When the Red Wolf Runs

by Kody Boye

  “What’re you—“ I start to say.

  He presses his hand to mine, nods, then removes it a short moment later before standing and saying, “Get some rest. You need it after everything that’s happened.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and close my eyes. “I… I guess I…”

  Do, I want to finish.

  But once again, I slip into sleep.

  The last conscious thought I have is of Easton Wells.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Torn from the world of consciousness, and adrift in the world of slumber, I dream of a white sky and a grand green field, in which I watch a wolf run in the distance.

  Where is it going? I wonder. And why is it running?

  Some would say that the wolf runs because it can. Others would say that it runs for a purpose. In this landscape, which can surely be only of dream, I watch it run across the field, slowly but surely drawing closer as something trails behind it. It, I soon realize, is fire—and though it tries to outrun the past, it cannot escape the present, nor the future that rushes ever quickly toward it.

  The wolf gains speed. Beneath red paws the grass burns. Toward me it runs.

  I lift my eyes, and watch, in grandeur and realization, as it comes running straight for me.

  At first, I feel as though it will collide with me.

  When it jumps—and when I feel as though it will strike—I close my eyes.

  Its body does not impact me.

  Its spirit, however, does.

  A tangible essence of everything that it is to be a wolf consumes me. The need to hunt. The need to eat. The need to breathe, live, exist. I taste blood in my mouth as the facets of life assault me, and feel burns on my paws as the fire surges forward—attempting, it would seem, to consume me whole.

  But I am not simply a normal girl.

  No.

  Now, I realize, I am a wolf—the red wolf, to be exact.

  So I turn. And I run. And I change, shedding one visage for another.

  As I shift into the being that I know I was meant to become, a thought strikes me.

  Is this me? I wonder.

  Then, I realize, it is.

  Waking up in a hospital bed for the second time in less than two weeks is unnerving. Knowing that I’m now all alone, though? That’s chaos.

  Chaos, I think, of the body, of the mind.

  Of the soul.

  My heart yearns for compassion—for the touch of my father, a hug from my mother.

  But neither will come.

  No.

  The sad, and unfortunate, truth is that neither will come.

  Because they’re dead.

  Dead.

  Smothered by smoke, burned by flame.

  It’s almost too impossible to imagine.

  And yet, here I lie, in this hospital bed, connected to all these machines, wanting and wishing for life to be simple, for life to be pure. As of now, I am alone. Zachariah Meadows has gone to attend to errands. And Jackson—

  Jackson.

  I sigh as I consider what all he’s done for me in the past few days, and find myself wishing he was here with me. Maybe then I’d be able to find answers to the questions that fill my life.

  The first of them being: what happens now?

  Now, I think, even though it is not premeditated, even though I am completely unsure, I have to find out who did this.

  Surely Zachariah Meadows’ security footage will find out who started that fire. Who murdered my parents. Who inexplicably, and irreversibly, altered my life forever. And when I find out who did this…

  I pause as the thought consumes me.

  When I find out who did this, I think, I’ll make them wish they were never born.

  There is nothing else to say, do, think, or even believe.

  As much as I hate to think I am that person—that I am becoming this person—I realize now that I have to do what I feel is right.

  That, above all us, is what compels me to survive.

  As my hand balls into a fist once more, popping the knuckles and flushing oxygen into my joints, I think, for but one moment, what will happen come time Jackson returns.

  Then a knock comes at the door, and all thoughts of the future are lost.

  “Hello?” I manage, coughing as the first true word of the morning escapes me.

  Jackson steps inside.

  I sit up almost instantly.

  “Hey, hey! Take it easy,” he says with a smile. “I was just coming in to check on you.”

  “How’s Belle?” I ask.

  “She’s doing great, Oaklynn. You have nothing to worry about.”

  I let out a sigh.

  “How about you?” Jackson asks. “How are you feeling?”

  “Sore,” I manage, then grimace and add, “And my chest hurts.”

  “Do you need me to get a nurse in here?”

  “No, no. It’s… just from the smoke. It’ll clear up on its own.”

  “How did you sleep?”

  Sleep? I think, and frown.

  The dream comes flooding back to me—slowly, effortlessly, as if I’d experienced it no more than a short moment ago. My heart flutters at the thought of the wolf running, of us colliding, of me turning and fleeing. For a moment, I feel as though the breath will escape me. But when it doesn’t, I nod and say, “I… I slept fine.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I imagine it’s hard to sleep in a hospital sometimes, what with all the machines beeping, the people coming in and out to check on you.”

  “I’m okay, Jackson.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The fact is: I’m not. Telling him that would be pointless, though—because truth be told, he does know how I’m feeling, does know that I’ve experienced an immeasurable loss. To state that I’m feeling crushed, defeated, twisted about, and laid open would be paramount to describing what color the sky is.

  In the end, everyone knows what suffering is. Everyone’s experienced it in one way or another.

  Especially Jackson, I think, and frown.

