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Time is a fickle thing, as Kafka's parable "A Common Confusion" tells us. When waiting, time lengthens; when unnoticed, it flashes by. In my case, both sensations were occurring -- pun intended -- at the same time.

Thad Whitlock made certain things happen almost in an instant. He visited with me and Fletcher on Thursday morning; before dinner on Friday, I had papers in my paw granting emergency custody of the little wolf for a period of two weeks, based upon the prima facie review of my character. During those two weeks, the initial background checks, the first round of interviews with Social Services, all of the bureaucratic rigmarole would begin its circus (all three rings, no doubt) would begin as we sought to make the fostership permanent. From what the lawyer told us of his experience in these matters, the ninety-day extension (for the full process to work itself out) was a slam-dunk; the success of the final approval and placement was somewhere between "mere formality" and "highly likely". I began to worry less about the legal matters and focus more upon Fletcher's emotional, educational, and social needs.

Wyatt was a great help in locating the material for evaluating Fletcher's educational level. Perhaps inspired by that game show about fifth graders, I asked for two copies of the test, and Fletcher and I took it at the same time, with both the black Irish wolfhound and his leopard lover Leif being proctors. At one point, I stage-whispered to Fletcher, "What's the answer to number 57?" Wyatt had a small rolled-up newspaper at paw and bapped my muzzle gently, much to Fletcher's great amusement. (For the record, there was no Question 57 on that portion of the test.) We finished in an occasionally giggly mutual near-silence, and after the grading, I think we were all impressed with our results, despite my being docked a few points for "talking in class". The wolf's score showed him fully ready for fifth-to-sixth-grade materials without any need for remedial work; my own didn't show any need for full remedial work, but I could clearly use some patch-up study in a few less-used areas such as beginning algebra, civics, and geography (I keep mixing up New Hampshire and Vermont, not to mention trying to stick Nebraska somewhere west of Oklahoma).

Privately, Mrs. Whitson was "miffed" (to use her word) at the specifics of her background check. She understood that it was about protecting Fletcher, as well as all three of us from any potential gossip or carping, and she didn't begrudge answering the questions, but as she put it, "Those who are performing this job shouldn't seem to take such glee in it." I hadn't the heart to tell her what a grinding I was taking, being not merely a priest (and therefore, by default of public perception, a potential pedophile) and gay (ditto). I kept Thad with me during the questioning, just to make sure that I didn't run off and "over-answer" any questions. I'd spoken with the attorney about the questions most likely to be asked, and when the question came up about my vow of celibacy, I told the truth about my single transgression with Philip. I could only hope that they wouldn't add "Reverend" to my name when the Social Services representative spoke with him. My inquisitor confided that he would handle it himself, telling us both what questions would be asked. The concern was less about what Philip and I had done together as it was about my telling the truth, and that could be done with reasonable discretion. I wasn't sure what I'd do if Philip asked if he could get in touch with me. Again, my old Zen Master's advice came to mind, and I did all I could to return my attention to the present.

I hadn't thought of it, or perhaps I was intentionally blocking the idea, but just as it was important to get through the foster system, it was no less important that someone try to find out what had happened to Fletcher and to his sire and dam. Identity kits for yowens could include everything from dental and pawprint records to DNA samples; these would be in the paws of the parents, however, not any law enforcement agency. The most useful information we had at that point was that the abduction had happened in the late summer, so Thad and Social Services initiated a search for reports of missing yowens during August and September of the last five years. Computers are fast, but computer time isn't always available for non-emergency investigations. Fletcher now had a guardian and a good number of case workers involved, but there was no crime going on at this point, and no way to get any statement of a crime from Fletcher. Our enquiries might raise flags with them, but we figured on keeping the police and federal officers at bay, carrying on as best we could.

When the early and late Sunday masses came around that week, it was all I could do not to announce from the pulpit that I hoped to become a foster sire. Several reasons for hesitating sprang to mind, including the most important, which was that Fletcher himself didn't feel ready even to stand with me and be welcomed by a large number of strangers in a setting that likely was just as strange to him. I had a passing thought of photographing him, to show the picture to my flock, asking if anyone recognized him. I convinced myself not to do that, citing everything from his having been kept isolated from others for a period of years to the notion that I'd found him on a cross-town bus and that there was no reason for me to think that the pup had been local to my parish. I sent up more than one prayer, asking if I were being selfish. For what it's worth, Leif offered the compromise that I examine the question again in about a week, suggesting wryly that God might need a little time to get through his knee-mails. I refrained from smacking him, but it was a near thing.

