I can’t say that mine is the sort of job that one “enjoys” going to. I’m a Charonite, or pneumonologist, if you want the scientific term. Generally, I am called to crime scenes where a sudden death has occurred, by misadventure or murder. Some therians, like myself, are sensitive to spirits who may linger after disincorporation (another term from science, in its attempt to quantify and distance us from everything). My job is to talk to these spirits, help them understand, accept, continue. This is where the term “Charonite” came from, although I don’t charge spirits for their journey. Their metaphorical coin is whatever peace they may have from being able to let go, see what’s next. If there is any pleasure in my job, it comes from sharing that sense of release. The rest is paperwork, reconciliation, and wrestling with my own emotions over the spirits that I meet.

As I turned into the rough parking lot of the small countrified motel, I pulled into an empty spot off to the side. I did my best to ignore the state trooper and county sheriff cars and the morgue van, just trying to get a feel of the space in general. The road from the city to here, the southwestern edge of the huge state park, was beautiful, although I was ruminating on too many things to pay attention to it. In the comparative quiet of the scene, I let myself breathe for a moment, absorbing what I could of the calm, the muted greens and browns, the freshness of piney woods here in the foothills of the mountains. Murder shouldn’t happen anywhere, but for it to happen in this verdant refuge from everything terrible felt an even stronger violation of life.

The motel consisted of an office and living quarters for the manager, toward my left, and half a score of rooms arrayed in a line to my right. Every attempt had been made to make it look like something to be put into the dictionary next to the word “rustic.” A literal board-walk stretched across the front of the entire structure, with an awning supported by narrow, rough-hewn pine logs that I suspected may have been reinforced somehow. The façade was also log cabin-like, although doors and windows were 1950s modern, a few of them replaced over the years. It was a place that should have had a name like “Traveler’s Rest” instead of the eminently practical “State Park Motel.” Further evidence that perfection is a concept that rarely brings itself to fruition.

The focus of activity was at the end, Room 10. Overcoming my reluctance, I padded my way to the scene, identifying myself to the trooper nearby. At the door to the room, I paused, waiting for an invitation. One does not enter a crime scene capriciously.

Lillian Braddock, kneeling near the victim, was togged in regulation CSI coverall. Acting as Lead CSI, our coroner has the option to assign others of her team to the various cases that arise. In this instance, she took the job herself, calling me to assist her. I’m a fully-trained and certified CSI, although I’m usually called in for my abilities as a Charonite. In this case, I thought she might want both.

With a heavy sigh, Lillian rose from her place. She is what human men condescendingly called a “full-figured” woman, but her sigh was not from shifting her body to a standing position; she was strong, not flabby. The breath came from a deep sense of loss. I felt it also. The vixen who lay at her feet, limbs askew, muzzle half-open, tongue protruding, eyes black and staring, had been one of the gentlest beings ever to grace this planet, and her murder felt personal to both of us.

Lillian turned to look at me. “You can come in, kitling. I’m so very sorry for you to have to see this, but when I got the call, I felt sure that you needed to be here.”

“You were right. Thank you.” I swallowed, glancing over the body. Her clothes — a simple combination of shirt and trousers, comfortable for traveling — were rumpled but otherwise undisturbed. No signs of other trauma. “Strangulation?”

“Yes. Something about the size and shape of a neck chain. No sign of one here.” Jutting a chin toward the door, she added, “No sign of forced entry; appears she let the assailant in. The position suggests that he might have held her down by putting one knee on her back while pulling at the neck chain.”

“A light gauge should have snapped if he’d just pulled; he must have twisted it around his fingers, to choke her with it.”

“Got it in one.” She paused, her voice soft. “Is she here?”

I shook my head. “If she’s anywhere, I don’t think it would be in this room. It’s not right.”

She nodded. “I’ve got the physical evidence work covered, Naomi. The troopers will help with the body. I’ll make sure to take good care of her. Follow your heart. If she’s here, she needs you.”

“Thank you, Lillian.” I managed a smile. “I’ll save the hug for when you’re clear of the scene.”

Another nod and a smile. “I’ll be expecting it. I think I’ll be needing it.”

