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I gasped and pulled Fletcher tightly into my embrace, feeling him grip me closely to him. The words clanged inside my head:I think he sold me. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the horror that I felt from those five words. Even Elizabeth's servitude felt different, if only because there was some sort of acceptance within her, some sort of understanding. This was... well, this was Fletcher...

Gathering myself, I moved my lips near to his ear and whispered, "I'm here for you. I love you, Fletcher, and I'm here for you. Can you talk about it? Can you tell me what you've remembered?"

After a few moments, I felt him nod against my chest. "Bed?" he asked, then shook his head and pulled away from me a little. "No," he said with soft conviction. "Not take this to bed. This is..." He looked into my eyes, his own watery, magnifying the intensity of those cobalt blue orbs. "Want you, Graham, but don't want..." He swallowed, and I gave him time. "Couch okay?"

"Couch will be fine." I kissed his forehead, thinking,_I'm so proud of you._I could tell him so, soon; for now, we both needed to hear his words.

In the living room, the sun shone through the windows with the promise of another warm day. Fletcher held my forepaw gently as he led me to sit next to him on the couch. He leaned against me, into my embrace, saying softly, "Another minute."

"Of course, my angel." I kissed him atop his head and just held him. I had earned a Master of Divinity degree in order to become a vicar, but I often wondered why so much of the degree focused on the needs of the liturgical rather than the personal, or even the genuinely spiritual. If my true calling was to minister to the needs of all God's creatures, especially those who were sapient and in need of an intermediary who presumably knew God's will, I'd have been far better off mixing in more classes on psychology, active listening, mediation, and perhaps the seven foci of an old-fashioned classical education. The hierarchy of the church wants its priests to learn all about the Christian Bible, about interpretation of scripture, and how to select music for the service; they then send us out to care for our fellow furs as if those things actually held answers to earthly problems. To be of real help, I was growing to realize that Elizabeth Sturbridge may well have a point: Sometimes, one must honor one's faith in God by being just a bit of a heretic toward the church.

Fletcher squeezed me gently, then pulled away, turning himself to face me there on the couch. His eyes were more clear, and he breathed evenly, waiting for me to rearrange myself as well. I looked at him softly, the slight smile on my lips meant to offer encouragement and strength. Another few moments, a nod, and he began.

"I don't remember everything even now, but it was like... After you left, I took a shower, and I was thinking how strong you are, to be there for your flock. Your parishioners... they look up to you, and you love them. And you love me too, and that feels so good. In more ways than one." He managed a chuckle, and I joined him. "I got dressed and thought it would be good to do some laundry." A somewhat broader smile, a blush. "I did get sidetracked a little, sniffing the bed sheets...! But in a way, that was part of it. I was thinking about us, about how much I love you, and how much I love your scent. That was what got me thinking about my dam, about her scent, about what I could remember about her. I put soap in the washer first, the way you and Mrs. Whitson showed me, let the water get soapy, then started putting in the sheets. The scent from them came up, and then the smell of the laundry soap, and something in me said_That doesn't smell right,_ and I realized that I was expecting a different scent. That's when I realized I was remembering the smell of my dam's laundry soap. It was lemony. And that started..."

The young wolf frowned, searching for words. "It was kind of like fireworks. Like bangs, but not noise. Flashes, bits of things, parts of memories. There's a lot I still don't..." He looked down. "Said that, sorry, it's just... I just..."

In the pause, I took the chance of reaching for his forepaw, giving it a little squeeze, nodding. He nodded back and tried again.

"Is it normal to remember like this? Bits of things? I mean, shouldn't I remember it all, like a story, start to finish?"

"I don't always remember all of my stories," I murmured. "I know I've read lots of stories, books, but I haven't memorized everything about them. I might get a few things wrong, if I tried to retell them, and I'd probably leave things out."

"So it's okay?"

"Others may do it differently, but that's them. You're you, Fletcher, and I love you. I think you're doing great, that you've come so far since that first night... It's okay for you to remember whatever comes back to you."

"Guess I feel dumb..." He held up his other forepaw and actually grinned at me. "Okay, I know, I know! But it does feel... I mean, I don't want to... to..."

"To disappoint me?" I tried, and after a moment, he nodded. I reached up to caress his cheek tenderly. "You'll never disappoint me by doing what you can. Right now, these flashes are what you can do. If you think it will help, tell me more, whatever you can. Do you remember your dam's scent?"