Through that week, Fletcher improved in every way. He spoke more often and more fluidly, hesitating less and using stronger structure. He showed more autonomy in his actions, spending a little more time in his room, always with the door open. He would sit in his bed and read from the textbooks that Wyatt had supplied from the library. They were, the wolfhound acknowledged, a few years behind the times, but still usable. "So many of th' new texts're only available as them foolish_eee-pubs, they call 'em. Need a tablet t' view 'em. Me, I'd take two tablets 'n curl up wi' a_real book!" Leif, younger by a half-dozen years, called him a Luddite and grinned when the black Irish made a quite graphic description of what the leopard would be subject to upon returning home. "As if," Wyatt winked, "that'd be even the slightest punishment!"

Leif juggled his schedule slightly so that he could take us to visit a physician that he trusted. We'd did a little preparation beforepaw. The wolf had told me and Leif that he didn't want to have any needles, and we both agreed that could hurt, but that it might be necessary. Swallowing, the yowen said he'd do what he had to do, and Leif and I promised to stay with him the entire time. Fletcher was hardly a child, but his experience with doctors had been limited to his puphood, prior to Othertime; since then, his body had grown older faster than his mind and his emotions. Put simply, he was scared. Leif had learned some tricks about getting blood draws from pups half the wolf's apparent age, and he applied them all. We explained everything about that part of the process, and we made sure the yowen was well-hydrated. I'd had my share of draws, as had Leif (getting as well as taking), and most were just fine. (I avoided telling them of the day that two phlebotomists made, between them, seven attempts in both arms, wrists, and the back of my left forepaw. They did finally get the draw they needed, and I chalked it up to calm acceptance in the face of adversity... and multiple bandages.)

The otter, a Dr. Perierre, was a little older than myself, and he had a twinkle in his eye that told me he'd grown up just fine but that he wasn't about to let himself grow old in manner or thinking. He checked the paperwork just as he should have done, then he set about attending to Fletcher as if he were an adult who'd somehow managed not to have visited a doctor before. The otter took his time, asking Fletcher if he had any questions about anything at all. Still mostly shy around others, the wolf didn't say much at first. He was able to answer questions about how he felt, but not much about his past, as we'd expected. This exam would provide a sort of baseline, at least. If we could find Fletcher's sire and dam, they might have vaccination records; they can be tested for, but they were costly and, at the moment at least, not immediately necessary.

When it came time for the blood draw, the doctor sat in front of the pup, ready to explain anything he wanted to know. Everything happened in small steps. Dr. Perierre demonstrated on me how to find a vein in the arm; Fletcher was able to feel my vein standing up to attention, and when it was his turn, the otter helped the yowen to feel the vein in his own arm. Strangely, that seemed to calm him. He chose to watch as the doctor put in the needle, and his little gasp was more from surprise than pain. Concern creased his brow as three phials were filled with blood, and the doctor reassured him that it only looked like a lot. It was all over quickly enough, and Fletcher was clearly no worse for wear. I was told that I'd receive the lab results later in the week. With Leif having explained the situation prior to the visit, the doctor had ordered a few tests that weren't part of an annual physical, and I could think of several things that I sincerely hoped wouldn't show up.

It was Wednesday afternoon when the counselor came by to meet Fletcher for the first time. I'm embarrassed to admit that my first reaction was one of surprise. Although somewhat compact for her species, the grizzly wasn't at all what I was expecting. She smiled, taking it in her stride. "Everyone does that," she said, almost with pride. "Who better to protect cubs? I've none of my own, but perhaps there's time yet."

She introduced herself as Esperanza Mercier, Licensed Social Worker, and she settled herself comfortably into one of my chairs, insisting that Fletcher and I sit on the sofa together. Her job, she said, was partly in support of the social worker for the county -- the rather fussy squirrel who had looked over the house, talked to Fletcher about his wanting to stay here, interviewed him, me, Mrs. Whitson -- and partly to offer counseling to Fletcher directly. "There's no rush about that," she assured us both. "I just wanted to come visit with you for a bit, help you get to know me."