Turning, I padded out of the room and back into the otherwise calm and clear atmosphere of the area. This place, nestled in at the base of what most travelers called the “back end” of the state park, was still largely untouched. In a nearly unheard-of stroke of foresightedness, the parks commissioners realized that attempting to build up this entrance to the size and standards of the two main entrances to the parklands, to the northeast and northwest of here, would destroy far too much of the area that they were trying to preserve. Instead, they kept the structures and paving to a minimum. The un-picturesque name of State Park Motel was the mark of the bureaucrat, but it was a small price to pay to maintain the largely unspoiled space here. For the record, I still wanted it to be called “Traveler’s Rest.”

I told myself that walking around the end of the building was a tactic to help clear my mind and my nostrils, and that I was following the path that I found there for the same reason Hillary climbed Everest. I needed space to hear myself think, to try to get over the final shock of having seen the body of perhaps the greatest vixen poet of these modern times. Bridgette Dunne had been a relatively obscure scribe in her college days, but the past dozen or so years had brought her into international fame. As a rule, poets don’t get a lot of fans outside of academia or the literati. Bridgette was a brilliant exception to that rule, with the popular publication of three full books of her work, as well as some radio and podcast interviews. Quiet, shy, yet powerful in her expressive voice, she wrote in both English and Vulpine, sometimes mixing them in ways that led human and therian to find some touch of commonality.

The path wasn’t paved, merely well-worn dirt that was strangely comfortable to my hindpaw pads. There’s something to said for grounding, in a literal sense. Pines were comparatively small, back here, with the full copse of them thickening not far away. A few picnic tables, well-kept and spaced well away from the rooms and each other, showed good wear. This was a popular place for the visitors, because of the view — trees, foothills, low grasses, and a large pond with a sturdy wooden pier that jutted partway into it from just this side of its oval shape. The afternoon lay tranquil, still, meditative.

No wonder I found her there.

She appeared to my mind to be standing calves-deep in the shallows of the water, clad in a softly flowing, simple gown of muted yellow that I might have seen her wearing in an otherwise-forgotten photograph. Perhaps it was my mind’s construct of her, or it might have been a favorite outfit of hers, and her spirit clothed itself in the memory. The cause of what I “see” is up for debate, but the experience is always one touched with awe. Bridgette gazed serenely across the vista, appreciating it, perhaps committing it to her spiritual memory. After only a few moments, her head turned toward me, her eyes soft, her smile serene. She spoke, a voice only I could hear. “I was hoping someone would come.”

“Thank you for waiting for me.”

She asked my name, in Vulpine.

“Naomi McLeroy.”

The smile increased. “Is it vain of me to ask if you know of my words?”

“No one can say that you don’t deserve it.”

“Thank you.” She seemed to sigh, not in the sense that living furs would inhale and let it out in a kind of huff; it was more as if her essence had let itself release something even more precious than air. “I’ll miss this.”

“I can understand that emotion.”

Again, her smile, soft, not quite enigmatic. “I waited because I wanted to tell you something. Strangely, I can’t remember quite what… yet I have the feeling that you already know it.”

She wasn’t about to name her murderer, I suspected. A great many in the police force, as well as the judiciary, frown on the idea of pneumonology; they tend either to disbelieve it or to disbelieve anything that we might gather from our conversations with spirits. Some few ask why we can’t get the names or visual identities of murderers from the victims, but it doesn’t often work that way. Death by violence tends to have an effect similar to those who survive a traumatic injury: Retrograde amnesia. Those who have been in near-fatal car crashes, for instance, often have trouble remembering the moments leading up to it. Some spirits can’t remember; some don’t want to; some have trouble understanding that their bodies are no longer with them.

Bridgette’s spirit did not seem to suffer from that last issue. She raised her arms as if to encompass all the world. Her smile continued unabated. “It’s about dreaming. What I wanted to tell you. There are dreams that need to be lived. But you already know that.”

I spoke words in Vulpine that might translate as Light lived is the dream made real.

She glanced at me, her smile becoming a grin. “Flatterer.”

“It’s a favorite line from your poetry. I try to remember it.”

“You try to live it.”

It was my turn to be flattered. My smile was genuine, if sad. “Was that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes.” She paused, lowering her arms. “And no. You already know that. You also know what you need to do next.”

“Solve the mystery.”

The spirit’s expression softened, subdued; she gazed at me, her eyes deepened even as she began to fade from my senses. The last words I heard shook me down to my toes.

