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A great number of my parishioners came up to me after the service to congratulate me on my decision. All held the opinion that Fletcher looked to be a fine pup, that I'd be a good sire for him, and when would they get a chance to see him "for real" after so short an introduction. The wolf and I had anticipated this latter response, and the parish picnic -- to be held shortly before school started in late August -- seemed the best time. Several furs had the sensitivity and good grace to realize that the pup might almost be mauled at that point, just for everyone wanting to talk to him, or at least shake a paw. They told me they'd spread the word to bring it down a notch when the time came. They're good folk, my lovely flock. I knew Fletcher would be fine, if only for the fact that Mrs. Whitson would be standing by to help keep the hordes at bay.

The afternoon was a quiet one. During lunch, I told Fletcher of his "reviews," all of them wonderful. He later went to shoot hoops with his trio of friends, and I took the bicycle to visit a few folk at the nursing home who seemed to enjoy my ecclesiastical company. None insisted on mass, since they had a minister who served them well each Sunday morning, but at the risk of sounding vain, they liked better to chat with me. That, and I knew how to play 42, a domino game nicknamed "the national game of Texas" for its origins and popularity. (I can promise you that it was no Anglican priest who frowned on playing cards so much that a domino game had to be invented in order to replace them.)

Dinner featured Mrs. Whitson's best meatloaf, accompanied by made-from-scratch mac'n'cheese and bacon-and-onion green beans. The only reason that Fletcher and I didn't gorge ourselves was that there was also warm raspberry crumb cake with French vanilla ice cream waiting for our dessert. I'm sure some folk must think that Sunday is the best day of the week because of the joys of celebrating mass; don't think me a heretic, but I'd be lying if I said that the red panda's dinners didn't nudge out the mass by a whisker or two. After all, God made our passions to be celebrated in many ways.

Speaking of which... I'll be discreet enough to describe my and Fletcher's mood later that night to be no less celebratory than either the mass or the dinner. What pleased me most about our loving was that it brought back a level of confidence and mutual wonder that took away far more weight than it might have otherwise placed upon my heart.

Thad Whitlock filed all the necessary documents with the court, and I was mildly surprised to discover that the same judge who granted me foster custody of Fletcher would also hear the case for the adoption. It was all part of the Family Court (a term which, I confess, still sounds strange to me), but I might have thought that a different judge would have been called in for this step. As Thad said himself, don't question good fortune. Already familiar with much of the case, the judge would be more likely to move forward as quickly as possible. There are aspects of law that couldn't be circumvented safely, so it wouldn't be immediate by any stretch; however, there was no need for a second round of investigations, searches for records, etc. According to our legal lemur, that in itself could knock out a good sixty days of possible delays.

The next few days were as "normal" as possible for all of us. Wyatt and Leif hadn't been idle. The black Irish wolfhound's connections to schools (along with a "lawyer letter" signed by a certain foster sire) allowed him to collect some records from the elementary school that Fletcher had attended until his consignment to Othertime. It seemed that Mrs. Falk, the doe who had been the young wolf's first teacher, was still there, and she gave Wyatt quite the glowing reports about the yowen. For that matter, so did the counselor of the school, a certain Mr. Walter Mizlanski, who provided a few more clues about Fletcher's background. Not meaning to tease, the black Irish asked to provide them in person. "I'm nae t'all sure young Fletcher should be around fer all we've dug up."

Wyatt's voice on the phone was so serious that it disturbed me. "I trust your judgment, my friend, but you're scaring me a little."

"Just want t' protect him. Mebbe too much." After a pause, he added, "Leif's found a few things in th' back channels as well."

I frowned. "He's got permission letters--"

"Aye, but a hospital's got more lawyers than patients these days. Th' rule-makers won' release nothin' official 'til it's been sanctified by th' sainted souls o' Daniel O'Connell an' Clarence Darrow. Leif's able t' look a' files, make a few mental notes; copies an' papers an' anythin' official has t' wait. For us, it's th' information we'll be wantin', an' I think we've got more'n we really wanted." I heard him make a faintly disgusted noise, start over again. "I'm sorry, Graham. I'm only makin' it worse."

"You're trying to love us both," I said, wondering briefly how I'd become suddenly so wise. The comment apparently set the black Irish back on his heels. "How about we leave it up to Fletcher? He knows how to ask you to kindly bugger off, O Great Irish Master."