Despite the wolf's shyness with strangers, the grizzly began drawing him out without seeming to be to specific about any one topic or other. He spoke of the test we had taken together, and that he was going through the school texts that Wyatt had provided. It wasn't as easy as he'd hoped, because "the words look funny". This was news to me. He managed to explain that it wasn't anything to do with his eyes, but simply that he was getting used to reading again. Fletcher remembered that he used to love reading, from an early age, when his dam would read to him and show him the words as she read along, and that some books, he would be able to read back to her, especially when she was having trouble with her eyes...

It was all I could do not to pounce on that tidbit of information. It was Esperanza who took the lead, saying how nice it was that Fletcher would do that, letting the pup take his time assimilating a memory that he didn't know he had. Taking that hint, I asked Fletcher what books he had enjoyed as a pup. He glanced at me, took my forepaw in his, and smiled in such a way that told me he was aware of the gentle trick being played on him, and that he was grateful for the space. He mentioned titles that I knew were more modern than anything I could have had in my own puphood, like_I Want My Hat Back_ and More Bears!, but he also mentioned a few classics that I really did read all those years ago. I told the grizzly of the classroom space in the church annex where Sunday School classes were taught, as well as where parents could have someone (often Mrs. Whitson) sit with their younger kits and pups while they attended mass. There were a great many books there that the sitter would read from. I asked the young wolf if he'd like to read to me and Mrs. Whitson; he squeezed my forepaw with his, as his tail thapped happily against the sofa cushion. He also requested that I read to him, and I told him that I had a lot of ideas in mind, and only some of them from a school list. He said that he liked the sound of the titles_A Wrinkle in Time_ and The Phantom Tollbooth.

The grizzly chimed in with a few titles of her own, and even I felt totally relaxed in her presence. After a little more of this banter, she leaned forward and said softly, "I'm very glad to know you, Fletcher. And I want you to know that I'll make myself available for you to talk to whenever you wish."

"You mean..." The pup hesitated, then managed, "You mean about Othertime."

Esperanza's brows crossed a little, and Fletcher explained, just as he had for Thad. She nodded. "Yes. And anything else that worries you, for that matter. If you feel that you want to talk about anything in your life, we'll arrange a time."

"Graham helps me. Lets me talk." He smiled softly. "Helps me talk."

"That's wonderful. I can tell that you two care about each other a lot."

The wolf leaned against me, putting an arm around me. "I love Graham."

I put an arm around his shoulder and squeezed him close, looking into the grizzly's eyes. I caught a flash of hesitation there, but she covered it quickly. I returned her gaze steadily; I had nothing to be ashamed of, and if she wanted some explanation of a perfectly good expression of a perfectly healthy emotion, then she could jolly well ask for it.

"Fletcher," she asked softly, "would it be okay for me to talk to you alone?"

"Why?"

A reasonable question, I thought, and the grizzly took it in stride. "I thought you might like to talk to me privately, that's all."

"You mean, in secret?"

"Does that idea bother you?"

"No secrets." The wolf looked at me with absolute trust and affection. "Graham tells me everything. I tell him. Why I trust him."

"May I ask you something about the Othertime?"

Fletcher hesitated. "Not sure I can tell much."

"Did someone tell you not to tell?"

"He... OtherMaster told me. Kept me away from... told me never to tell."

"Has anyone else told you not to tell things?"

The wolf shook his head. He leaned into me, and I could feel him starting to shake. I looked at the social worker sternly. "Please, I think he's had enough--"

"Only one more question, and we'll stop." Her voice was still the same soft, friendly tone she'd had all along, but I felt an edge to it, something like iron in her words. "Fletcher, has Graham ever told you not to say anything?"

He shook his head again. "Wants me to tell whatever I can. Wants me to get better, be safe, be strong. Graham loves me like I love him, and we can talk. We can always talk. About anything. No secrets."

"Mrs. Whitson," I called down toward the kitchen, "do you have a moment?"

Esperanza's brows creased a little. She looked toward the hallway as the matronly red panda approached, a look on her face that told me her pert rounded ears had been plenty long enough to hear our conversation. "What may I do for you, Reverend Graham?"

"Would you be so kind as to tell Ms. Mercier how you first met Fletcher?"

