Whitefish River old friends, sat on their park bench like bookends

It was almost bedtime, but Grayday had wanted to finish one last patrol before turning in for the night. Having done that, he made his way down the slope to drink before making his way toward the rendezvous.

He might have missed the other wolf entirely had the wind not shifted and carried a familiar scent to his nose.

Silently, the male lifted his head and caught sight of the pale wolf across the river. His appearance was striking and eerily familiar to Day, but he could not say exactly where he'd seen the other before. "Hello," he called, his voice quizical but friendly. He couldn't help but think that something was missing from the other's scent - as though he'd known the wolf as part of a whole, rather than a singular being.