That got a guffaw out of the wolfhound that told me we'd be okay. With Leif's schedule, the best time would be Saturday lunchtime. Wyatt promised to chat with Mrs. Whitson on Friday to see what he could bring to the table, and all was ready.

Wednesday night, being as it was the precursor to Thursday morning, brought with it a special joy that allowed Fletcher and me to -- to use a beautiful metaphor -- give our fur to each other. We spent a great deal of time simply sharing our touch, with our sexual gratification being almost unnecessary. Happy-making, but unnecessary. It was, I considered later, some of the most genuine lovemaking I'd known in my life. It was (not that I'd say this phrasing to Fletcher) extremely "grown-up."

Before we fell into sleep, the young wolf pet my cheek, his eyes deep, troubled, soulful. "Is it okay that I never want to give this up?"

I turned my muzzle to kiss his palm softly. "More than okay, so far as I'm concerned."

"And everyone else?"

"Maybe we'll tell them in, say, four years or so." I pet his headfur gently. "I'm so proud to be your lover, Fletcher. It actually hurts not to be able to say so, to proclaim it to the world. But that's what we have to do for now. There are four others who know how much I love you."

The young wolf paused, frowned. "Wyatt, Leif, Mrs. Whitson... Mr. Whitlock?"

"Then maybe five." I smiled at his confusion. "God knows how much I love you, Fletcher."

He smiled and kissed me warmly before curling into my embrace. He closed his eyes, settling in, then whispered, "Thank you, God."

"Yes," I whispered in agreement. "Thank you, God."

That may have been my shortest, and most sincere, evening office of my life.

* * * * * * * * * *

We let ourselves lie in on Thursday morning until the unforgivably late hour of nearly 9am. We decided to try showering together, which is a memory I'll keep to myself, thank you all the same. I will say that we managed to conserve just a little water, that the quarters were just the slightest bit cramped, and that brushing out Fletcher's fur in front of the wall dryers is a happiness I would enjoy getting used to. Speedy, too, if both of us were brushing at the same time... unless we somehow got distracted, of course.

The rest of that day was quiet, filled with little chores and record-keeping for me and some more study for Fletcher. He was back at his textbooks, and I got the idea that the act of studying had sparked some memories for him. We enjoyed a quiet cuddle and talk on the couch, after lunch, at which time we gave each other a promise to check in regularly through each day. For the young wolf, it was a matter of wanting to manage his emotional changes better; for me, it was more like an emotional boost that gave me more energy through the day. Either way, it was a type of comfort I'd not been able to enjoy since Merrill and I were married. I'd somehow forgotten how much I missed it.

At the end of the Friday morning service, I asked the few members who attended to tell me what they most wanted from that ceremony. It was non-Eucharistic, and apart from simply being in God's house and listening to me prattle on a bit, it was something that could be very informal and stray from the basic order, as I'd first demonstrated a few months back. I went down to them after our final amen to ask them to think about what they liked about the service, not to cancel it but to see if I could give them more from it. Of the eight that attended that morning, I felt that I might have one or two tell me something privately at some point; the rest may never have thought to wonder why they went to such a mass. Until Fletcher, I'd never thought to wonder why I provided it. Blind faith is more blindness than faith; perhaps it needed seeing to.

The afternoon held a brief bit of planning with Mrs. Whitson and a slow bicycle ride in the bright warmth of summer to visit a few older parishioners who had been housebound for a time. The redoubtable Mrs. Sudbury, a wonderfully cantankerous old kinkajou, was champing at the bit to get out for a while; recovering from a minor hip surgery still required her to be indoors and, for the most part, in bed for a week or so at least. She regaled me with the story of her boredom, of the extra day spent in hospital for "the stupidest reason" (which turned out to be connected to a possible respiratory reaction to the anesthesia), and the insistence that she was perfectly able to get up and move around if she wanted to. The nurse who had been assigned to a week's live-in duty was grateful to let me have the hour's worth of earful, just to give her a break This, too, is what vicars are for, and I let it slide off me.

I can only guess that I looked a little worn down after my rounds. When Fletcher saw me, he bade me to sit at the kitchen table while he stood behind and massaged my shoulders. "I would do this for my dam," he said. "I think I still know how." I would have agreed more enthusiastically, but I didn't want Mrs. Whitson to think that I was enjoying the massage more than might be proper (har de har har). A little truth about public displays of affection: Some forms of affection are best kept private no matter who might know or guess about them. By the time he and I went to bed that night, my young wolf rather gleefully asked if I required any other massages to help me relax. It would have churlish to refuse, and less than grateful not to reciprocate. I feel it important to note once more that there was nothing fumbling or youthfully urgent about our time together. His body was young, his mind older, his heart older still for having been so shattered and reassembled. Fie to the rulebooks that only believed in numbers and not in individuals; Fletcher was no child.

