Ain't no mountain high enough

She probably still will, tbh, Junkyard Dog is terrified.

Junkyard Dog's bravery held fast when the beast's ears flattened, though she was struck with fear. Her heart pounded in her ears, and were she not growling, a pitiful whine would issue from her throat, so great was her fear. Junkyard Dogs hackles raised, and every inch of her screamed fear and anger, hate and terror. Should the beast attack, she was ready, though it must have outmatched her in strength and health. All Junkyard Dog had to protect her was the fearlessness of a dying woman, a cornered animal.

"You cannot give what I seek," she spat, hating the woman and what she stood for. How dare she offer her help, when death was so clearly dogging her? Junkyard Dog now thought she faced a temptress, one who would lead her to greater despair. "Wolf," she repeated, the word wholly unfamiliar, "manners do not save me. Good dog, they said. Still I hurt."

Now the beast stepped forward, as though she was going to cross the water. Junkyard Dog's bravery failed her, and she stepped back, now submissive. Even when the wolf stepped back and pity seemed to overcome her distaste, Junkyard Dog remained coiled, ready to strike or to run should things go south. "I am a good dog," she told the wolf, tone almost pleading.