Whitewater Gorge Floating

By some miracle her words seemed to work; Colin acknowledged her with a nod, an ear flick, and to Finley it was as though he caved in upon himself again. Tense and silent he carried on, leaving her ever curious as to what had set him off. Born blind, deaf, weak. A death sentence. She turned his words over and inside-out and flat and torn and whole again—and all the while, the idea that his outburst stemmed from a personal wound did not occur to the reclusive soldier. It was a fleeting entertainment if anything; he’d presented his story with clipped words, questioned the assumption his past was “sad.” None of it suggested to Finley the root of his bitterness. Studying Colin now, his walk betrayed nothing.

Maybe she should ask? The cloud of her own thoughts parted; they’d all permitted the conversation to drift. An odd tension hung above them, which also baffled Finley—what were they waiting for?

Derg’s chuff broke the stillness, as he dropped into a play bow. Like a pup. First Donovan, now him; at this rate Finley would give up trying to get a read on any of these wolves. “What,” she said, voice no drier than usual, “are you doing.” She offered a conciliatory wave of her tail as accompaniment, lest the air grow fragile again.