"Friday before last, when I came to bring you your morning tea." I nodded, and she continued. "I was quite surprised, Ms. Mercier, because Fletcher was in bed with Reverend Graham. Both were fully dressed, and the Reverend explained that he had found the pup the previous day, stripped naked and soaked to the bones from having been left out in the downpour. It was days before he could stand to be away from the Reverend for even a few moments, and since your eyes are asking more questions than your muzzle, I'll confirm for you what the attorney, the doctor, the friends who referred us, and anyone who's know the Reverend for more than ten minutes already knows: Reverend Graham is gay, and he has never once touched Fletcher in any inappropriate way."

The grizzly kept her tongue behind her teeth, though I could see that she was wrestling with something that clearly wanted to surmount that barrier. I gave the wolf's shoulders a squeeze. "Fletcher, I don't want this question to hurt, but I think Ms Mercier needs to hear it. Have I ever done anything to you like what happened in Othertime?"

"No." The pup's brows came together hard, and his voice was more confused than anything else. "No. You never hurt me. You never touched me like that."

"And you've never touched me that way either?"

"No." He hunched a little in my embrace. "Talked about that. About loving the right way. That's not the right way. Or..." Looking at me, his eyes filled with a painful want, he softly asked, "No secrets?"

"Is there something you want to tell me, Fletcher? Something you want to tell us all?"

He looked at the grizzly, his expression not nearly as trustful as it had been. Even she had the good grace to appear embarrassed. The young wolf spoke slowly and carefully. "I have a lot to learn. Learned that this week. Graham is teaching me, and Mrs. Whitson, and Wyatt and Leif, and Thad too. Safe. They make it safe for me to learn. They give me choices. In Othertime, OtherMaster chose. Everything. Eat, not eat, use bathroom, not use..." He gathered himself and started again. "That first night, I heard Graham talking to his Master. Talking to God. He talked about false choices, getting help to make good choices. Graham is helping me make good choices. He is helping me chose love. How to love. How to love the right way."

After a long pause, the grizzly finally asked, "What is the right way, Fletcher?"

"The way that both choose. When both can choose, then there is love. Wyatt and Leif, they chose each other. Leif said that they choose every day, and they choose the ways that they love. I was frightened, first night; Graham kept me safe. Now, we choose because we love. Not fear. Love. We still sleep dressed. We make breakfast, wash dishes, talk, do things together. Together is love. That's what I know is love. Maybe someday, something more. Not now."

He wrapped his arms around my middle and put his head against my chest, turning it to look at the social worker directly. "This is how we love now. I want to stay with Graham."

My forepaw on the yowen's shoulder, I gazed steadily at the social worker. For Mrs. Whitson's part, she held a steely-eyed look that appeared to brook no nonsense, despite the grizzly being half again her size. Long moments passed before Esperanza spoke.

"I meant what I said before, about defending yowens. I know my job, Reverend Graham. Your orientation was not a factor; depending on what studies you use, up to 98% of abusers of underage males are identified as primarily heterosexual. Abuse is not about sexuality; just like other forms of rape, it's about power. One form of power is control, emotional or psychological control. To identify with or even love one's abductor... history is full of examples, from the rape of the Sabine women to Stockholm Syndrome. So when I heard what Fletcher said, I had to know what he meant."

The grizzly turned far more sympathetic eyes toward the wolf. "You speak well, Fletcher. The word is 'eloquent'; you might find it on your home schooling tests." She managed an abashed little smile. "I'm not sure if you'll be able to trust me again; I really stuck my hindpaws in it. What I hope you understand is that I needed to make sure that you were speaking freely, that Graham or someone else hadn't made you say things you didn't mean."

I felt the pup's body shake once, from tip to tail. I pet his head gently, not caring who might think ill of it. I was certain that he'd just experienced a memory, some dark memory of Othertime, and I wanted to reinforce his feeling of being safe.

"You spoke the truth, Fletcher," Esperanza continued, softer now. "You love Graham, and he loves you, in all the right ways. And I'll make sure everyone who needs to know gets exactly the right idea. I hope you'll be able to forgive me."

She rose, thanking me, thanking Mrs. Whitson, and seeing herself out. My housekeeper was not one to hold grudges, in my experience, but I had the sense that she would still feel a touch of frost toward the social worker until she'd proved herself worthy of helping us.

"Did I do anything wrong?" Fletcher asked, still holding me.

"Not even a little bit wrong," I promised him.

