A week passed like a single breath drawn and released.
Libby settled into its new rhythm—quieter, steadier, with laughter returning to the streets. Word had spread that the ferals were coming back for the next market, and this time, they wouldn’t be empty-pawed. No one really knew what that meant, but the excitement hummed under everything like static in the radio lines.
By sunrise, the square was already alive. Stalls reopened beneath the pine boughs, and the air filled with the familiar smells of earth, bread, and coffee. Someone had hung a new hand-painted sign over the fountain: “THE MARKET BENEATH THE PINES — WEEK TWO.”
Mark was fussing with the speaker cables, muttering about impedance. Gabriel tuned his old acoustic, lazily picking through the melody from last week. Marta checked ration ledgers, smiling when people waved to her.
Thane leaned against the old brick wall of the bakery, sipping from a dented can of Diet Mountain Dew—a treasure he’d found while scavenging a few days prior. He savored the hiss and fizz like it was vintage wine. The sound of normal life, for once, didn’t feel foreign.
Then a voice called from the gate:
“They’re here.”
The market quieted, just like before. Heads turned.
This time, the wolves didn’t enter as strangers.
Sable led them again, tall and calm, her fur brushed to a soft silver gleam. The others followed—Rime at her right, the younger wolves fanning behind her. But now, each carried something: bundles wrapped in hide, woven baskets, small carved trinkets hanging from their belts. Their gait was confident, proud.
When they reached the square, Sable stopped and lifted her head high.
“We come,” she said, her voice steadier now, almost lyrical. “To trade.”
The crowd broke into applause.
Hank actually laughed. “Guess they figured it out.”
Marta stepped forward, beaming. “Then welcome back, friends. The same rules apply—no eating the vendors.”
That earned another ripple of laughter. The wolves relaxed visibly, tails flicking, smiles flashing white against fur. This time, there was no fear—only curiosity and excitement.
The first surprise came at the tanner’s stall. One of Sable’s wolves unrolled a hide so supple and clean it glowed like silk in the morning sun. “From elk,” he said proudly. “Taken fair. Tanned with pine sap and river sand.”
The tanner ran his hands over it, eyes wide. “I haven’t seen leather this good since before the Collapse.”
The wolf tilted his head. “We bring more, next moon.”
The tanner smiled. “You bring that, I’ll trade you anything you want.”
At another table, a pair of young wolves set down bundles of herbs—wild mint, sage, something sharp and citrusy. “Found high on cliff,” one said. “Good for wounds. Mark says you like medicine.”
Mark looked up from his cables, sniffed the air, and grinned. “Oh, hell yes, I do.” He traded them batteries and an old flashlight, and they stared at the beam like it was sorcery.
The crowd gathered as the wolves revealed more treasures: beautifully carved bone tools, polished stones shaped into pendants, woven ropes made from stripped pine bark. Each item told a story of the forest—of survival turned into craft.
And the humans, in turn, offered bread, dried fruit, soap, salt, candles. Trade flowed like conversation, easy and natural.
For the first time, both sides were equal.
Thane wandered among them quietly, watching the interactions, the laughter, the shared fascination. The young wolves greeted him with shy pride, showing off their new bartering skills like students eager for approval.
Sable approached him last, carrying something wrapped in dark cloth. “We made this,” she said softly. “For you.”
Thane’s brow furrowed. “For me?”
She nodded and unwrapped it. Inside lay a piece of carved wood—dark cedar, polished smooth. It was shaped like the wolf-head medallion he wore, only larger, meant to hang on a wall. The craftsmanship was simple but exquisite; every line of fur and curve of fang carved by hand. In the center was a small metal inlay—one of the town’s barter tokens pressed into the heart of the carving.
“You paid for our first market,” Sable said quietly. “This coin was one you gave. We give it back—so you remember what you built.”
For a long moment, Thane couldn’t find words. His throat tightened, and he reached out, running a claw gently along the carving’s edge. “You did this yourselves?”
Sable smiled. “All of us. Even the pups. We worked until paws hurt. But we wanted… to give worth for worth.”
Gabriel wandered up behind him, grinning. “Guess you’re famous now, boss. Gonna have to start charging appearance fees.”
Thane elbowed him lightly. “Not a chance.”
Marta stepped forward, eyes misting. “That’s beautiful, Sable.”
The wolf inclined her head. “He gave us trade. We give him memory.”
Thane held the carving close for a moment, then nodded. “Then we’re even.”
Sable shook her head. “No. We are pack. Pack does not count.”
As the day went on, the market buzzed brighter than ever. Wolves sold herbs and leather, bought bread and soap. One young male wolf bartered a hand-carved comb for a jar of jam—and then immediately ate half the jar before realizing it wasn’t meant for fur.
Gabriel laughed until he almost dropped his guitar. “Rule two,” he said between chuckles. “Ask before eating the merchandise.”
The square glowed with motion and life. People smiled as wolves passed. Wolves wagged tails when kids handed them apples. Even Hank caught himself grinning. The wariness was gone; in its place was something else entirely—trust.
As evening fell, the wolves packed their things, their baskets lighter but their hearts full. The last rays of sun slipped between the mountains, painting the square in soft gold.
Sable turned back once before leaving, her voice warm with pride. “You were right, Thane. Hunt takes many shapes. Today, we hunted friendship.”
Thane nodded. “And caught it clean.”
She smiled, then led her wolves into the pines.
When the last of their shadows faded into the trees, the quiet that followed wasn’t emptiness—it was contentment.
Marta walked over, tucking her ledger under her arm. “You realize,” she said, smiling, “you just built an economy out of respect.”
Thane chuckled softly. “Maybe that’s the only kind that lasts.”
Gabriel strummed a soft, content tune as the stars came out, the sound floating up with the scent of pine and fresh bread. Mark sat by the fountain, fiddling with a radio that hummed faintly, tuning between static and peace.
The world had fallen. But here, beneath the pines, something worth living for had grown back—quietly, honestly, and strong as a heartbeat.
And as the night deepened, the wolves’ distant howls carried across the valley—not cries of hunger or warning, but of joy.
They were singing to the market.
To the town.
To the pack.
And for once, every living soul in Libby understood the song.