"I think so. A little at least." A melancholy smile formed his muzzle gently. "I remembered the soap first. And then I seemed to remember from when she would hold me, when I was a pup. I remember her voice better now, remember some of the things she said. She would read to me, from when I was real little, she'd read to me. I loved words, she said. She called me smart, and..." He paused, and his expression clouded over. "Skips around a lot. I can almost see her, and it slips away."

"Take your time, my angel. And she was right. You're very smart, and you're very good with words and language."

"Always got your muzzle in a book." The voice was a little deeper, a little more harsh than Fletcher's own speaking voice. His eyes hooded slightly. "He said that a lot. Never made him happy somehow." The young wolf swallowed. "I don't think he liked me much."

I waited before whispering, "Your sire?"

"Yeah." Another swallow. "I think he blamed me for her illness. My dam. She was... she got sick."

"Do you remember how she got sick?"

"He said it was because of me." Fletcher closed his eyes and breathed. "Took a long time. Said if I'd never been born, she wouldn't be... My fault, he said..."

It took an act of will for me not to scream, either angry words at Fletcher's idiot of a sire or simple assurances that it wasn't Fletcher's fault. Of course I would say that; it would be too easy for the young wolf to dismiss it. "What did your dam say about that?"

"Crazy, she said that was crazy." He looked into my eyes, partly desperation, part memory. "She told me over and over that it wasn't anything I did, that I only ever loved her, that she loved me, it wasn't anything that I... I didn't do anything..."

I simply nodded, just a little.

"He was the one who said that. She told me not to pay attention to him, that he was feeling hurt that she would have to leave. She explained to me that she would be leaving... that she was dying..." He held his forepaws tightly in his lap, shuddered once through, sniffing back tears. "Never lied. Always told me..." He breathed slowly through his nose, exhaled carefully, looked at me again. "She told me when she was tired, when I would read to her... she told me that she had cancer. I think she explained it to me, but I don't remember what she said."

"I'm very sorry, Fletcher." I resisted reaching out to him; he was holding his forepaws closed in his lap, and his body looked stiff and slightly trembling, and I wasn't sure if he was ready for me to touch him when he was in this state. Should I try explaining now? He was still remembering; I didn't want to interrupt the flow.

"Hospital," he said, remembering. "Lot of time there. Summer. She was so... she slept a lot..." Something about the wolf made me think that he was looking at something else. "Clothes," he said at last, smiling a little. "When I got your clothes this morning... that memory came back too, helping her get ready for work if she overslept. I had to be quiet, getting her clothes, so I wouldn't wake him up. Nothing could wake him up, some mornings; he slept so hard, snored..."

"How old were you?"

"Seven, eight, something..." A splinter of a frown crossed his face. "I'd help her get ready for work, get dressed while she put on her face... she called it that, especially if... when her eyes were so tired, and she had trouble reading to me in the evenings, so I'd read to her..."

A picture began to form in my mind, even though I hoped it wasn't true.

Fletcher sighed heavily. "That's a lot of it. The laundry soap smell, that's what started..."

He stopped again, and I somehow had the wisdom not to rush ahead. If that cascade of memory worked as I thought it might, he would remember that one other thing that he had said; if it didn't, then perhaps it wasn't time for him to think about it too closely.

"I did his laundry, while she was in hospital." The wolf's voice was soft, almost distant. "I couldn't cook much. He didn't want much. Sandwiches. Beer. Mostly beer." He swallowed. "A lot of food, after she died; she had a lot of friends, and they brought food. Went through most of it. Stayed in my room a lot. He kept saying it was my fault, and I kept holding one of her old nightshirts when I went to sleep. Smelled like her. Smelled mostly like lemon, but smelled a little like her, before the hospital smells. Hid it from him. He said he was gonna..."

The moment froze. He seemed to stop breathing, ears splayed, snout with a drop of snot trying to escape it. Finally, he looked at me, and I felt my stomach plunge. His eyes looked clouded, glazed over, helpless. "Graham," he whispered. "Please. Help..."

I leapt to my hindpaws, bent over to pick him up, carried him back to our bed. He shook uncontrollably, and I put the quilt around him before taking him in my arms and holding him tightly to me, listening to his voice keening a howl that was terrible to hear. I wept with him, never letting go, swearing I would never let him go, never let... never...