  His brown eyes fall on mine—watching, waiting, anticipating another question, a statement, maybe even an answer. When I offer none, he frowns; and when I open my mouth to speak, he cuts me off by saying, “My dad’s gonna help take care of everything.”

  “Everything?” I frown. “What’re you—“

  “Getting the property cleaned up. Your estate arranged. Your living arrangements.”’

  “Jackson—“

  “He wants to help,” the young man continues, reaching down to take my hand. “I… I know that it’s a lot to take in right now, but now that everything’s changed… you need someone in your corner.”

  “Jackson—“

  “My dad wants to be a part of this, Oaklynn. And so do I.”

  “You… you do?”

  He nods. “Yeah. I do.”

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then expel it accordingly, allowing the air to filter from my battered lungs and into the space before me.

  What to say, I think, to someone who cares so much?

  I want to say something—anything—to reassure him that I’m going to allow him to help me. But, at the same time, I wonder:

  Is it worth it to tell him my feelings? Here? Now? With so many potential ears listening?

  No, I think. I can’t do that. Not yet, and not here.

  With a nod, I lean back against the pillow and say, “You’ll stay here with me?”

  “If you want me to,” he offers. “It’s not like I’m willing to go back to school anyway.”

  “Does J’vonte—“

  Jackson’s sad eyes are answer enough.

  “Know,” I then finish, allowing the word to trail off.

  “I told her I’d keep an eye on you. She said she’d make it as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “I think… I think I’m gonna go to sleep now.”

  “Okay. Sleep tight, Oaklynn.”
r />   I’m out before I can even think twice.

  J’vonte’s eyes are ghostly, her lips like a town quiet about the most sinister happenings. Her hands tremble as she enters the room alongside her mother, Yvette Fawn, and her gaze strays straight toward me.

  “Oh, Oaklynn,” J’vonte says as she steps forward.

  I take her into my arms and hold her tight as Jackson stirs from his place on the couch. Her small frame is vibrating—not, I know, with sadness, but rage.

  Hell have fury on whoever hurts your best friend, I think, and tighten my grip on her.

  Missus Fawn sets a small vase of flowers on the bedside table and asks, “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” I say.

  Missus Fawn’s eyes shift from me, to Jackson, then back to me again before saying, “I see you’re being taken care of.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” J’vonte says. “I had to go to school. To see if I could figure out whoever did this to you.”

  “And you damn near got yourself expelled,” Missus Fawn says, then sighs before adding, “I guess I can’t blame you, though. Claire was my friend, too.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine, dear. It’s just… a shock to me. More than a shock, actually.”

  “It’s like whoever did this just stabbed a knife in this small town,” J’vonte offers, before backing away and crossing her arms over her chest. She looks toward Jackson for a short moment, then returns her gaze to me before asking, “Do you know how long you’ll be here?”

  “Probably another day at least.”

  “Do you…” She swallows. “Have somewhere to go?”

  “Jackson said he’d take me in,” I say.

  “We have a spare room for her and Belle,” he offers.

  J’vonte closes her eyes. “Thank God you and her are all right.”

  “I’m not really sure how much thanks I have in Him,” I offer. “Sorry, Missus Fawn.”

  “I understand, Oaklynn,” Missus Fawn says. “Don’t worry yourself over simple things.”

  I nod, close my eyes, and turn my head before looking out the window. “Did you—“ I start, then stop before I can finish.

  “Find out anything?” J’vonte asks. “No. I… I didn’t.”

  “The police will handle this,” Missus Fawn continues. “Don’t you kids go sticking your nose in this. It’s bad enough that someone… did what they did. I… I don’t want anything to happen to you. Any of you.”

  “We’ll be good,” J’vonte says. “Won’t we, guys?”

  Jackson nods.

  I can only continue to stare out the nearby window.

  As much as I want to agree, I find myself unable to do so.

  The only thing I can think of is vengeance.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Zachariah Meadows arrives in a taxi to pick up me and Jackson from the hospital a day later. Exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and brimming with anger over everything that has occurred, I watch the rain fall outside the taxi with the knowledge that the smoke—the embers—of my old life are finally dying down.

  And thus begins the next chapter of your existence.

  Life after my parents.

  We ride in silence. Save the radio, not a sound can be heard. For that, I am thankful, if only because I do not know what I would say.

  Jackson’s hand slips against mine. His fingers stiffen.

  I roll my wrist over to take his palm within mine.

  It feels like a natural action after everything that has occurred, after everything he has done. Considering he’s saved me not once, but twice, I feel as if I owe him something.

  He doesn’t want anything, though, I am quick to think. You know that.

  Deep down, I do know that. And yet… a part of me wonders if there’s some kind of moral code you’re supposed to follow after someone saves your life.

  After a moment’s consideration, I close my eyes and lean my head against the cool window.

  All Jackson has ever wanted was to be was a friend.

  And me?

  I blink.

  Beyond initially thinking that he was perhaps the most beautiful young man I’d ever lain eyes upon, I just wanted to try my best with him. But now?

