Duck Lake Settling the debts.

Brilliant sunlight tumbles down and silhouettes the occasional torpid cloud; Safka's usually greyscale coat is bleached a summer-brown. From his gaping mouth springs a tongue, red and somewhat swollen, retreating as he closes his mouth, springing forth when he opens it.

He moves like he has all the time in the world— that kind of exaggerated arrogance that can only come from someone who has something to hide. There's tension in his shoulders as the voice in his head, a well-established resident, mocks him with every step forwards. It puts fingers through old stab wounds. Safka flicks his ears like a horse warding off flies and notes the other wolf nearby (female, strange looking, jumpy) with half-closed eyes.