* * * * * * * * * *

An hour passed, and I felt amazed that it was only an hour. Fletcher's howls began to quiet before a dozen minutes had passed, slurring softly into tears and the slightest bit of coherency when he asked to be let out of the comforter in order to hold me. His words were few, clipped, sharp, but they were words. He held me, forepaws more like claws at first, but in mere minutes, he had relaxed them back into paws, still holding me pressed against him, but beginning to pet me through my shirt, as I did for him. When he opened his eyes, they were red from his crying, but they focused on me, saw me, and he slowly brought language back from its brief slumber. His strength, the sheer power of his will, impressed and moved me deeply. Whatever his chronological age, this was no child. He showed courage of a sort that many of us never know in our entire lives, and I silently thanked God that many of us never have to.

"Sorry," he whispered against my chest.

"Why are you sorry?" my own voice matching his.

He seemed to think for a moment. "Not sure." I felt the infinitesimal flash of a hysterical giggle move through him. "Learned to say that. Maybe for crying, maybe for causing a scene..." In this pause, I felt that he recognized something that had been told to him. It was a grown-up's phrase, and I had a nasty suspicion which grown-up had said it.

I kissed him atop his head. "There was no one else to see it, so it wasn't a scene. And it didn't happen because you wanted attention; you needed to let that out. I felt a lot of pain in you, seeping out in your crying. If you have strong emotions, sometimes that's how it comes out. The shortest sentence in the Christian bible is only two words.Jesus flevit, in Latin. It means, 'Jesus wept'. The teachings say that Jesus was God incarnate, in fleshly form. That means that God cries too."

"Is that what you believe?"

"I believe that love is all there is, and love can allow all other emotions to have their say, when they need to. Love understands, and God is love, so love can cry too."

He clutched me tightly for a few seconds, then pulled away enough to look me in the eyes again. "Graham," he said softly, as if tasting my name again and finding it sweet, "what should I do?"

Nodding slowly, I asked, "I'm going to ask for your trust again, Fletcher. I'd like to make some suggestions, and they'll be in the form of questions. You with me so far?"

Swallowing gently, he too nodded.

"First step is how you feel, body, heart, and spirit. Are you tired, hungry, shaky? Is there anything that you need physically?"

I could see him considering. "I had some toast after you left. Some milk. Not sure I'm hungry, but I might need to eat." He managed a little smile. "You probably do, too."

"I think so." I hoped my smiled would reinforce his. "Shall we go to the kitchen? We can talk more while we fix something."

His forepaws moved gently to my cheeks, held me as he leaned forward to give me a long, sweet, yet chaste kiss. When he leaned back again, his eyes were clear, his jaw determined but not rigid, his demeanor calm with a certainty that was contagious. "Let's fix something."

* * * * * * * * * *

Mrs. Whitson had left us a fine chili, filled with onion, green peppers, and amazingly flavorful spices. Recalling college days, I suggested to Fletcher that we try it over a bed of pasta and topped with shredded cheddar. The idea won immediate approval, and we set to work on the spot.

We talked as we cooked and warmed, and even as we ate. I marveled at the young wolf's control, and since it's a lover's prerogative to worry, I let myself keep a close eye on his responses and actions. There really is such a thing as too much control, but whatever it was that was keeping him calm was also keeping him talking. For now, at least, I counted that as a good thing and kept on going. By the time we'd finished lunch, we had decided -- together -- a few courses of action that would help us both.

With both of us on the speaker phone in my study, we let Thad Whitlock guide us through whatever memories Fletcher could provide. Although he still couldn't put names to his sire and dam, nor even the year of his dam's death, the general circumstances helped the lawyer frame some possible searches through law enforcement databases. "If your memory is correct, Fletcher," the lemur said gently, "there won't be a missing person's report. There will, however, be certificates of your dam's death. I hope that doesn't sound uncaring, yowen. I'm very sorry to hear of it."

"Thank you, sir," the wolf whispered.

"Fletcher, do you remember where you lived during your puphood? Do you know if it was here in the city, or at least near it?"

The yowen considered. "I think so. Or at least..." Another breath. "Othertime started with a car ride somewhere, and I wasn't allowed out of the rooms..." He coughed to cover a shiver.

"That's okay, Fletcher. If it wasn't a long car ride...?"

"No, sir. Not too long."

"Then we'll start looking in the records of the city and surrounding areas. You'd said that your dam had cancer; do you know what kind?"

