I’m about to say more when something catches my eye. A photo near the top of the wall, wedged between an old pair of skis and a signed painting of basset hounds.
“Ginny? You listening?” Flannery asks.
I ignore her and rise, standing on my chair to get a better look. I reach up and pluck the frame from the wall. It’s a photograph, an old one.
A photograph of a pack of wolves.
I lower myself, setting the photo on the table. Flannery leans over me to look; the animals are a few dozen yards away from the photographer, and though they give the camera hard stares, it’s impossible to tell if anything in their eyes is human—if they’re just wolves or if they’re Mora’s guard. But something about the way they’re standing, the formation they’re in, the curve of their shoulders….
“This isn’t them, is it?” I say. “I think I’m just—”
“Desperate?” Flannery says, giving me a skeptical look. The waitress drops by our table and sets down two waters.
“Thanks,” Flannery tells her, grinning. “Hey—this photo. What do you know about it?”
“Uh, nothing,” the waitress says. “I mean, I’ve never really noticed it before now. Why?”
“Just wanna know where it was taken.”
“Well… I can ask the manager?” the waitress says, looking confused.
“That’d be swell,” Flannery answers sincerely.
“Swell?” I ask when the waitress walks away.
“Don’t buffers say
I shake my head, and Flannery looks crestfallen. She’s just recovering when the waitress walks back over with an old woman. Her eyes are tiny blue gems in a sea of wrinkles that only deepen when she smiles at us.
“This is the owner,” our waitress says. “Liz. They wanted to know about the picture?”
“This one!” Liz says, looking surprised. She leans over the table to get a closer look, though it doesn’t take much, given how short she is already. The scent of lotion and perfume temporarily overtakes the smell of cooked fish. “My husband took that. Years ago. The wolves on Isle Royale, I suspect.”
“Isle Royale?” I ask.
“It’s a park, just off the coast here. Middle of the lake.”
“Is there a way over by car?” I ask, and hear Flannery groan.
“Oh, no,” Liz says. “You’d have to rent a boat or catch the ferry. I think they start running again in April.”
“April?” I ask, my heart sinking.
“You don’t want to be going over there this time of year anyhow,” Liz says, looking at me as if I’m crazy.
“She just gets excited,” Flannery says.
“It’s a lovely island,” Liz says. “Huge population of wolves. Hang on, I’ll get you a brochure.”
Flannery scowls at me. “You’re not thinking right. Come on. I thought we were going into the forest.”
“I know.” I move the photo off the table as our food arrives. It’s hot and burns my tongue, but that makes me like it all the more. The shaky, vibrating feeling that was buzzing inside me dissipates as I eat, until finally I’m full and tired and relieved that Flannery insisted we stop here. She orders strawberry shortcake for dessert and is eating it greedily when Liz makes her way back to us, a few coloring books tucked under one arm and the promised brochure in the other.
“Here you go. If you want to book a trip, just call that number on the back to schedule a plane. They’re not cheap, though,” she adds, looking from Flannery to me. She walks away as I unfold the brochure.
“What are you expecting to see?” Flannery asks. “A werewolf theme park or something?”
I ignore her, studying the first flap. Nothing exciting—a national park, no permanent inhabitants, largely impassable terrain except for a few picnic areas. Wolves, moose, foxes, mink. There’s a picture of a wolf on the second panel, but it’s clearly an animal—eyes that are watery, intense, but not human. I flip to the back and see a map of the island, showing ferry and plane routes. It looks a little like a curled-up dog.
I inhale.
“What?” Flannery asks through a mouthful of strawberries.
“The island, the shape—” I grab for the cookbook, nearly knocking our drinks off the table as I slam it open. Flip, fast, fast, I know this shape.
The pencil line. Just an odd shape, one I thought so little of. I press the map down beside it and follow the lines. Curled-up dogs. I look at Flannery.
“The island. Mora is on the island.”
Flannery’s eyes widen. “I guess we need to find a plane.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Can I use your phone?” I ask our waitress, clutching the brochure in my fist.
“It’s out,” she says. “Gas station next door is probably working, though—newer building.”
“Thanks,” I say, and rise.
“Whoa,” Flannery hisses. “This is not how you dine and dash, telling the waitress where you’re headed.”
“I need to call this pilot!” I say. “We’ve got to go.”
“You go,” she says. “I’ll sit here and order more food.”
“Why?”
“Because if we keep ordering, we’re paying customers, not squatters,” she says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. She flags down a waitress and simultaneously waves me out the door. I bury my head to my chest and brace myself for the cold—
I didn’t brace hard enough. This is Mora’s weather, I know it. The sick kind of cold that makes my skin feel brittle and my bones feel bruised. I glance back at the restaurant and see our waitress delivering a cup of coffee to Flannery while customers seated close to the windows watch me in disbelief.
I pull my hands to my face to warm my nose and lips and stumble toward the gas station, lifting my feet up high. A foot of snow already, at least. The sky is dark gray above—what time is it? I can’t tell what’s night and what’s weather. The gas station shines bright ahead, cars parked under the awning. People are milling around inside, killing time. No one looks panicked—I suppose Minnesotans don’t freak out over snow the way Atlantans do. My theory is proven when I finally push open the gas station door and see someone’s purchased and opened a twenty-four pack of beer, which is being passed around to everyone inside.
“Er, no thanks,” I say when it’s offered to me on the way to the register. “I just wanted to use your phone?”
“No tow trucks,” the attendant says. “They’re all booked. Better off just to wait till they come along and plow it. They move pretty fast, typically.”
“I actually wanted to call a friend,” I lie. The attendant hands the phone across the counter. I huddle back in a corner and dial the number on the brochure.
“Hello?” a man on the other end says.
“Hi, I was calling about booking a plane to Isle Royale?”
Silence.
“
“Soon. I mean, not
The man laughs in relief. “Oh, all right, then. So, when were you thinking?”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
Silence again.
