Page 58

CHAPTER 57

HOLO AND I wake early. We get up quickly and immediately start walking. We don’t speak—because we don’t want to make a sound, and because we know where we’re going.

In a little while, the trees start to thin. Pines give way to alder and buckthorn. Soon we find ourselves at the edge of a small, hidden meadow. A creek runs along the north edge. Mist curls low through the grasses. I feel different than I have in weeks. I feel light.

Free.

“I’m freaking starving ,” Holo says.

The familiar complaint cuts through my sleepy happiness. “That’s why we’re out here, isn’t it?” I hold up my foraging basket, which I wove last winter from birch branches. “I was thinking a nice mushroom and nettle sauté…”

“With trout,” Holo agrees.

“Of course with trout,” I say. “But the fish isn’t going to catch itself, is it?” Playfully I shove him toward the stream.

Holo rolls his eyes at me before jogging away, calling, “Here, fishy fishy!”

I know that this makes it my job to gather the mushrooms and the nettles. But first I have to soak everything in. First I have to lie down in the clearing, feeling the prickly grass under my back. I prop my head up on a tuft of Idaho fescue and listen to the sounds of birds and wind and water.

It feels so good to be back. This is where I belong.

In the wilderness. The sky for a roof, the sun for a lamp.

But you should’ve said goodbye.

Yeah, I should have.

I wonder if Waylon Eugene Meloy will miss the crazy wolf girl and her fang-toothed brother.

I wonder if he’ll keep speeding, and keep winding up in jail.

I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

“I got one already,” Holo calls to me from far away.

“Good for you,” I say, but not loud enough for him to hear me.

I roll over and pick myself up. Brush myself off. Pluck a few burrs from my sleeve. Wander over to the patch of nettles that bursts up from the ground in the same spot every spring. I slip on a pair of deerskin gloves to protect my skin from the stinging leaves as I harvest them. Soon I’ve got a basketful, and then to the green pile I add almost a pound of morels. I’m rooting around for more when Holo comes running up to me, smiling.

He pats the pocket of the cargo pants that Lacey bought him. “Three trout in here,” he says proudly.

Sure enough, his pocket is dripping water and possibly fish guts. “I don’t think you’re supposed to carry fish in your pants ,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “I don’t see why not. It’s very convenient.”

I laugh. Maybe he’s right. Who’s around to tell us any different?

“Ready?” he says.

I grab my basket and stand up. We stroll back the way we came, careful to take a slightly different route and to step on rocks when we can. This way we don’t create an obvious trail to the place where we sleep.

Which is not, in fact, a wolf den.

Don’t get me wrong—a wolf den can be pretty comfortable. But not as comfortable as a hand-built cabin nestled in the woods.

Home.

The one that no one knew we had.

As Holo and I approach, a figure steps outside. The woman spreads her arms out and Holo runs to her. They hold each other in a bear hug. She looks up at me with shining eyes. Her face glows with happiness and relief.

“When you weren’t in the cabin this morning,” she says, “I thought last night was a dream. But you’re really here. And you’ve even brought breakfast .”

Holo’s voice comes out muffled. “We were always going to come back to you, Wendy. And now we’re never going to leave.”