“Save our souls.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I took a little time sitting on one of the picnic tables, gathering myself. I wasn’t sure how long I was there, but it was long enough for Lillian to come find me. Having doffed her protective gear, she took the hug that I had offered earlier. She was right: We both needed it. When we separated from the hug, I told her of my conversation with Bridgette Dunne. Lillian’s eyes were warm with sympathy, for me and for the poet.

“This seems like the place she would come to. And she actually said that she was waiting for you?”

“Well, she was waiting for someone. It turned out to be me.”

“No one better.”

It was my day to be flattered, it seemed. “What do you think she meant?”

Lillian considered for a moment. “It’s been said that the Morse code signal ‘SOS’ might stand for ‘Save Our Ship’ or ‘Save Our Souls.’ The truth is, it was chosen as an easy signal to remember — three short, three long, three short. The apocryphal story remains, so she might have meant it that way. A distress call.”

“For her own life? She seemed to know well enough that her body was dead.”

“Then it’s something else.” She patted my forepaw gently, with a sort of motherly gesture that was a teasing, affectionate way of “bucking me up,” as she sometimes put it. “We’ll find it. You and Andy can crack any case that comes your way.”

“Andy’s been assigned?”

“Knowing Messenger, I’d lay a good ten to one odds on it.”

I managed a smile when I heard that. Anderson Pelletier is a fine homicide detective, a raccoon with a nose for sniffing clues better than any half-dozen bloodhounds, sapient or otherwise. He was partner to my human fiancé, Philip Masterson. The two were a good team until Philip was killed in the line of duty. On his own, Andy became the precinct’s go-to detective for therian deaths. For some on the force, it was considered beneath humans to investigate the death of “an animal” (as if humans weren’t also part of Kingdom Animalia); some humans, like Andy’s boss, Capt. Miles Messenger, knew that the raccoon was a damn good detective who would take seriously the murder of a therian, especially one as prominent as Bridgette Dunne.

“Seems to me that I could do a little legwork in advance of things,” I said. “He and Philip would get information from whoever was here, so…”

Lillian grinned at me. “The local sheriff has already had a turn with the motel manager. I think you could charm him into talking a bit more. Try the office.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The manager was an older human whose manner was more gentle and easy-going than I might have expected. This was not a “no-tell motel,” so the usual noir mystique of a gruff, I-didn’t-see-nothin’ motel manager didn’t belong here. Michael Connors greeted me with a friendly warmth, offering a sincere regret for Bridgette Dunne’s death.

“I’m not much for poetry,” he admitted, “but Ms. Dunne was always a welcome visitor.”

“Did she stay here often?”

“Every few years or so. Came with a group, three others. They’d take one of the overnight hikes with Errol. That’s Errol Esposito, one of the park rangers. Only one who lives up here; his cabin is a little further up the road.”

Putting on an appropriately slightly embarrassed expression, I said, “I’m sure you’ve told all this to the sheriff; I’m sorry to ask again.”

“It’s all right,” the man smiled. “I’ve seen all the cop shows, where people have to talk to lots of folks about the same events. I might even guess some of your questions. Mind if I ask what’s your part in all this?”

“I’m a Charonite.”

He blinked in surprise, but he didn’t waver. “I’ve heard about them, but I never met one. I apologize if that sounds rude, I just mean… well, you’re kind of unusual.”

His skin began to redden with embarrassment. I simply smiled at him. “I understand, Mr. Connors. No offense taken.”

“Thank you.” His voice was quiet, and he cleared his throat.

“Can you tell me anything about the guests? I would imagine that they liked it here, or else they wouldn’t have been so eager to return.”

Connors chuckled softly. “I guess you could say that we have a monopoly on room space, at least this close to this entrance to the park. These four would book well in advance, always the last four rooms. I’ve got their names and contact information ready…”

“Thank you; that much, I can get from the sheriff. I guess what I’m looking for from you is some sort of feeling about them. How did they strike you?”

“Nice enough bunch, especially Ms. Dunne. I don’t mean to sound fawning or something. She was just such a gentle soul.” He shifted slightly from one foot to the other. “I guess maybe…?”

“Yes, I did. I sensed her in the picnic area near the pond.”

Nodding, Connors said, “She liked it back there. Her and Ms. Carnihan both. There’s another lovely guest. Always brought me one of her newest creations.”