The Saturday morning service was well-attended, perhaps some of them hoping to catch a glimpse of Fletcher for themselves. The young wolf had, as usual, helped me with my vestments, but he was still loathe to take part in the service itself, nor was he quite up to meeting another crowd. He had so many questions about the faith, particularly what it all seemed to be based upon. He would learn and understand, form questions to get answers to understand more, and his bright and agile mind would help him come to decisions. My feeling was that he didn't want to disappoint me, and that was another discussion altogether.

I had been both anticipating and dreading lunch for a few days now. The event itself, in part to present a good respite for Mrs. Whitson, was to provide a lovely sampling of Chinese food. True to her nature, the firefox quietly analyzed each dish with her fine palate, certain that she could improve upon matters, given a bit of time. Leif patiently tried to teach both me and Fletcher how to use chopsticks. I'd had some skill, back in the day, but I seemed less adept now than then. The young wolf also struggled, eventually giving up and resorting to a fork. Since I'd done the same, he felt less embarrassed by his perceived failure. Mrs. Whitson outshone us both, so neither of us took it so badly.

We adjourned to the living room, none of us quite so full as when Tuttobene's pizzeria catered for us. Fletcher had requested that Mrs. Whitson join us and, as we settled in with the young wolf at my side on the sofa, I offered our housekeeper a little insight into the afternoon's agenda. "Thad Whitlock is assembling the official papers," I explained, "but in the meantime, Leif and Wyatt have managed to discover a few things that they wanted to tell us about."

"We got a wee bit o' happy stuff fer a change," the black Irish began with a smile. "I've had a chance t' talk wi' a few folk behind th' scenes at yer auld school, yowen. A question fer ye: Do ye remember goin' t' different classrooms a lot in yer last year o' schoolin'?"

The wolf still squirmed a little when he was embarrassed by not knowing something. We waited patiently as he gathered himself. "I'm still remembering things, just some faster than others. Lemme think a minute..." He breathed in through his nose and puffed out through his maw, as Leif had shown him, and he nodded. "I kept leaving my classroom a lot, had a permanent hall pass to go to different rooms for stuff. English class... some math, some social studies..." He breathed again, nodded, seeming much more sure. "I was in fourth grade, and I had those classes with other teachers."

Wyatt nodded, seeming quite pleased with himself. "Try th' names Moffett, Sneed, an' Jarvis."

"Mr. Moffett!" Fletcher exclaimed. "I remember him; he taught me English. Reading. He had me reading all kinds of things. Sometimes, he'd give me a book and a dictionary and have me sit in one of the Quiet Rooms to study it during the period. He'd give me passages to read, and the dictionary to look up words I didn't understand. And then we'd talk about it later...

"And Miss Sneed was social studies. She taught me how to read maps, and there were always books about other countries that she let me read. When she taught us about history, it was like listening to a story. She'd write dates and names on the whiteboard, but that was just so we could keep the facts straight. She told us about the battle of the Alamo. People make a big deal out of it, and a big movie from a long time ago, making it into some kind of proof that our country was so determined and powerful against an army of invaders. Really, it was about a guy whose brother-in-law did something stupid, and he had to go defend the family honor. It was like listening to drama show on TV.

"Then Mrs. Jarvis was math. She was tough. I was better at reading than at math, and she showed me what word problems were, how to read something and learn the math behind the story, what the words were describing. And proofs! Wow, yeah, I kind of remember those. Geometry. Geometric proofs. It was about trying to show how angles were the same, and shapes, and degrees in a circle, and how to break it all down, and..."

It took all my strength not to nose him as he did me when I was rambling, but the truth was that I didn't want to. Neither did anyone else, by the look of them. I think we'd all twigged to what this meant. The high school level has Advanced Placement, or AP, classes for their bright yowens to excel in, and some of those classes can even become college credits. In the lower grades, the best they can do was to see if a student might be able to handle concepts and learning higher than their current grade levels and move them upward.

When Fletcher finally managed to wind down his excitement, looking just a little embarrassed because of it, Wyatt leaned forward, grinning. "I said afore yer a bright pup. Ye were bein' groomed fer higher grades, laddiebuck. Ye were in fourth grade, ready t' go into seventh. Nay fifth 'r sixth. They were gonna try ye skipped up two full grades. Gave ye some workbooks an' readin' fer th' summer, din' they?"