"You did just fine, Fletcher," Mrs. Whitson agreed. "And if you're feeling up to it, I'd love for you to give me some help with dinner. I'll be ready to start in half an hour or so."

"Love to," the pup grinned, not yet releasing his grip on me.

Mrs. Whitson nodded, favoring us with one of her best smiles and headed back toward the kitchen. "In the meantime, I think a little tea might go well with some snickerdoodles, eh? I'll give a holler when tea's up."

"Thank you, Mrs. Whitson," I said. I squeezed Fletcher to me, and he reciprocated gently. "Maybe not quite time for the counselor, eh, pup?"

"Maybe not," he agreed. "Not yet. Like a lot of things -- not yet."

I pet his head gently, remembering a line from the rulebook, from a timid prophet named Jeremiah who put forth the notion that God's plan is to prosper us, not to harm us, and that He will give us hope and a future. For this moment, I trusted to a prosperity of spirit for all who I loved, perhaps particularly this precious little wolf who had so won my heart.

* * * * * * * * * *

Many's the time that I've wondered how on earth Mrs. Whitson manages such princely meals on the comparatively meager church budget, but I've never allowed my curiosity to show its heels to my gratitude. I teased her by saying that Fletcher was going to steal away all of her culinary secrets, and I then realized that I might have provided some confusion about using the word "secret". Instead, I discovered that my housekeeper was hiding yet more lights under her bushel. She had explained (while showing the pup the best ways of slicing mushrooms, potatoes, carrots, and other ingredients for a wonderful side-dish to her very best fried pork chops) how words can carry many meanings, depending upon how they're used. "Secret", in this case, was more like "key", or "trick of the trade" -- not something intentionally kept hidden from others but more like things not commonly known.

"Most of what Reverend Graham calls my 'secrets' are more like things I've learned over the years, but things he might not know." She grinned at the wolf. "But maybe we won't tell him, eh, yowen?"

"Very secret business of the Cook's Secret Society!" he laughed. It warmed my heart so much to hear him laughing, and it was happening more often now. I put up my forepaws and admitted defeat, with the provision that I would still be fed. Mrs. Whitson put a forefinger to her chin, considering, and Fletcher imitated her perfectly as they seemed to weigh their options. They winked at each other and told me to sit at the table and be grateful. When we were all assembled, I said grace, asking the Lord to bless the Cook's Secret Society, that I might continue to be grateful for their benevolence. Both cooks chuckled a happy "Amen" to that sentiment, and we all dined well.

Fletcher and I once again took up dish-washing duty, and Mrs. Whitson observed that, if we kept that up, she might be able to go to Wednesday night bingo at St. Vincent de Paul's, several blocks away. "You're not planning to convert, are you, Mrs. Whitson?" I asked.

"Only if I win, Reverend."

"I promise not to pray against your luck."

"Fair enough," the red panda chortled and took her leave.

The young wolf and I put away the leftovers, washed and dried, and tidied up the kitchen with a speed and rhythm that would have any observer thinking we'd been doing it for years. Afterward, with the house to ourselves, we decided to do a little work, Fletcher reading on the sofa, me at my desk in the study nearby. We were apart yet together, and somehow, it was easier to make notes on the homily I wanted to give next Sunday. My heart was in it. I wouldn't say that I was indifferent toward my calling or toward my homilies, but this was one of those times when I felt closer --nearer, my God, to Thee.

Sometime later, I looked up to find Fletcher looking at me from his perch on the sofa. I smiled at him. "How ya doin', pup?"

"Good. Wondered if you were tired, or maybe..." He paused, and I could see that the hesitation was probably based on the difficulty that he still had in asking for something that he wanted. I waited, hoping that I was encouraging a good habit. After a moment, he asked, "Could we talk?"

"Of course. Could I have a few moments to finish this up?"

"Sure." He smiled. "I'll make tea, if you want some."

"That sounds great! Thank you, Fletcher."

He rose from the couch fluidly, taking his textbook with him. I felt sure that he was going to put_his_ book on his shelf in his room as a point of pride, partly for being tidy, and partly for the appreciation of having things that were genuinely his own. I glanced around my study, realizing that it could benefit from a dose of tidying up, and that I would benefit from appreciating the things in my own life. I made another note for the homily, remembering Jesus' own admonition to appreciate what you have, as well as making a note about an old_B.C._ comic strip from Jonny Hart, one of his Confucious-like one-liners that began with the misspelling of "He Who": "Hee Hoo giveth all he hath to the poor joineth their ranks."