He indicated a shelf behind the reception desk, where several plush toys held pride of place. I recognized all but one of them; perhaps that was one yet to be released to the general public. Salina Carnihan’s products were greatly admired by both human children and therian yowens alike. “I see you have Sammy there.”

“I really liked that one.” He looked for a long moment at the soft human boy plush, set here next to a few other therian and non-sapient plush toys. “She has a talent for making toys loveable, no matter the species.”

“Tell me about the other two guests.”

“That would be Mr. Hasslermund and Mr. Russo.”

That made me blink a bit. “Quinn Russo, the songwriter?”

Another nod from the human. “He’d sometimes play his guitar, late at night, down by the lake. He was so quiet about it that no one ever complained. I think he liked the space but not people listening. Guess you need some quiet to make new songs.”

“And the other guest?”

“Mr. Hasslermund. Kinda kept to himself, mostly. Nice enough fellah, just didn’t talk much. Always left his room pretty neat when he left.”

“Sounds unusual,” I chuckled.

“Oh, not like he made the bed up or anything. Trash was in the trash cans, towels were hung up instead of thrown on the floor, that kinda thing. Made cleaning up real easy.”

“They sound like good people.”

“Always a pleasure to see ‘em.”

It was my turn to nod. “That’s exactly the sort of thing I was looking for. Thank you, Mr. Connors.”

He was ready with a business card. “If there’s anything more you need, or if you’d like a quiet stay sometime, give me a call.”

“Thank you,” I said, putting the card in my jacket pocket. “We can all use a little quiet, now and then.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I checked in with the sheriff, a gruff yet mild-mannered human who wasn’t sure what a “Sharon-Hite” was supposed to do, but he respected my CSI credentials. “We’re about done here,” he said. “Your friend’s about done, too. You goin’ back?”

“Soon,” I told him. “You’re okay with us taking over the case? I don’t want to step on jurisdictional toes.”

“Ms. McLeroy, I’m a back-country sheriff who’s more likely t’ deal with drunk-and-disorderly calls than with murder. This is also likely to be more high-profile than I’d like t’ deal with. I have no problem at all with you city-types taking over.” His soft smile took away any sting from the characterization. “Not sure that I could be much help, but I’m glad t’ do what I can.”

“Thank you for that, Sheriff.”

“Thank you for asking about it. Some folks’re a lot less nice.”

“We try not to get in folks’ way. After all, we might need them someday. By the way, I thought I’d talk with the ranger before I left.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll get to him in a bit myself, just to keep my hand in. Tell Errol I’ll be by to see him.”

Glancing up the road, I observed, “Looks like a short walk on an otherwise nice afternoon. It’s okay for me to leave my car here?”

“Public lot, as long as the motel don’t object. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He grinned a little. “I promise I won’t boot it or somethin’. We’re not quite so aggressive as the city.”

“I appreciate it, Sheriff,” I smiled back at him. “I shouldn’t be long.”

My legs are strong enough to handle most terrain, and the macadam of the state road was shaded by tall pines so that my hindpaws weren’t bothered by the heat of it. The area was, by its nature (pardon the pun), relaxing. Pines have a gentle vibration to them, and the nearby mountains provided a sense of powerful, solid grounding (more puns, unavoidable). It was a place to regain one’s calm, find one’s center, and also to test one’s hamstrings and glutes when navigating the inclines of paths and roads in the area. I took the walk a little more slowly than my usual gait, and I balanced the beauty of the environment with my promise to cut back a little on the snacks in my diet.

The motel manager had used the word “cabin” to describe Errol Esposito’s house, which led my city-dweller’s mind to imagine something like a log cabin with one or perhaps two rooms, something small that one person could enjoy in his solitude. As I approached the structure, I could see that it, like the motel, had a rustic façade but was hardly tiny. Given the windows spaced along the side that I could see, the one-storey structure had at least a living area and kitchen, perhaps even a dining room along this side. In a parking area in front, I could see a wholly-practical, fully-equipped Land Rover Defender, well-used and well-maintained, several model-years back; this was no extravagance, given the location of the cabin, but I did wonder how a park ranger’s salary might cover the expense of even a used model of such a vehicle. For that matter, I wondered where the Park Services vehicle might be. It would be festooned with official decals and such, highly recognizable. Perhaps Esposito wasn’t at home. Having hiked all this way uphill, however, I wasn’t about to leave without being sure.