After a moment, the wolf nodded. "Kept them in my room. Took them to the hospital. My sire, didn't..." He paused again, drew a breath, started again. "Quieter at the hospital anyway. I'd work at the little table near her bed. Read to my dam sometimes. Dickens.The Old Curiosity Shop. She'd... fall asleep sometimes, and I'd keep reading. She told me once that she could hear me, even asleep." His ears splayed as he looked down. "I don't think... I mean, she wouldn't lie, but I just don't think she could..."

Leif nodded gently. "The sound of your voice, Fletcher. Ears can hear, even if the mind doesn't know exactly what's happening. Whether she understood your words or not, you were like an anchor for her. Science has proven that even people in comas can hear. She might not have remembered what you read, but she knew your voice."

The young wolf leaned into me, and I put an arm around him, just as a proper sire would do. Our three guests simply smiled and waited.

"So," Fletcher said after a bit, "they must think I'm smart."

We all laughed comfortably, and Wyatt continued. "Th' school librarian, a certain Mrs. Huntington, remembered ye too. An' those same teachers who thought ye so smart, they're still there. Ever'one wondered why ye'd nay come back. Told ye'd been moved elsewhere."

The wolf swallowed but kept his mind whole. "I guess you could say that."

Mrs. Whitson looked to the black Irish and asked, "Would Fletcher still be able to start seventh grade, Wyatt?"

"Remember th' test you an' Graham took a li'l while ago, Fletcher?" When the yowen nodded, the wolfhound continued. "We cooked up a plan, Mrs. Huntington an' me, an' we think ye c'n take a better test t' measure where ye might best fit. Might be a way t' speed up a couple o' grades through home schoolin', if'n ye want t' try that direction. Mr. Moffett, Miss Sneed, an' Mrs. Jarvis all said they'd offer ye some tutorin'. Wouldna be easy, pup, but ye could do it. An' there's other ways beyond that as well. Just somethin' t' think about."

"Like I told you," I said softly. "That's part of why we all thought you far older than fourteen. In a lot of ways, you are."

"There's a wee bit o' sting in that tail," Wyatt noted gently. "Yer Mr. Moffett is a fine feller who I think I'd enjoy known' meself. Like yer new sire here, a bit o' a rebel. He was after more information than I was sure ye'd want me t' tell him, at least now. What he said, young Fletcher, is that he hoped most fervently that ye'd have someone t' help ye through yer changes. Tha's how he put it. Ya ken th' book I lent to you and Graham? He recommended it t' me, on the quiet, since teachers ar'n supposed t' help their charges quite so... directly." The wolfhound paused. "T'weren't possible not t' say that ye were kept away from school, an' I had t' come up wi' a reason that would satisfy such a curious cat as he. Sure'n I wonder how such a strong-lookin' tiger got hisself buried in the bookish life." He grinned. "Glad of it, though. We could use another dozen like 'im."

"He helped me a lot," Fletcher nodded. "He showed me so many worlds out there. So many books that weren't even written in English, not originally. Translations of Russian stories, Italian stories, Spanish tales, the Arabian nights..." He shook his head ruefully. "I wondered about what language to learn, to read the originals."

Nodding sagely, Wyatt continued. "He asked me t' give ye a message. Fletcher, I want ye t' know that I said nothin' about what happened to ye, all right? He volunteered summat that I'd ask ye all t' keep t' yerselves." Clasping his forepaws in front of him, he looked the young wolf in his eyes. "Th' message is this, full quote: I was abused, too."

I had expected my yowen to turn to me in fear, of his own memories, or just in response to someone being hurt. Instead, he leaned toward the black Irish, his eyes large, and he whispered, "Did he mean...? Was he telling you... he was..." The wolf swallowed, lowered his head a little. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"He hoped he was wrong abou' his guess. He was very glad t' hear ye'r away from yer sire. He hopes t' see ye in class, or just a hello. Anythin' ye need, he said. He's teachin' some summer classes, so ye c'n find him at th' school easy enough t' talk to."

Fletcher seemed to weigh this information carefully. I felt sure that we were witnessing a discovery that many survivors make at some point: He wasn't the only one who had been abused. I doubted that Mr. Moffett endured the sexual slavery that Fletcher had gone through, but a survivor always has something in common with every other survivor -- they lived, sometimes against their abuser's wishes.