He shook his head, and I answered aloud for him. "We don't think so."

"Still limits the field a bit. I'll see how much I can find out without trying to get a court order for the medical records themselves. Death certificates are public record; if we can find a likely match, we can bring in the judge."

"Perhaps I shouldn't suggest this," I said cautiously, "but I'm not at all sure how much computer security there is at the hospital, or how much information a registered nurse could access."

The voice on the phone smiled. "I'm sure I'd never condone such a thing, without proper warrants or power of attorney."

"Of course," I agreed. "After all, nurses who wish to advance their skill through training in oncology would want to consult a specialist."

After several seconds, the lawyer asked, "Remind me -- just how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?"

"Depends upon how many have tasted Mrs. Whitson's cooking."

* * * * * * * * * *

Enlisting Leif's help required not the slightest effort. He happened to have the day off and came to visit immediately to ask a few gently probing questions of Fletcher, to see if he could get any further information. He was more successful than any of us had dared to hope. He knew better than to worry about "big words" with the young wolf; the only issue was how many he might have heard before, and whether or not they had been properly explained to him. So very gently, the leopard guided Fletcher through a few reflections and recollections of the visits to see his dam. Simply recalling the way that the yowen had been able to find his dam's room on his own, and how he would pad down to the cafeteria if he got hungry, and where the nurses' stations were... together, this layout of corridors and locations told Leif exactly which hospital it was.

"One benefit of being an ER tech," he smiled softly, "is that I sometimes end up helping out in other hospitals. That usually happens during critical times, such as floods, hurricanes, etc.; that part isn't pleasant. But I think I can make a guess. Fletcher, does the name Gunderson Memorial sound--"

"That's it!" The wolf almost bounced out of his seat, his cobalt blue eyes shining with recognition. "There's a head, a whatchacallit, um... bust, there's a bust of the guy it's named for!" He leaned back again, his voice softening. "I used to go look at it sometimes, just sit in the lobby and look at it. I read that plaque so many times. Funny, because right now, I couldn't tell you what it said. But I stared at that statue for so long, so often. Like I was looking into his eyes, like I was... asking for help. He'd done great things, and he made the hospital that was looking after my dam, and I..."

His voice trailed off, and I took him into my arms, just holding him. His eyes were seeing something very far away, if anything at all. Leif and I both gave him the space to find his voice again.

"Sorry," he whispered after a little time. "I was thinking..." He looked up at me, the sense of a blush on the tops of his cheeks. "I was thinking that somehow he was like the spirit of the hospital or something, and I guess... maybe I was praying to him to help my dam."

I kissed his forehead gently. "I can understand that. I'm guessing that you didn't have a lot of formal instruction in the church during your puphood." He shook his head, and perhaps to his surprise, I nodded. "I sometimes think it's better if yowens don't get too much pushed onto them before they're really ready to understand it. What you saw was the statue of someone who had helped to make the hospital come into being; seems natural to me that you'd wonder if, somehow, he could still help you and your dam."

"But if I was... well, praying, shouldn't I have been praying to God?"

"Fletcher, what was in your heart as you looked at Gunderson's face?"

The wolf hesitated. "I was asking for help for my dam. I loved her, and I didn't want to let her go."

Softly, I smiled at him. "I can think of people who might disagree with me, but I can't help but feel that a pup's cry for help wouldn't be heard, no matter who he might think he's praying to."

"She still died."

"Yes."

I could almost feel him wrestling with the Great Question. I felt Leif's eyes on me, watching to see how I was going to handle this one. Long moments passed with only silence in the room. The quiet was thick with the young wolf's war with himself, with his emotions, with what he thought he should feel versus what he was actually feeling. It was the struggle of Joseph, the wrestling with the angel that, at some point, we all face.

The sound of the house phone jarred us all.

Leif was on his hindpaws instantly, moving toward the sound from my study. Fletcher looked at me, and I did my best to let my expression tell him that it was all right.

"St. Christopher's," the leopard answered smoothly. He glanced up at me. "Let me put you on hold for just a moment... thank you." He pressed the button, still holding the headpiece. "It's a Dr. Kerns...?"

I felt my brow knit, looked to Fletcher, who managed to nod dully. Rising quickly, I crossed to the desk and took the headpiece as Leif pressed the flashing button on the base. "Yes, Dr. Kerns?"

