"He's making calls," Soren says.He has been watching my father across the hall during the fifteen-minute recess, tracking him the way he tracks everything, with the appearance of not watching at all. My father is in the far corner near the door to the private rooms, phone to his ear, back to the assembly."Who," I say.Can't tell. But he's been on the same call for six minutes which means it's not a pack member. Pack business he handles in under two. Soren shifts slightly. My guess is Wolfe.I look across the hall at my father's back. At the grey coat, the set of his shoulders, the way even from fifty feet away he looks like a man who is recalibrating rather than retreating. There is a difference. Retreating means stopping. Recalibrating means finding the next angle.He has another angle. He always has another angle.Around the hall the pack members are in clusters, passing the documents between them, talking in the low voices people use when they are deciding something they did not
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