I hopped up a few steps to the covered porch, where I noted a large wooden rocker and an Adirondack chair, both with stools for feet or hindpaws. I also noticed that the front windows bore out my idea of this cabin being larger than I would have imagined by the use of that descriptive noun. Perhaps it was time to reassess my vocabulary.

Knocking on his front door, I called out his name, using “Mister,” since I wasn’t sure what title a park ranger might use, and calling him “Ranger Esposito” sounded strangely like some children’s cartoon character. I identified myself, waited a few moments, knocked again. One didn’t need to be a seasoned cop to get a gut feeling. The British, who seem to have an excellent phrase for just about everything, would say that something “put my wind up.” It was nothing as helpful as a partially open door, but my acute vulpine senses told me that something was wrong here.

I ran through a dozen scenarios in my head, all of them probably crazy. My training wasn’t solely to be a CSI, and both Philip and Anderson had taught me to be cautious in any unknown situation. If anyone was inside, my calling out had alerted him; his reaction would be fight or flight, probably flight (the place had to have a back door). If something had happened, it would be a crime scene, so keeping contamination to a minimum was a major concern. Yes, I overthink things.

Using a foreclaw, I pressed down on the latch, hoping that might prevent smudging a thumbprint, if there were one. No protective gear; my fur and fiber would be free for the asking. I swung the door open, hoping that I’d still be lucky as the day progressed. I called out once more, figuring I might as well be shot for a vixen as a kit. One paw inside, and I stopped counting how many violations of everything I was committing. My gut continued to tell me something was just plain wrong. For one thing, a smell, coppery, familiar…

I saw a body on the floor, perhaps two meters away from me. The gray wolf was in uniform, making the identification easier. He had bled from a head wound that seemed to have slowed or even stopped itself, but enough for me to have smelled it. Forgetting all else, I knelt next to him, checked quickly for breath and a pulse, finding both. I may not always carry an evidence kit on me, but I always have a pocket for a cell phone. I pressed a speed-dial number; it answered on the second ring.

“Lillian, I’m at the park ranger’s cabin up the road. He’s been attacked, but he’s still alive. The sheriff is there; if we can move the ranger, the sheriff can get us to a hospital faster than getting an ambulance up here.”

“On our way,” I heard before the line cut off.

Pocketing the cell phone, I placed a tender forepaw to the wolf’s chest. “Stay with us, Errol,” I whispered to him. “We’ve already lost one today; I need you on this side.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lillian, a far better judge of such things than I, agreed that Esposito was stable enough be moved. We found a towel for his head and, with the sheriff’s strong back to lift him, we got the large wolf into the back of the sheriff’s ATV quickly. I stayed with the ranger in hope of keeping his head cradled against further injury. The ride to the hospital was fast but not nearly as bumpy and harrowing as I feared it might be; there’s something to be said for oversized tires and good suspension.

At the hospital, the ER team took over quickly. The resident in charge of the current rotation was a lean ferret with supple forepaws; the nurses and techs around him were a mix of human and therian, and they worked together like a finely tuned machine. The sheriff and I were relegated to a waiting area. After a brief discussion, the sheriff took my keys and assured me he’d get someone to bring my car down from the motel. Lillian had stayed back at the motel to come down with the coroner’s van, to get Bridgette’s body to the morgue and begin her work. Despite the somewhat cruel phrasing, Bridgette was high-profile enough that the Higher Ups were going to want results quickly.

I don’t like hospitals. Between the sharp tang of the disinfectants assaulting my nose and the occasional sense that not everyone I saw there was corporeal, I can feel overwhelmed and, in situations like this one, unable to be of use to anyone, including myself. I telephoned Andy, partly to fill him in and partly out of desperation. He knew of my issues, and he offered to come up to meet me. I was tempted but, as I told him, it would be simpler for me just to wait for what the doctor would say; it might take less time than I anticipated.

It was early evening when the doctor found me. The ferret looked exhausted, but he was positive and confident.

“I’m glad that you found him when you did,” he said. “He got clobbered pretty good, lost blood, but he’s got a hard head. He’s stabilized, comatose, but I’m pretty sure that he’ll pull through; it’s amazing what the brain can go through and still come back. I know you probably want to talk to him. Call in the morning, in case there are changes.”

