my father and ask him to come pick up his belongings, if they'd donate the pants to charity.

  But when I manage to slide the paper secretly out of the pocket and hold it beneath the bar of the witness stand so that it would look, to anyone else, like I am just staring down into my lap, I see that it's a fortune from a cookie at a Chinese restaurant.

  Anger begins with folly, and ends with regret.

  I wonder why he kept it. If he felt like it was speaking personally to him. If he would read it from time to time and consider it a warning.

  If he just shoved it in his pocket and forgot it was there.

  If it reminded him of me.

  "Edward," Joe says, "what was it like growing up with your father?"

  "I thought I had the coolest dad on the planet," I admit. "You have to understand, I was kind of quiet, a brainiac. Most of the time I could be found with my head buried in a book. I was allergic to, well, practically all of nature. I was the bull's-eye for bullies." I can feel Cara's eyes on me, curious. This is not the big brother she remembers. From the point of view of a little kid, even a geek can be cool if he's in high school and drives an old beater and buys her licorice. "When my dad came back from the wild, he was an instant celebrity. I was suddenly more popular just because I was related by blood."

  "What about the relationship you and your dad had? Were you close?"

  "My father spent a lot of time away from home," I say diplomatically, and a phrase pops into my head: Don't speak ill of the dead. "There was his trip to Quebec, to live with the wild wolves, but even after he got back home and started building the packs at Redmond's, he'd stay overnight there in a trailer, or sometimes in the enclosures. The truth is that Cara liked tagging along with him more than I did, so she'd spend more time at the theme park, and I stayed with my mom."

  "Did you resent your father for not being with you?"

  "Yes," I say bluntly. "I remember being jealo