Chương 8
“No.”
“I was scared.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t fix it either.”
“No.”
“I thought if I could make your childhood smaller, I could make it safer.”
Maya looked down at her scar.
“You mostly made it confusing.”
Claire gave a broken laugh.
“Yeah.”
Maya smiled despite herself.
Then her phone beeped with another incoming call.
Unknown number.
Her pulse jumped.
“I have to go.”
“Is it her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maya.”
“What?”
“Don’t expect her to be what you need.”
Maya looked at the screen.
“I don’t know what I need.”
She switched calls.
“Hello?”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then a woman said, “Is this Maya?”
The voice was low.
Careful.
“Yes.”
“This is Nora.”
Maya closed her eyes.
“Hi.”
“Sam gave me your number.”
“I asked him to.”
“I know.”
Neither woman knew what to say next.
The awkwardness was so ordinary Maya almost laughed.
Finally Nora said, “You went to the sanctuary.”
“Yes.”
“Koda saw you.”
“Yes.”
“How is he?”
The question came too quickly.
Too softly.
Maya heard the years inside it.
“He looks healthy.”
Nora exhaled.
“Good.”
“You haven’t seen him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m not allowed.”
Maya frowned.
“Why not?”
“Part of the court agreement. No contact with seized animals.”
“You were charged?”
“Yes.”
Maya stood.
“With what?”
“Misdemeanor obstruction. Animal welfare violations got dropped.”
“Why obstruction?”
“I tried to stop them taking Koda.”
Maya thought of the intake note.
“You got hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Opening his enclosure.”
“Yes.”
Maya rubbed the scar on her own wrist.
Nora became quiet.
Then said, “You do that when you’re nervous?”
Maya’s hand stopped.
“What?”
“Rub your wrist.”
“How do you know I’m doing that?”
“Claire did it.”
Maya frowned.
“My mother doesn’t have a scar.”
“No. But she rubbed yours when you were little.”
Maya sat down.
“You remember me.”
“Yes.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“We met?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“You were five.”
Maya could barely speak.
“At my dad’s place?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nora.”
“I don’t know what people told you.”
“What do you remember?”
A long silence.
Then Nora said, “You were annoying.”
Maya blinked.
“What?”
“You followed me everywhere.”
Despite herself, Maya laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
Nora laughed too.
“You kept asking if wolves could get hiccups.”
“I was five.”
“I know.”
“Did they?”
“One did.”
Maya pressed a hand over her mouth.
A memory came.
A teenage girl sitting on an overturned feed bucket.
Dark hair in a ponytail.
A gray pup nosing her boot.
Maya standing too close.
The girl saying, Stop pulling my sleeve.
Maya whispered, “You had purple shoelaces.”
Nora stopped breathing.
Maya stared at the wall.
“You had purple shoelaces.”
“Yes.”
“I remember you.”
Nora made a small sound.
Not a sob.
Something restrained.
“Oh.”
Maya sat very still.
“You knew Button.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
Nora did not answer.
Maya felt dread move through her.
“Nora.”
“He lived.”
Maya closed her eyes.
“For how long?”
“Fourteen years.”
Maya covered her face.
The relief made no sense.
An animal she had not consciously remembered for twenty-four years had lived and died without her knowing.
Still, relief came.
“He wasn’t Koda.”
“No.”
“Was he Koda’s father?”
Nora went quiet.
Maya lowered her hand.
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
That was the connection.
Not magic.
Not destiny.
Lineage.
Behavior.
Scent perhaps.
Appearance.
A repeated human gesture carried through two women with the same family face and two generations of wolves shaped by the same family.
Maya stared at the scar.
“Koda is Button’s son.”
“Yes.”
“And his mother?”
“A wolf Leonard bought from Canada.”
“Did Button live with you?”
“For most of his life.”
“Was he tame?”
“No.”
“Did he like you?”
Nora gave a short laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he was a wolf.”
Maya smiled.
“Fair.”
Nora became quiet again.
“Maya.”
“Yeah?”
“Koda didn’t recognize you because of your scar.”
Maya’s smile disappeared.
“What?”
“I mean, maybe the gesture mattered. But there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Button had a behavior.”
Maya waited.
“When he was small, you used to hum to him.”
Maya frowned.
“I don’t sing.”
“You did when you were five.”
“What did I hum?”
“I don’t know. Some little tune.”
Maya searched her mind.
Nothing.
“Nora, I didn’t hum yesterday.”
“No.”
“Then what does that have to do with Koda?”
“Because I did.”
Maya went still.
“What?”
“I hummed the same tune when Koda was a pup.”
“Why?”
“Because I remembered you doing it.”
Maya closed her eyes.
“You taught him something from me.”
“I guess.”
“And he connected me to you.”
“Maybe.”
“That still doesn’t explain why he charged the glass.”
Nora was silent.
Then she said, “Did you make a clicking sound?”
“What?”
“With your tongue.”
Maya remembered.
Before the wolf appeared, one of the visitors had asked how guides called animals.
Maya, absentmindedly, had made the same small click she used with her neighbor’s dog back home.
She had not even thought about it.
“Yes.”
Nora breathed out.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That’s how Leonard called Button.”
Maya’s stomach turned.
“You copied him?”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“You copied your dad.”
Maya stopped.
Nora continued.
“You used to click twice before feeding Button because you saw your father do it.”
Maya’s mouth went dry.
“And I still do it.”
“Apparently.”
“With dogs.”
“Muscle memory.”
Maya looked at her hands.
“So Koda heard the same sound his father responded to.”
“Maybe. And then he saw someone who looks like me.”
“And the hand.”
“And the hand.”
Maya exhaled.
The mystery became smaller.
Stranger.
More human.
Also sadder.
“So he didn’t remember me.”
“No.”
Maya felt unexpectedly disappointed.
She hated herself a little for that.
Nora seemed to hear it.
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
“Yes, it does.”
Maya smiled faintly.
“A little.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Nora waited.
Maya looked out the motel window.
“I think for a few hours I wanted something impossible to know me.”
Nora was quiet.
May you like
Then she said, “Yeah.”
Not reassuring.