I joined Fletcher in the kitchen just as the tea kettle began to whistle. He looked over his shoulder at me, smiling. "I forgot to ask what tea you wanted."

"I'm sure I'd enjoy whatever you chose, but since I'm here... do we have any of the Spice Dragon?"

"Think I saw... yes, there it is. Sounds good!" He took down the familiar-looking box from the Stash Tea Company and brought out a sachet for each of us. After preparing the two cups, he poured from the kettle, causing the rich scent of sweet and spicy chai to fill the air. We sat at the kitchen table and just looked at each other. I had the notion that we were both savoring being together.

"Did you want to talk here?" I asked.

The wolf's ears splayed for just a moment, then he breathed deeply and righted himself. "No secrets." His voice was almost a whisper. He looked to me and tried again. "Been thinking about things. Want to talk, to tell you, but I'm not sure how. It's... it might be... wrong."

"Can you tell me how it might be wrong, Fletcher?"

"Maybe not wrong, just..." He searched for words, and I made myself not jump in to help. He was far from stupid, and I didn't want to make him think I was impatient. Whatever it was, it was bothering him terribly, if his drooping tail and shifting ears were anything to go by. "We don't have secrets, so I should tell you. Just not sure..."

"May I tell you something first?" The pup nodded, glad to be off the hook. "Remember when Wyatt and Leif came to talk to us last week? Leif said that he wanted to talk with you, and Wyatt talked with me. We weren't keeping secrets from each other. For me, at least, there were a lot of things that I wanted to tell you, but I wasn't sure how, so Wyatt had me tell him first. I had the chance to stumble over words, figure out what I wanted to say, how I wanted to say it. And you heard part of what I told him, and that was okay too. Fletcher, sometimes we keep secrets from ourselves. I needed Wyatt to help me understand, and then I could talk to you."

"I want to tell you." His voice held the gentlest whine to it. "Don't want to be secret. But it's... we've already talked about it. Mostly."

"Do you feel like we need to talk some more?" He nodded, but he went no further. "Would you feel better talking to someone else first? Leif, perhaps?"

"Would he... would he want to?"

"I'm sure he'd be happy to talk you. He told you that, didn't he?"

Fletcher nodded. "He said we could talk about anything."

"Would you like to call him? Would you rather see him in person?"

"Is he working?"

"Let's find out." I took out my cell phone, and it occurred to me that I'd need to find a way to get one for him soon, if only as a lifeline. As a stop-gap, I made sure that the wolf knew how to find Leif's and Wyatt's numbers, then I sent a 411 text to Leif. After what felt like no time at all, I was answering a call from the leopard, who insisted that he was very much available to talk.

"Frankly," he said, "you're saving me from a pasting in what could be an extremely short round of strip rummy." From just beyond, I heard Wyatt calling,Don' let 'im fool yer; he's a-losin' a'purpose!

"If you'd like a brief reprieve," I smiled, "I think Fletcher would like a chat. Hold on just a moment." Handing the cell to the young wolf, I asked, "I don't want to overhear by accident. How about I go take a shower; you can go into my study and close the door. Take your tea with you, and we'll talk when you're ready. Is that okay?"

"Outside doors are locked?" I nodded, and he nodded with me. "Okay." He stood and, as he passed me, he put a forepaw to my shoulder for a moment. "No secrets," he reaffirmed, very quietly. Truth to tell, it was the most "adult" thing anyone in my life had ever done.

Running water is good to muffle noise, and_hot_ water is good for any sort of relaxation. I let the water wash over me, determined not only to give Fletcher time to talk but me the chance to see how the geyser would hold up under the demand. I decided to borrow a bit of the wolf's fur soap for myself. My own short-furred coat didn't need a lot in terms of moisture and conditioning creams; Mrs. Whitson had helped get the pup's tangles out first, then provided some conditioner from her own bath until we could get a bottle for Fletcher to use regularly. I had to admit that I liked the way it smelled, both from the bottle and from the ruff of his neck fur. In its way, the scent had become as much a comfort to me as his presence in our shared bed.