"Father Graham... it's Elizabeth Sturbridge. She passed about half an hour ago."

My jaw felt unhinged. "What happened?"

"I think you, of all people, would know the phrase 'give up the ghost,' Father." The voice in my ear was gentle and caring. "I don't know what you may have spoken about this morning, but I can tell you that I've rarely seen a more peaceful face in all my many years. It was very much as if she simply let go."

"Perhaps she did," I finally managed to say. "We talked about... well, let's just say that, when I left her, she actually looked younger."

"There are some things we should learn to let go of."

"Yes, Doctor. Yes, there are."

"I wanted to let you know. Samantha has asked me to tell you that her mother has had burial plans ready for some time; I'll call the funeral home. She could use a little reassurance, I think. If you could see your way to talk with her this evening, perhaps...?"

"At any time, for anything."

"Good day, then, Father Graham. And... if I may say, thank you."

I rang off, setting the headpiece down carefully. Looking over at the sofa, I saw Leif sitting near to Fletcher, resting a forepaw on the young wolf's shoulder. Both looked to me as I made my way to sit on the yowen's other side. He looked at me with so much compassion, as if he had forgotten his own question for now. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper.

"She's gone, isn't she?"

"Yes." I reached for Fletcher's forepaws even as he reached for mine. "A parishioner I saw this morning," I said to Leif. "She was 84 years old and looked so strong on the outside. She wanted me to hear about some secrets that she had been carrying for many long years. I think she needed someone to share what she thought was a burden, something sinful. I got the chance to show her just how much love she had within her, and how much love she had shared with others in this life."

I described to them what I had done with the blueberry muffin. Fletcher had watched me perform a few Eucharistic services, so he had some idea of what I'd done; Leif, for his part, almost purred at my description. "Graham," he said, "that was a truly beautiful gift that you bestowed."

"Not exactly as described in the manual, but perhaps more in keeping with the spirit. And besides," I smiled, "that was a great blueberry muffin."

"Did the doctor say what took her?"

"Nothing particularly medical. In a word, she was tired. As Kerns put it, she simply let go."

Fletcher squeezed my forepaws gently in his. "How are you feeling, Graham?"

"Sad that she's gone, but glad that she left so peacefully. She left me with a wonderful gift to remember her by." I waited a moment before asking, "How are you feeling, Fletcher?"

Several seconds passed before he released my paws in order to lean into my embrace. I pet his head gently, waiting for him to sort through his emotions. At last, he said, "Confused. Angry. I don't understand why she..." He took several breaths. "I knew she hurt. And when she didn't hurt, she was asleep, and when she wasn't asleep, she was trying to explain..." He wiped a tear from his eye, sniffed, started again. "Angry with myself that I forgot about her. Othertime made me forget... everything."

I could sense that Leif and I wanted to say the same thing:And now, you're remembering. It takes strength to remember, especially when it hurts. So much had been taken from the yowen, and now he was discovering for himself how much he had been denied. What captured my attention, what made me sit in silence to wait for him, was that he didn't cry. He wasn't weeping, wailing, venting what had to be an immense amount of pain. To use the term that therapists were most fond of using, he was_processing_-- a mental practice that weighed emotions from a slight distance, in order to understand better and deal with them properly. The same safeguards that had helped him to survive his ordeal by turning off the higher functions and deep emotions were now helping him through his discovery of his own mind. He was remembering some of his former life, and yet, somehow, he wasn't reliving it... at least, not yet.

Slowly, he pulled away from me enough to look me in the eyes, then to Leif. "I don't know what to feel."

The leopard nodded. "That's okay, Fletcher. It's okay not to know. It's confusing, but it's okay. I have an idea for you."

* * * * * * * * * *

In minutes, we were in the annex. I had changed into shorts and a t-shirt, and the three of us started with a gentle run in a big circle around the basketball court. After two of those to warm up a little, we moved on to shooting baskets. Leif's lithe feline form demonstrated with ease the most perfect lay-up shot that could ever be; Fletcher took to it more easily than I did, but it didn't take long for all of us to start breathing more quickly, to feel the work of our bodies in the exercise. The strategy, I realized, was simple enough: Let the mind rest by making the body work. The only thing that concerned me was the look on the young wolf's face. When he made a basket, he took it without celebration; when he missed, he got frustrated, and he seemed to get more frustrated with each successive failure. Leif would occasionally catch my eye and nod, even though I didn't understand what he meant.

