Two nights after the raid, Libby’s wounds were already scabbing over.
Smoke had stopped rising from the wreckage by the gate. The broken fencing was mended. The blood had been scrubbed from the cobblestones by volunteers who never once looked away from what they were washing away. But the smell of burned diesel and gunpowder still lingered in the cold air — a reminder, not a warning.
Sheriff Hank Ward stood in the motor pool, leaning on the hood of an old patrol truck, coffee steaming in his gloved hand. The mug read “Best Sheriff in the County.” It had been a joke once. Now it was just true by default.
“You really think this’ll work?” Ross asked, checking the magazine on his rifle.
“We’ll see,” Hank said. “If it doesn’t, you’ll have a story to tell at breakfast.”
The idea had come from Marta: joint patrols. Wolves and humans walking perimeter together. “Trust doesn’t stick unless it breathes the same air,” she’d said. Hank hadn’t argued — not after what he’d seen that night. Still, he’d kept the roster small. Just four deputies: Ross, Valdez, Jennings, and Dana — the youngest of the bunch, sharp as frost but green as spring.
Their boots crunched gravel as they moved toward the north gate. Flashlights flickered on. Breath clouded in the cool air.
Waiting there were six wolves.
They stood silent under the fence light — broad shapes of gray and shadow. The leader, a massive gray-furred brute with a long scar down his muzzle, stepped forward and inclined his head. It was a simple motion, but deliberate. Respectful.
“I am Rime,” he said in the gravelled tone of one who’d spoken little English but learned it well. “Sable sends greetings. We walk beside, not ahead.”
Dana stiffened. Jennings muttered under his breath, “Holy hell, they talk polite.”
Hank grinned around his coffee mug. “Long as you don’t eat ahead, we’re good.”
For half a heartbeat, silence — then a few low, rumbling laughs rolled through the wolves like thunder wrapped in humor. The tension broke.
“Then we walk,” Rime said.
They set off into the trees — two species moving in uncertain rhythm. Flashlights cut thin spears through the fog while eyes the color of moons tracked every motion in the dark.
Hank took point beside Rime. The wolf’s stride was smooth and steady, barely disturbing the underbrush. The man’s boots sounded clumsy beside him, and Hank chuckled to himself. “Guess we’re the noisy ones now.”
Rime’s ears twitched, amused. “Sound is truth,” he said. “It tells forest we are many.”
They moved along the ridge trail, checking the sensor poles Thane’s team had set up days before. Twice, Rime halted abruptly, ears high. The deputies froze on instinct.
“What is it?” Valdez whispered.
“Old scent,” Rime murmured. “Gun oil. Men. Days ago.”
He knelt, sniffed, and pointed toward the slope. Sure enough, faint boot prints crossed the mud. The deputies looked at each other — none of them had noticed.
“How the hell do you even see that?” Ross asked.
Rime’s lips curled into something halfway between a smile and a snarl. “We don’t see. We listen.”
The wolves fanned out quietly, checking the brush while the deputies covered angles. When they regrouped, Rime gave a short nod. “No danger now. Ghosts.”
They reached the river near midnight and stopped to rest. A low fire flickered in a metal drum, sending soft orange across fur and flannel. The forest creaked with settling frost.
Dana sat a little apart, trying to hide her nerves. One of the smaller wolves, a lithe female with a torn ear, padded over and sat beside her without a sound. The deputy jumped, then froze.
“Sorry,” Dana blurted. “I just—never been this close to one of you before.”
The wolf tilted her head. “We could say same.”
Dana let out a breath that became a laugh. “I keep thinking I’ll do something wrong.”
“If you listen more than speak,” the wolf said softly, “you already do right.”
They sat there for a while, watching the river move like black glass. Every so often, the wolf glanced at her and smiled — not showing teeth, just eyes. When the fire crackled, Dana offered her canteen. The wolf sniffed it, then took a careful sip. Both of them laughed at the absurdity of it all — and that laughter, small as it was, felt like the first sunrise of a new world.
An hour before dawn, the patrol reached the edge of the old rail yard. Mist hung low, glowing in the faint light from the town. Rime’s ears twitched. “Engines,” he murmured.
They crept closer — four humans and six wolves, moving like parts of one organism. Through the fog, three figures knelt by a tanker car, trying to siphon diesel into jerrycans.
Hank held up a hand, signaling stop. He whispered, “Let’s try this our way first.”
He stepped forward, flashlight beam cutting through the haze.
“Sheriff’s Department!” he called. “Drop it and stand up slow.”
The men froze. One did. Another turned his head just enough to see the line of glowing eyes forming behind Hank. The third panicked and fired. The shot sparked off the rails.
Rime moved before anyone else could. A blur of gray and muscle — he crossed the distance in two heartbeats, slammed the shooter to the ground, and wrenched the gun from his hands. The other two dropped their cans and threw their hands up.
“He lives,” Rime growled, pinning the man by the throat but not cutting. “He learns.”
Hank lowered his weapon. “Works for me.”
They disarmed the men, tied their wrists, and led them south. Not a drop of blood spilled.
When it was done, Jennings muttered, “You know, I think I trust them more than half our rookies.”
Hank smirked. “Don’t say that too loud. They’ve got better hearing.”
The wolves chuckled, deep and rolling, the sound vibrating through the fog. It didn’t feel strange anymore — it felt right.
By sunrise, the patrol was back inside the town fence. Frost clung to the barbed wire, turning it into silver lace. Sable and Thane were waiting at the gate. The sight of them together no longer startled anyone.
“Perimeter’s clear,” Hank reported. “No threats. Wolves handled themselves better than any soldier I’ve worked with.”
Sable’s muzzle dipped slightly. “Your people did quiet work,” she said. “Harder than claws.”
Rime stepped forward and offered Hank a clawed hand. The sheriff didn’t hesitate. He shook it, rough and firm. “Good work, partner.”
The word seemed to mean something new out loud. The wolves bowed slightly before heading back toward the woods, paws silent on frost. The smaller female — Nara — paused long enough to touch Dana’s shoulder lightly before vanishing into the trees.
Dana watched her go, smiling. “Guess I’ll need to learn to listen better.”
Ross snorted. “You and me both, kid.”
Later that morning, after the town woke, Hank stood at the northern fence again. The light turned the mountains gold. He sipped the last of his coffee and keyed his radio.
“Ward to Command. Perimeter clear. Wolves proved themselves.”
Static, then Thane’s voice:
“I never doubted it.”
Hank smiled. “You might be the only one who didn’t.”
He looked toward the treeline. For a moment, he thought he saw movement — not threatening, just presence. Two golden eyes in the mist, watching the sunrise. Then they blinked and were gone.
He took another sip, let the warmth settle in his chest. “Guess the night’s a little safer,” he said softly. “And a lot less lonely.”
The camera lifted with the morning fog — showing Libby’s fence, the ridges beyond, and faint paw prints beside boot prints in the frost.
“The world had fallen,”
“But tonight, the watch stood tall.
And both — kept the dawn.”