“I will. Thank you, doctor.”

He offered his forepaw in a tender grip, holding gently in the way therians do for one another, rather than pumping up and down as humans tend to do. I felt a slight internal kick that told me his gift of healing wasn’t entirely out of medical books. He sensed me briefly as well, and we looked into one another’s eyes for a moment before releasing the grip.

“Leonel Burney,” he said.

“Naomi McLeroy.”

He moved slowly away before picking up speed and going wherever he was needed next. I padded carefully to the doors and flagged a cab to take me home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tuesday morning dawned with more hope and brightness than I felt. Through accident or artifice, news of Bridgette’s death had not yet broken in the news cycles. As I got myself organized for the day, I made a few calls. At the hospital, there were no changes in Esposito’s condition. I got hold of Andy at the precinct; showing polite discretion, someone from the sheriff’s office had returned my car to the precinct parking lot, leaving the keys with the night shift. Andy offered to come get me, to pick up my car, and I prevailed upon him to take me to the hospital first. It’s one thing to be told that someone was still comatose; it’s another to go in, physically, to pay respects and support. People in comas can still hear, be aware at some level, and I thought that the touch of a faintly familiar paw might help. I also wondered if history would repeat itself.

Andy, suspecting what I was up to, left me to visit with the ranger on my own. Dr. Burney was not on shift (I remember thinking I was glad that he might get at least some time off from his duties). The duty nurse who had taken my earlier call was surprised that I would visit. I had the impression that she felt I was checking up on her work. In clipped and efficient tones, she directed me to the correct room and left me to it.

I found the wolf in a semi-private room whose other bed was currently empty. He lay partially propped up on pillows, half of his head bandaged, his muzzle fitted with a canula for supplemental oxygen. I pulled a chair closer to the bed and took one of his forepaws into mine, holding it gently but firmly. I had a strong conviction that he would pull through, and I wanted somehow to convey that to him. The various machines and medical readouts showed a strong pulse, good oxygen saturation, all vital signs stable. It was a question of the brain deciding that it was time to wake up. Part of him was already up, standing next to the bed, looking at his body.

The phenomenon wasn’t unknown. Another of my cases involved a young puma, also in a coma, whose spirit had wandered quite a distance from her body, ultimately finding a gray tabby tom whose song seemed to have called to her. She had been under for more than two weeks, at the time, and I had the wholly unscientific idea that the ranger’s body hadn’t been comatose long enough for his spirit to roam very far.

My mind saw him clothed in his uniform, uninjured, whole. He looked up at me, his eyes squinting slightly. “You can see me,” he said, more statement than question.

“And hear you,” I replied softly. “I’m a Charonite.”

“I’m dead?”

“No. Comatose. Your body is healing.”

The spirit seemed to absorb this information. “Can’t… just not thinking…”

“It’s okay, Errol. You’re disoriented.” I squeezed his physical forepaw, as if to reinforce grounding his spirit to his body. “What do you remember?”

“Getting ready for patrol. Routine day. Good weekend.” The spirit shook his head. “Must’ve been hit hard.”

“I thought you’d been killed.”

“You found me?”

“I climbed up from the motel, to come see you.”

“What about?”

“Mr. Esposito,” I murmured, “Bridgette Dunne is dead.”

The spirit looked shocked, although there was no change to the telemetry monitors. “What…?”

“She was murdered.”

A long moment of silence, of disbelief. The spirit looked down at his body, his disposition changing. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“My ring.”

I looked at both forepaws, seeing no ring on either. “Perhaps they took it off, put it with your clothes.”

“Not here… I’d know if…”

Carefully replacing the forepaw to the wolf’s side, I stood and padded quickly to the closet. I found the bag containing Esposito’s belongings, rifling through it as carefully as I could. A wallet contained cash, untouched. No jewelry of any kind. I tried to remember if I’d seen a ring on his forepaw when I found him, or on the trip here, and I couldn’t bring a picture to my mind.

“Not here,” the spirit repeated, appearing very agitated.

“I’ll look for it. I’ll…”

To my mind, my heart, the wolf’s spirit looked as if he were about to scream, to unleash some horrible cry of sheer terror. What I heard came out as a soft, desperate sobbing.

“Save… our… souls…”

…to be continued