The Lost Pack
Ronnie leads me to the centre of the garden and stands in front of me.
There aren’t any fancy exercises. Ronnie just gestures for me to stand with my feet shoulder-width apart on the damp grass. “Let’s start with breathing,” he says, voice calm and low from the years of practice talking young wolves through first shifts. “In for four seconds, hold for three, out for four.”
He counts softly. I follow, drawing air through my nose, slow and steady. Inhaling the scent of grass and soil, and faint wood smoke from one of the distant cabins. Each exhale eases a little of the tension in me.
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