Lone Wolf

LUKE

To evict a wolf from a pack, you use natural suppression and intimidation-which usually takes the form of speed and directional control. Sometimes this is done just to test the members of the pack to make sure everyone’s up to speed and doing his job-a beckon here, a direction to stay put, a higher-ranking wolf keeping you from moving by cutting you off.

At the tip of the spine, above the tail, there is a little covered well with a gland in it that’s as distinctive as a human fingerprint. It’s how wolves identify each other. In captivity, when a wolf can’t leave an enclosure, a pack member who’s being evicted will sometimes have that gland gnawed at, gouged out by others, thus removing that wolf’s individuality. A wolf who loses its scent gland loses all status, and will often die.

Who gets evicted? It depends. It might be a wolf that is no longer performing to his best capabilities. It might be a young wolf growing up with alpha characteristics, when the pack already has a viable alpha. A wolf that’s been evicted becomes a lone wolf. In the woods, he’ll eat small animals and live on his own, howling at other packs to determine new vacancies that suit his role. A lone wolf usually has the characteristics of an alpha, beta, or mid-ranking wolf, and his acceptance into a new pack-which may be years later-is a happy constellation of circumstances. Not only must you be qualified to fill a certain position in the pack but there must be an opening for you.

I can tell you from experience that when wolves evict a member of the family, there is no looking back. It’s not quite that easy for humans.

Then again, a wolf that has been evicted from a pack could be asked to rejoin it, in certain circumstances. Say that pack with the extra alpha wolf suddenly loses its alpha to a predator? They’ll be in need of another alpha to fill his shoes.

CARA

We can’t go into the enclosures. Although the wolves would most likely just keep their distance, my sling would be like a red flag; they’d try to rip it off and get at the wound to clean it. So instead we sit on the rise, outside the fence, huddled in our coats, watching the wolves watch us.

There’s a cruel comfort to being here. It’s better than the hospital, I guess, and lying on my father’s bed listening to the beeps of machines like a time bomb ticking, knowing that when the electricity goes so will he. But I can’t turn around without seeing a ghost of a memory: my father running through the enclosure with a deer’s hindquarter, teaching the youngsters how to hunt. My father with Sikwla draped over his neck like a stole. My father nannying, teaching pups how to find and dive into a rendezvous hole.

Even though his wolves were in captivity, he taught them the skills to live in the wild. His goal was to get wolves rereleased into the forests of New Hampshire, the way they had been reintroduced in Yellowstone, and were now thriving. Although there had been some solo sightings of wild wolves, there were laws against their reintroduction. It had been two hundred years since they’d roamed free in the state, but that didn’t stop my father from making sure that any one of his captive packs survived the way its wild counterparts would. You know what the difference is between a dream and a goal? he used to say to me. A plan.

It’s funny, how he had to teach the wolves to be wild, when they taught him so much about being human.

I realize that I’m already thinking about him in the past tense.

“What’s going to happen to them?” I ask.

Edward looks at me. “I’ll ask Walter to stay on. I’m not going to get rid of them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You don’t know anything about wolves.”

“I’ll learn.”

Now, that would be the greatest irony of all. If I’d told my dad that one day Edward would be living out his legacy with the wolves, he probably would have laughed himself into a hernia.

I stand up and walk closer, until I can curl my fingers into the chain-link fence. That was the first lesson my father taught me down here-don’t ever do that. A tester wolf will turn around before you know it and will bite you.

But these wolves, they know me. Kladen rubs his silvery side up against my hand and licks me.

“You could even be the one to teach me,” Edward suggests.

I crouch down, waiting for Kladen to pace by me again. “This place won’t be the same if he’s not here.”

“But he is,” Edward says. “He’s in every corner of it. He built it with his hands. He created these packs. This is who Dad was, not what you see in the hospital bed. And none of this is going away. I promise you.”

Suddenly Kladen moves to the promontory rock that, in the dark, looks like a hulking beast. I can make out the silhouettes of Sikwla and Wazoli. They tip back their throats and start to howl.

It’s a rallying howl, meant for someone who’s missing. I know who that is right away. It makes me start to cry again, even as all the other packs in the adjacent enclosures join in, a fugue of sorrow.

I wish, in that instant, I were a wolf. Because when someone leaves your life, there aren’t words you can use to fill the space. There’s just one empty, swelling minor note.

“This is why I wanted you to come here with me,” Edward says. “Walter says that they’ve done it every night since the crash.”

The crash.

Edward had kept a secret, and it broke our family apart. If I confessed mine, would it put us back together?

So I turn away from the wolves, and with them still singing their dirge, I tell my brother the truth.

“Here’s a hint,” my father said, furious, as he peeled away from the house in Bethlehem where already one kid was passed out and two more were having sex in a parked car. “If you lie about having a sleepover study session at Mariah’s, you should remember to take the fake bag you’ve packed.”

I was so angry I couldn’t see straight, but that also could have been the grain alcohol. I had beer once, but who knew something that tasted like fruit punch could pack a wallop like this? “I can’t believe you followed me here.”

“I tracked prey for two years; believe me, teenage girls leave a much more visible trail.”

My father had just barged into the house as if I were five years old and he’d come to pick me up at a birthday party. “Well, thanks to you, I’m a social pariah now.”

“You’re right. I should have waited until you were being date-raped, or had blood alcohol poisoning. Jesus, Cara. What the hell were you thinking?”

I hadn’t been thinking. I’d let Mariah do the thinking for me, and it was a mistake. But I would have rather died than admit that to my father.

And I sure as hell wouldn’t tell him that, actually, I was happy to leave, because it was getting a little crazy in there.

“This,” my father muttered, “is why wolves let some of their offspring die in the wild.”

“I’m going to call Child Protection Services,” I threaten. “I’m going to move back in with Mom.”

My father’s eyes had a little green box around them from the rearview mirror reflection. “Remind me to tell you, when you’re not drunk, that you’re grounded.”

“Remind me to tell you, when I’m not drunk, that I hate you,” I snapped.

At that, my father laughed. “Cara,” he said, “I swear, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

And then suddenly there was a deer in front of the truck, and my father pulled hard to the right. Even as we struck the tree, even as frustrated with me as he was, his instinct was to throw an arm out in front of me, a last- ditch attempt at safety.

I came to because of the gas. I could smell it, seeping. My arm was useless, and I could feel the burn of the seat belt strap where it had cut a bruise like the sash of a beauty contestant. “Daddy,” I said, and I thought I was