In another moment of "adulting," the young wolf asked, "Why did he tell you that? How did he know about me?"

"I have my suspicions," Mrs. Whitson said, her voice taking on a tone that informed me she had pieced together a few clues of her own.

"That's my cue," Leif observed with dark humor. "I was able to look through medical records at Gunderson. Fletcher, this information is likely to hurt. We're here for you, okay?"

After only a tiny pause, the yowen nodded.

The leopard nodded in response, then began. "We'll work backward. Your dam died of ovarian cancer that had spread faster than they could stop it. There's a possibility that, if she had been examined even a year earlier, they might have been able to contain it by removing her ovaries. What the records showed was that she probably should not have tried to have pups of her own." The nurse smiled softly. "In a way, yowen, you were something of a miracle. She was more likely than not to have miscarriages. Forgive me, do you know...?"

Fletcher shook his head a little.

"It means that the fetus isn't carried for the full term of pregnancy, for any of many reasons. The medical records didn't contain everything, but it's very likely that she had several miscarriages after you. That was found during the autopsy."

Leif paused, giving Fletcher the most gentle look he could. The young wolf nodded. "They cut her open to find... to find out..."

"In part, to find out if they'd done something wrong. To learn from her." The leopard kept his voice soft. "The cold truth is that it was required by law; the real truth is that it was one last gift to the world, and it was also the way that she could finally tell us what her doctors had suspected over the years. She had been subjected to abuse also."

Now I felt the pup begin to shake, and I squeezed him closer. "He hit her."

"Yes," Leif nodded. "That was part of what was wrong with her belly... with her womb." Another pause. "Fletcher, did your sire ever hit you?"

The young wolf shifted, crawling into my lap, and I worried that he was trying to retreat back into himself. Instead, he kissed my muzzle chastely and said, "Graham is my sire. I won't call that... that other furson my sire ever again. His name is Axel." He swallowed, regaining himself. "I'm feeling a lot of anger right now; please forgive me if I'm rude."

Mrs. Whitson was the first of us to say it. "You've every right to feel angry, Fletcher. I don't think you're being the least bit rude."

He looked to the firefox gratefully, managing a small smile. "Family to help," he said softly. After a moment, he nodded. "Yes, he hit me. I had spankings sometimes, when I was small, and they really hurt. It took a long time for me to realize that other pups' parents didn't spank that hard, or maybe they didn't spank at all. And when I got older, he..." The wolf reached up to touch the side of his head. "He hit me on the head sometimes. Knock some... sense into that skull." He smiled ruefully. "I skipped over a word."

"I imagine I could fill in that blank," the red panda said somewhat grimly. "Thank you for sparing my tender ears, Fletcher."

Without hesitation, I kissed the side of his head that he'd touched so gently. "There are parents who think that's a good idea. I'm not one of them." I squeezed him against me. "I wondered about it when you told me that your dam sometimes asked you to read to her when her eyes were tired. Did she ever tell you any other reasons why her eyes were bad? Bad enough for her to need to apply more makeup the next morning?"

Slowly, Fletcher nodded. "When I was very young, she used to tell me that she was just clumsy, that she'd fallen, or tripped, or was trying to lift something off of a high shelf and it hit her in the face. It wasn't until... until I was ten..." He closed his eyes, swallowed, then finished. "I saw him hit her. I thought it was like him hitting me, that she must have done something bad, and he hit her." He turned soulful eyes to me. "Was I stupid, Graham?"

"No, sweet angel," I replied softly. "Not stupid. Just young. You didn't want to think that your sire... that Axel would really hurt your dam, so you explained it to yourself another way."

"I started staying after school. The library was open for a while after school hours. I'd read, do homework. Sometimes, Mr. Moffett would come by to..." His brows crossed. "Was that how... I never said anything to him. My... Axel always said, keep home things at home. I was afraid to say... Could Mr. Moffett have guessed?"

"Very possibly," Leif nodded. "Teachers are supposed to look out for certain behaviors anyway, but when that teacher had also been abused... Maybe he recognized a kindred spirit."

"But he couldna say anythin' wi'out proof, or havin' ye say somethin' yerself," Wyatt added. "When I told 'im ye were bein' adopted, he might'a done the math hisself."

"That's my guess."

After several moments, Fletcher looked the leopard. "Leif... did Axel... did he kill my dam?"

I felt my blood run cold. "Fletcher, why--"

"He said it was my fault that she died. That if I hadn't been born, she wouldn't have died." The young wolf looked at me. "I know that's not true, but I wondered if maybe... if he hit her too much, or..." He turned back to Leif, his lip trembling slightly, but whether from fear or anger, I didn't know.

