When the Torch Went Out
The wolves are circling. Teeth bared. Thick drool strings from their mouths.
Growls and howls swallow the night. Their ribs press tight against their hides, eyes sunken, breath steaming in ragged bursts. They hadn’t eaten in weeks. I wasn’t a threat anymore. I was food.
I should have left the day before. I knew that. But unfinished work has a way of lying to you. I stayed to finish it. Now there was no leaving.
A makeshift torch is my only defense. I swing it hard.
“Get back!”
The flame wavers. My arm shakes. They smell it on me.
Fear.
The pack tightens.
Then something larger moves in the dark.
Two eyes catch the firelight—higher than the rest. Set wider apart. Watching. The wolves hesitate, then pull back, not in panic, but in silence.
As he steps forward, the others part.
The fire reveals him.
The leader.
He doesn’t bare his teeth. He doesn’t growl. His coat is thick and scarred. His movements are slow and deliberate. He stops just beyond the edge of the light, studying me. He is the provider, and his pack is hungry.
I try to jab the torch at him, but it slips from my hand.
It hits the ground and goes out.
Growling and snap barking crescendo.
Gasp!