Four: Wren

The pain is clean at first—so sharp it slices all the way through shock and comes out the other side as clarity.

Every nerve flares, the world narrowing to three things: fur, teeth, blood. The wolf is a furnace on my chest, pinning me easy as if it’s done this a thousand times. I thrash, bucking against its weight, heel scraping for purchase on ice, but the thing just growls low and clamps down harder on my arm. The sound vibrates through the bones. The bite is so deep I can hear the wet pop of tendons giving up.

My left hand is free. I jab at its face, fingers catching on the damp fur, and rake my nails down the length of its muzzle. I half-expect it to yelp, but the wolf doesn’t even blink. Its skin is thick as tire rubber. All I get for my trouble is a flick of its head that nearly snaps my wrist, bones grinding inside the meat like crushed gravel.

It’s deliberate, the way it works on me. No frenzied shaking, no tearing. Just a slow, mechanical press—like it wants to savor what it’s doing. The wolf’s eyes bore into mine, blacker than night and steady, like it’s reading me. Judging the resistance. It smells like wet pennies and rotted leaves, the stink of something that was human once and decided it was better this way.

I scream, hoping for a neighbor, a cop, hell, even a stray dog. But nothing answers. The world is still on mute, like every living thing has voted me off the island.

I try to remember if this is supposed to kill you outright or just mess you up for the next round. There’s something Dana said once about wolves—they always go for the throat if they mean it. I wait for the teeth in my neck, but they never come. The wolf is content to work through my arm first, inching its jaw higher every few seconds. At the elbow, it shakes once, and I feel a spurt of blood paint the inside of my jacket. My fingers go cold and clumsy, but I keep swinging, punching at the side of its skull until my fist is raw.

It drags me further, deeper into the alley, my boots drawing lines in the snow. I try to plant my feet and brace, but my right leg slides out from under me and the wolf pounces, landing both front paws on my sternum. The ribs hold, somehow, but I can’t breathe. The alley spins, guttering in and out like bad reception.

This isn’t how it goes in the movies. There’s no adrenaline superpower, no clever trick that buys you time. Just the sound of your own blood hitting the ground, the wet slap of it pooling around your body, and the metallic stink that rides up into your brain and makes you want to puke.

I try again to gouge its eyes, and this time my thumb actually finds the socket. The wolf snarls, a sound like a broken engine, and whips its head side to side so fast I lose my grip. The world corkscrews, concrete rushing up to meet my cheek. My teeth shatter together and I taste old copper and new blood.

I can’t feel my right arm anymore. It’s there, but it might as well be a stick. The wolf seems satisfied, letting up the pressure just enough for me to inhale. I don’t waste it. I kick upward, heel connecting with what I hope is the sweet spot beneath its ribs. I catch it off-guard for half a second, enough to scramble onto my knees and start crawling for daylight.

The wolf lets me. It’s not tired, not even winded. It wants me to move.

My vision pulses red, then white, then black. I crawl anyway, nails scraping ice, boots slipping, leaving a slur of blood behind like a fucked-up Hansel and Gretel. I hear the wolf pacing behind me, padding forward in perfect sync with my crawl.

I make it three yards before it leaps again, this time catching my calf. The bite is faster, more violent, and it tears a chunk of muscle out like it’s sampling appetizers. I collapse onto my side, screaming hoarse and pointless.

It lets go, then circles around to face me, blocking out the moon. The wolf’s breath steams in the air, slow and measured. It crouches low, watching me with that same steady look, like it’s waiting for me to quit.

I spit blood at its paws. “Go fuck yourself,” I manage, and the wolf actually tilts its head, like it recognizes the insult and respects the effort.

For a second, I think it’s over. The pain recedes, replaced by a numbness that starts at my toes and creeps up, soft as a blanket. My breath rattles. The night is pinhole black, with only the faint outline of the wolf and the snow-glow beneath it.

I wonder if Dana will find me in the morning. If she’ll recognize me, or if the wolf will have made a mess too big for the medical examiner to put back together. I hope she at least makes a good joke about it. I want someone to laugh at the way I went out.

My vision swims, the world melting into a smear of gray and dark. The wolf leans in, its nose nearly touching mine. I try to raise my good hand, but it won’t answer. I blink, and the wolf is gone. Or maybe I am.

The alley is silent again, except for the drip of my blood and the faint hiss of wind moving trash down the gutter.

I fight the darkness as long as I can, but in the end, it wins. Of course it does.

Everything slows down once you stop fighting.

The pain, the cold, even the terror—by the end, it’s all just background static. My body is a wet bag, leaking warmth onto the concrete. The wolf could come back and finish it, easy, but it doesn’t. For the first time since this all started, I am truly, totally alone.

A funny thing happens when your system dumps its last adrenaline: the world goes soft-focus, and even the worst hurts feel distant, like they’re happening to someone else. My fingers twitch at the edge of the snow, making childish patterns in the grime. My breath is a slow whistle, each inhale thinner, further apart.

In the lull, I hear it: not the wolf’s growl, not the scrape of claws, but a long, rising call from somewhere in the woods beyond town. A howl. Then another, higher and more urgent, and then a whole choir—voices folding over each other, layered with grief or warning or both. Not my wolf. Others. The pack.

My attacker hears it too. It’s halfway down the alley, hunched and watchful, fur bristling in the dark. It turns, fixing on the direction of the sound, and for a second, the moonlight catches the outline of its ribs. I try to remember if animals can feel fear, or if that’s just a human thing. The wolf looks back at me—one last inspection, the predator’s version of a goodbye—and then lopes off, swallowed by the deep black at the alley’s end.

I’m not sure what to do with the freedom. My arm is ruined, my leg throbs with every weak heartbeat, but the rest of me just floats. I remember lying on the living room floor as a kid, letting time pass, waiting for my mother to stop screaming at whoever was on the other end of the phone. The same trick works now. I just lay back and let the sky turn above me.

I watch the moon, bloated and yellow, barely clearing the rooftops. It’s out of focus, doubled by the water in my eyes. A good joke, probably. I try to laugh, but it comes out as a cough, spraying blood onto the collar of my coat.

Another wave of howls. Closer, this time. The sound bends around buildings, echoing off the church steeple and the water tower before settling over the town like a warning. I wonder who they’re calling to. I wonder if it’s me.

The blood loss makes my fingers cold and tingly. I flex them, then flex them again, watching the slow, delayed reaction. The numbness creeps up my arms, into my shoulders. It’s not unpleasant—just weird, like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.

For a minute, I think I see my mother. She’s at the end of the alley, arms folded, cigarette burning bright in the dark. She doesn’t look angry. She looks tired, the way I remember her at the very end. She’s mouthing something, but my ears are full of static. I want to ask if I’m dying, if this is what comes next. I want her to say no.

Instead, she just stands there, watching.

I blink, and she’s gone. The alley is empty except for me and the spreading pool beneath my body. I try to focus on something else—the roughness of the bricks, the sharp tang of iron in the air, the perfect silence that follows the wolves’ call. For a moment, the pain is gone. For a moment, I almost feel peaceful.

But I’m not finished. I tell myself this, over and over, even as my vision tunnels and the moon wobbles in the sky. You don’t get to quit now. You didn’t let them run you out of town, you didn’t let the drunks or the grief or the bullshit kill you. Don’t start now.

I drag in one last breath, sharp and sweet as battery acid.

I survive. I will survive.

The world goes black, and I fall into it.