The nurse kept his face caring, his voice low but clear. "It's possible, Fletcher, but the records that I saw said that the doctors couldn't be sure. From what I read, I suspect that your... excuse me, that Axel may have contributed to the damage. Again, I don't know this..." The leopard sighed softly. "I have reason to think that he hurt your dam and then refused to let her get medical help. As I said, if she'd had regular checkups, they might have found this issue much earlier. It's not something that a court could prove, so he can't be arrested and tried for killing her. Perhaps that's yet another reason why my own anger wants me to find him and hurt him." Leif leaned forward, his eyes on the wolf's. "I promised you that I wouldn't, Fletcher, so I won't. I just want you to know that I'm angry about it. Very angry."

A long moment passed, and Fletcher nodded. "And you're telling us rather than just letting it go." He managed a brief smile. "Adulting class." He breathed in through his nose, exhaled slowly, turning toward me. "May I ask you what to do, sire?"

The attribution moved me deeply, and I kissed his cheek properly. "The line in the handbook is probably Matthew 5:39. It says that, if someone slaps your right cheek, you should offer the other one as well. Personally, I think the correct response is to get out of the reach of their paws." I nosed his neck as he giggled a little. "There's a lot of debate about everything in the rulebook, and this is no exception. Gandhi, who was known as the Mahatma, the Great Soul, may have considered this verse an expression of extreme pacifism, saying not only that revenge or retaliation is wrong, but even self-defense is wrong. Some view it as a reason not to prosecute another under the law, saying that divine judgment is the only kind."

"And how do you feel about it, Father Graham?" Mrs. Whitson asked, a smile on her muzzle. "That's the scholar's part; what are you feeling?"

"That I want to go find this worthless oxygen thief of a wolf and tear him apart with my bare claws." I saw some fear in Fletcher's eyes, and I kept my voice soft, shaking my head. "I'm not a violent dog, even when I'm furious. Likewise, I promised I'd not go find him, so I won't. But as Mrs. Whitson said, may God help him if he tries to do anything to you."

"Mebbe that's th' adulting thing comin' back," Wyatt noted. "T' my auld Irish heart, if'n someone starts th' trouble wi' his bunched-up paw, it's only fair fer me t' finish it wi' mine! That whole 'fightin' Irish' cliché is true enough. But it's a wee bit frowned upon in polite society."

Leif chuckled. "Remember what we talked about, making changes to our feelings? It's not easy, especially with something this big. I think all of us feel angry enough to become our own lynch mob. One thing to do is let the anger stew inside and make us miserable."

"Fletcher," Mrs. Whitson admonished gently, "as a member of the Cook's Secret Society, I'm here to tell you: That's not the way to make good stew."

That broke the ice quite well, and all of us had a gentle laugh. The firefox continued. "Another thing to do is to resolve that you're going to be bigger than them, that you're going to keep on living, and living well. When someone hurts you, it's often because they want to stop you from being happy... maybe because they're unhappy."

"When pain and hurt comes out by hurting others." The young wolf looked to Leif, nodding.

"If they're stewing," our housekeeper smiled, "they may not know how else to let out their own hurt, and even worse, letting out their hurt that way doesn't actually help them; in fact, it often makes them hurt worse, until they do something that will actually take away that hurt. That's what we mean by healing."

Showing amazing instinct, Fletcher rose from my lap and moved to hug the red panda warmly. "To help us both stop wanting to go hurt Axel," he said softly, and when he had finished there, he hugged Wyatt and Leif as well. I actually thought Wyatt might shed a tear. The wolf returned to my lap and rested his cheek on my chest, holding me close. The room was quiet for a long moment, until Fletcher peeked out from under my chin, and asked softly, "Is it okay that I still kinda want to go hurt him?"

I and our guests laughed softly. "But it doesn't hurt you as much now, does it?"

"No," he smiled with us. "Not as much. Is it enough for now?"

"Fer now, t'is," Wyatt nodded. "An' when ye need t' top off yer dose o' being well an' proper loved, I fer one will be ready t' share as many hugs as ye wish."

"Goes double," Leif said, as he often did.

"Triple," Mrs. Whitson grinned.

"Good," Fletcher nodded, quite satisfied. "Think we've had enough adulting to go shoot hoops now?"

The crowd in the room cheered. Best therapy session I'd ever had.