I toweled off, and I sipped more of my tea while enjoying the luxury of the wall blowers for a few minutes, in case Fletcher needed more time. (The blowers were a blessing for him, with his long ash-gray fur.) I wrapped the towel around my waist and padded to my bedroom, where I found the young wolf sitting with his back to the wall, the comforter in his lap, and a conspicuous lack of t-shirt covering his torso. He smiled softly at me, not the least bit predatory or calculating. I set my tea mug on the bedside table, next to his, and found myself clasping the top of the towel with one forepaw.

Perhaps my face asked a question. Fletcher shook his head a little. "No secrets," he said softly. "Just wasn't sure how to talk about it. Leif said I should tell you it's 'male stuff', and that I might embarrass Mrs. Whitson with it. Not secret, but not really what she'd want to talk about."

"She might surprise both of us," I chuckled, "but it's a reasonable precaution." I did my best to stay calm, emotionally open, sitting on the bed without making any suggestive moves. "I'm here, Fletcher. Let's talk."

He paused, considered. "There's a lot of stuff," he said. "I didn't know where to start, and Leif helped me see that I just need to jump four-pawed into it and see what happens. Graham, I don't want to make you hurt with this. Please tell me if it hurts."

"I promise I'll tell you." I smiled a little. "I'm not sure quite what you want to talk about, yet."

Fletcher looked at his forepaws resting gently in his lap, and I flashed again on that first night, when all he had wanted was to be held, to be not-alone. When he looked up at me, he seemed much older than he was. "I've been remembering some things. From Othertime. Some of what I did. Some of what someone did to me. Master. Others." He made himself breathe again. "Leif told me some things last week, and tonight. I was able to tell him about some of the things that had happened to me, and I asked him about something that happened with my body. He told me that my body is not my fault. I mean..." The sound he made was probably supposed to be something like a laugh, but it came out as more like a cough, or a sob. "Sometimes... I felt things. My body felt things. Not like feelings I have with you. I remember feeling loved as a pup, and you love me. I don't mean 'feelings' that way, emotions. I mean feeling like my body feeling, touching... I remember touch."

I nodded, not at all sure what he was trying to tell me, nor what I was to do with it.

"Leif gave me some words, and he told me that you would understand what I was saying. Told me to try words like 'emotions' and 'private'. Not secret, but it's private. It's just for us to know." He paused, looked down at his forepaws again. "Feel stupid."

"You're certainly not stupid, Fletcher," I told him. "You're trying to talk about something new. And you're talking about your body, and you probably haven't been able to do that before."

"Not like this." He breathed again. "I liked it." Looking up at me, his eyes held deep shame. "Not all of it. Not a lot of it, maybe. But some things felt good, and it shouldn't. I mean, the hurt, and the silences, and the screaming, and... a lot of things, I remember being hurt and frightened, and that wasn't good. But some of the things... sometimes, something felt good, and those things, I... want them."

Taking the chance, I took his forepaw into my own. "I think I understand. I don't want to guess wrong, so I want you to tell me what those things are. First, though, I want to know if... did OtherMaster tell you hurtful things? Did he hurt you with words?"

"Called me names. Called me dirty, filthy, sick, like sick in the head..." The wolf cringed, but he didn't pull away. He breathed once, twice, looked up at me. "Leif talked to me about a few things that he and Wyatt do together, but they want to, and OtherMaster yelled at me when I..." He squeezed my forepaw, looked into my eyes, making a visible effort to rule his language. "I'm starting to believe. I love you. And I trust what you tell me. I want... you to tell me... if I'm bad to want you. Like that."

I started to speak, not even sure what words were going to fall out of my muzzle, but the yowen took my forepaw into both of his and held my gaze.

"Think I know why we shouldn't. Not now. You explained, Leif explained. Not what I'm saying. I won't do those things with you now, but wanting to... I want to, and all those old voices telling me I'm bad to want. To want to do those things. Wrong to touch my... penis." He managed the weakest of smiles. "Leif told me to use that word. He said you'd know the words 'pawing off'. A few other things. Want to talk about that, and I've been scared to."

"Were you afraid I would yell at you?"

He nodded, looking almost pathetic.

"Oh, Fletcher, my sweet pup." Forgetting any reason why I shouldn't, I reached across the bed and pulled him close to me. He threw his arms around me and held me tight, and we rearranged ourselves onto the bed, pressed against each other as I pet his headfur tenderly. "I don't want to yell at you. There is absolutely no reason to yell at you, especially not about that. It's biology, Fletcher; it's what happens to males as they grow older. No one ever taught you about that..."