  Now, I think, you feel something.

  A spark. Chemistry. Biology skewed by grief.

  Just why do I feel I need him?

  I tighten my grip on his hand as we turn onto the old dirt road that used to lead to two homes, but now only leads to one, and find myself vibrating with grief.

  “It’s okay,” Jackson whispers.

  “Oh,” the cab driver says. “It’s… here.”

  “Yes,” Zachariah Meadows says as we pull up alongside the Meadows family home. “Jackson—will you take Oaklynn inside while I pay?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jackson says.

  I let myself out.

  Jackson follows.

  I try my hardest not to look at the remnants of what used to be my home, but find that I can’t help but stare at the same time.

  The blackened beams. The misshapen metal. The porch in pieces, the bricks strewn about.

  Thankfully, the rain falls hard enough to hide my tears.

  “Come on,” Jackson says. “Let’s go.”

  He leads me up the porch and to the front door, then unlocks it and ushers me through the threshold.

  Inside, I wrap my arms around myself, then turn to face him. “Where’s Belle?” I ask.

  “She’s in your room,” he says.

  My room.

  I blink as I allow the words to sink in.

  My room.

  Here. In Jackson’s home.

  Among wolves.

  I shiver at the last part, but allow Jackson to lead me through the house until we come to the last room on the right side of the primary hall. “She’s a bit scared,” he says, “but she’s okay.”

  “Thank you, Jackson,” I whisper. “For everything.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” he says.

  He leans forward, then, and bumps our heads together.

  I expect something—anything—to happen: for us to live, for us to breathe, for us to maybe kiss. But Jackson, he is a knight, and though his weapon is not a sword, his heart is made of gold.

  We remain like that for several long moments until he breaks away from me. “Go on,” he says. “I bet she wants to see you.”

  As I turn to open the door—careful to crack it as to not scare the only living family member I have left—I exhale a breath I’ve been holding in since Jackson set his head against mine, then step inside.

  “Belle?” I ask, crouching down. “It’s me.”

  The little cat meows from under the bed, then steps out as Jackson closes the door behind us.

  “Hey,” I say as she approaches, then rubs up against me. “You feeling okay?”

  “The vet said that she needed to be confined to a single room,” Jackson says, “and not to exert herself. I told her that… well… that we’d take care of her.”

  “Thank you, again.”

  “You don’t have to thank me, Oaklynn. I’d help you with anything.”

  “Anything?” I ask.

  Jackson blinks, stunned. “Yeah,” he then says. “With anything.”

  I turn my head away when I find I cannot speak my truth.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “I just… need some time to think.”

  “I’ll be across the hall if you need me,” he says.

  The moment he slips out of the room is the moment my thoughts come crushing down.

  Anger.

  Regret.

  The cold, hard kiss of violence.

  As the door across the hall opens, then closes, I imagine taking hold of the person who did this to me—to us—and shoving them off the highest, most barbaric cliffside known to man.

  I know that, eventually, I’ll have to confess my
feelings to Jackson. But now?

  Now, I think, I have to remain calm.

  These wounds are too fresh to risk ripping them open again.

  How long they’ll take to heal I do not know.

  Dinner is a quiet ordeal. With green beans, mashed potatoes, and a roast with veggies pulled straight from the crockpot, we eat in silence with the knowledge that there is truly very little any of us can say.

  It’s like a ghost town, I think.

  Except we are not being haunted by the lingering dead. No. Instead, we are pursued by life itself, and are callous in our decision to remain in its presence.

  As I eat, slowly but surely picking at food and forcing myself to swallow small bites, I find myself wondering how exactly I am going to go about presenting my case to them.

  What will they think, I wonder, about a girl who knows nothing but rage?

  Will they think I am blind? Careless? Inconsiderate to the world around me? Or will they understand that I am simply a spectator in this game of my life, and not exactly a player moving the pieces across the board?

  I inhale a slow, cautious breath in an effort to stem my anger, but find myself tightening my hand around my work in the process.

  “Oaklynn?” Zachariah Meadows asks. “Is something wrong?”

  “Everything seems to be wrong,” I reply, lifting my eyes to face the man’s impenetrable gaze.

  Zachariah narrows his eyes at me—watching, waiting, obviously anticipating further response. When I offer none, he turns his eyes toward his son; and when Jackson makes no further commentary, he tilts his head back toward me and asks, “What is it that you want?”

  “What do I want?” I ask, then laugh, cruel and loudly, as if an emotional bubble has just popped and all the crazed hounds have been set loose. “I want whoever did this to pay.”

  “Revenge.”

  “Yes, sir. I want revenge.”

  “Oaklynn—“ Jackson starts.

  “Don’t try and talk me out of this, Jackson. I know what I want. I know what I need. And right now, I need whoever did this—to my mom’s shop, to my home, to my parents, to me—to pay.”

  Neither of the men speak.

  When Zachariah’s eyes fall back on mine, however, I see something there, in his gaze—his wild, reckless ways.