Less used to the exercise than I might be, I offered to rest a little by fielding the ball for them. Whether hit or miss, I gathered it up and passed it back to whoever was next. Fletcher set up his shot, and the ball drifted around the edge of the hoop, finally falling outside of it. Shockingly, he screamed a harsh curse, looked at me and Leif with defiance, as if daring us to correct him. The leopard had the ball and passed it to the young wolf, saying, "Try it again."

Fletcher held the ball, a look of disbelief in his eye.

"You're not letting it roll off your pads. Remember, pads, not claws. Now, try it again."

I thought for a moment that something had actually possessed the young wolf. His lip curled enough to show some teeth, and his eyes seemed to twitch.

"You heard me," Leif said firmly. "Try it again. Do it."

A sound came from deep within the yowen's chest, and I felt my short fur stand on end.

"Go on, do it!"

Fletcher hurled the basketball as far down the court as he could, snarling, growling like a feral, running toward Leif with fury in his eyes. The look on the leopard's face was one of absolute calm. The yowen screamed at him, his forepaws bunched into fists, colliding with the nurse, seeming intent on murder. Leif grabbed the pup's wrists, his face still passive, his eyes unblinking, checking the frenzy that came at him. I stood rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do, but recognizing now what was happening. As if to confirm my thoughts, Fletcher's screams became a dreadful keening that hurt my heart like half a hundred knives. He sank to his knees, Leif still holding his wrists, and I padded quickly to be with both of them. Leif and I sank to the floor, holding the terrified, shaking wolf between us, and I felt as if we were simultaneously protecting him from greater hurt and absorbing the pain that he was releasing.

I heard the door open beyond us, and three young males entered, enthusiastic but not too loud. They stopped cold when they saw us huddled on the court. I looked up at them -- a lobo, a German Shepherd, an ocelot -- and I knew who they had to be. I'd met Xavier before, but not the other two. I waited to see what they'd do.

Xavier took a few cautious steps toward us, his face filled with concern. Fletcher had chosen his friends well; no ridicule here, no judgment. "Father?" he whispered.

"Can you give us a few minutes?" I asked softly.

The lobo nodded, indicated with gestures that they'd wait outside, and guided his friends to go with him. We had the gym to ourselves again.

When Fletcher's wracking sobs managed to quiet themselves, he looked first to Leif before blurting out, "It's sorry, it's so sorry, it won't..." He slammed his eyes shut, every muscle in his body jerking in a gigantic spasm of angry dismissal. Another long pause, and he looked again at Leif. "I'm..._I'm_sorry," he managed. "I don't know what, I just, I didn't mean..."

The leopard quieted him with quiet shushing sounds, a forepaw brushing the wolf's headfur tenderly. "It's okay, Fletcher. It's okay. It's what I was expecting. I was actually hoping for it." He offered a small smile to the yowen's confused look. "It's your feelings sorting themselves out. A lot of it is anger, and I'm guessing you've not had a lot of experience being able to deal with anger."

"But I'm not mad at you...!"

"I know. It's the hurt, Fletcher. Hurt has to come out, be experienced, be worked through. When hurt doesn't know how to get out, it uses anger. It's as if the hurt wants to get out by making someone else hurt as much as you are feeling hurt."

"Are you...? Did I hurt...?"

The smile grew. "I'm fine, yowen. You didn't hurt me. And if you don't mind my telling you this, I have a little surprise for you."

Fletcher looked expectantly at the leopard.

"I still love you."

The wolf hiccupped a sob, turned his tear-filled eyes to me.

"I love you, Fletcher" I said. "I love you so very much."

He turned to throw his arms around me, holding me tightly, and I held him just as tightly. His crying now was of relief, of thanks, and yes, of hurt. He cried the tears of one who has lost much and has found safety in sharing the loss with someone who understands. My forepaw moved to the back of his head, petting him tenderly, rocking him gently there on the gymnasium floor, as Leif moved carefully back and gained his hindpaws. Nodding to me, he went to speak with the three young males who waited just outside. I felt sure that he would say only what was needed to assure them that their new friend would be all right soon. I also felt sure that they would understand whatever Fletcher decided to tell them. My young wolf was learning, remembering, discovering his strength. I cast up a prayer, asking for my own strength to help him.

Somewhere in my heart, an old angeline smiled and told me that I had two angels there now.