He shook his head, tears forming in his eyes. "What happened to me was bad, was hurt and fear and I thought that I must be terrible if there was anything that felt good..."

I held back from kissing him, worried that he might not really know what I meant by it, or that it held another horrible connection in his memory. I brushed a forepaw very slowly and tenderly at his tears, and the horrible truth came crashing down on me. "Fletcher... we talked about how you had so much to learn. Part of your learning now is going to be_unlearning_ things that aren't true. OtherMaster lied to you. That was part of how he hurt you, how he controlled you. And it's going to take some time to change that, and I will help you do that. I'm here to love you and tell you how good you are, how smart you are, how proud of you I am."

"Am I a good pup?"

My blood froze when I saw the look in his eyes, the sense of them clouding over into a kind of empty-mindedness that was the realm of the truly broken. I kept my voice low and soft. "Fletcher. Listen to me. Will you say my name?"

It took a few moments, but he gathered himself; his eyes regained their focus, and it became clear that he realized what had happened. He lowered his head against my chest and held me tighter than ever. "Graham," he managed with a soft sob. "Graham. Graham. Graham. You're Graham. And I'm..._I'm_Fletcher. I am Fletcher."

"Yes, you are Fletcher. And you are a fine young wolf who is his own furson. You're free, you're safe, and you are no one's pup anymore."

Slowly, he raised his head to look at me. "Not even you?"

"I don't own you, young wolf." I managed a smile for him. "It may be that you've captured my heart, but you're not in my bed because you belong to me. You belong to you. And I love you. I love Fletcher. With all my heart."

His eyes swam in tears unborn, and I could feel my own eyes growing wet, my lip trembling. "Didn't want to hurt you," he whined softly.

I pet his headfur tenderly. "No secrets," I said. "I am hurting, Fletcher, but not because of you, not because of anything that you did. I'm hurting because of what was done to you, and because of how it has hurt you. And I'm going to tell you a secret, like a cooking secret, except this one is about life. Life hurts, sometimes; we get hurt, in all sorts of ways, and it can make us cry. There are times when we feel that hurting is all there is left. Here's the secret, though: Hurting is_not_ all there is. We get through our hurting, partly with time, partly with faith in something greater than ourselves, but most important of all, we get through our hurting when we can be with someone we love. When we are able to trust in another, to share our hurt, the pain lessens; we draw strength from that sharing, and then we realize that we're bigger than the hurt, that the hurt can't control us, can't stop us from doing things that don't hurt, that we want, that make us feel good. So when you hurt, come find me; when I hurt, I'll come find you. Together, we'll find a way to stop the hurt. We'll be together, boldly washing dishes that haven't been washed before!"

The pup laughed, I held him even closer, laughing with him. "We're going to need time, Fletcher. And we'll make time, and you'll see what a wonderful young wolf you are, in every way. You're not 'bad' for wanting to feel good. I don't think we can talk it all out in one night, but we can talk. Always. About anything. I promise."

We cuddled there for a very long time, and I was barely aware of its passage. I felt Fletcher calming, relaxing into our embrace, and I gently nuzzled his ear. "Think you want to sleep, yowen?"

He looked up at me and smiled softly. "Not quite sleepy. Got an idea, though. Something we can do together."

I raised a cautious eyebrow, and the little stinker laughed.

"Do you have any of those books you mentioned? Like the one about the tollbooth?"

You cheeky sod, I thought, but didn't say. "I'll be right back."

The book -- a special edition with illustrations by Jules Feiffer -- was easy to find in my study, as it held pride of place on a shelf with gift books. This one, in fact, was given me by Merrill, some few years ago. I pressed my lips to the cover as some priests might kiss the rulebook. This was no venial sacrilege; my reverence was real, for such a kiss can only come from love, and God is nothing if not Love. I found myself knowing that I would tell Fletcher all about Merrill, and I knew that both of them would love me for sharing them with each other.

I returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed with my bare back to the wall as Fletcher brought up the comforter to keep us warm. He leaned close against me, his lush ash-gray fur pressed against my side, looking on as I read: "There once was a pup named Milo who didn't know what to do with himself -- not just sometimes, but always..."