The Sunspire concrete jungle

Mamá had always liked high places. She’d look to the mountains that rose above their alley and would tell him about them, stories and fantasies she had about who was at the top.

Well, hijo, I think the mountain is where your father went, the white tops. If we go, he will find us again. We will be happy.

His mother had such a golden heart. But she had a weak body, a weak spirit. And now she was nothing more than bones, or rotting meat. And Wickett’s father?

He wasn’t on the mountain.

Wickett had climbed many mountains and he was never at the top of them. The wolfdog stood there now, drenched in light, face screwed in a grimace of anger, thin shoulders trembling, ears so flat to his head they blended in.

Padre had never been here, but still Wickett kept climbing like mamá wanted him to. The sound rose unbidden in his throat, and the boy had no means to deny it. He let the scream rip from his throat, roaring into the dawn sky.

There was nothing better than a morning scream.