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For several minutes, Siobhan loses herself. The kill is the first real thing she’s had in days, if not weeks. The small rodents she scraps by, or morsels she’d been given in her captivity, barely touched the surface to keep her going. Her stomach rumbles with a sudden discomfort but she dismisses it and continues on, finally able to think about something more than gorging herself. Plans develop on where she can store what she can’t eat and harvesting what else is left when she’s done.
 
They are only in the budding stages when another starts creeping up on her while she remains unaware. It is only with the growl that she stiffens, mouth full of meat and organ and blood, as she glances back to see another wolf with the same sneer her former captives used to wear. Her ears fall back against her head and she spits out—instead of gobbling—the remains as an active of submission. She droops her head and tail, carefully taking steps back through the rough ground so the other can have full access to the kill that came from the sky.
 
She glances to one side, and then the other, as she tries to decide which way to go should her offer of the kill be received in lieu of her freedom.