Three Werewolves: After The Fall

Snow clung to the seams of the roofs like the last pages of a calendar that wouldn’t quite tear free. The convoy rolled into Libby under a pale sky, engines ticking down as they cooled, the breath of wolves and trucks alike fogging in the brittle air. When the gates closed, the town exhaled—two bell chimes from the tower, the sound of doors opening, boots scuffing brick, voices calling, “They’re back!”

Thane killed the ignition and sat for a heartbeat with his paws on the wheel, letting the familiar sounds soak in. The square looked like home—the radio tower in the distance, the warm windows of City Hall, the line of children pretending not to stare at the wolves as they tumbled off the truck bed like it was the first step of a stage they’d memorized.

Marta sat beside him in the passenger seat, watching her town through the windshield. For a long moment she didn’t move—just stared, eyes bright, lips pressed tight in a way that said she was holding back tears.

They stepped out together, side by side, into the swirl of cold air and laughter.

“Home,” Gabriel said, grinning as he shouldered his guitar and hopped down.

“Home,” Mark echoed, stretching until his back popped.

Holt jumped to the cobbles and spun once, tail thumping a crate, nearly taking out a stack of folded sawhorses. “We back,” he announced to no one in particular, then to everyone, as if the town itself required the confirmation.

Rime slid down more quietly, landing with the soft tap of claws on stone. He rolled his shoulders, gave the square a measuring look, and then nodded once, as if Libby had passed an inspection he’d never admit to performing.

Marta crossed the square with Thane, scarf tucked in, hair lifted by a thin, steady wind. She reached the steps first, took his forearm in both hands, and smiled with that tired, private pride that always made people feel taller when she aimed it at them.

“Feels like we never left,” Thane said. “Except for all the miles on the axles.”

“Those miles gave us a valley that can speak to itself,” she said. “Tonight, let it sing.”

Thane cocked an ear. “You have something in mind.”

“I do,” Marta said, eyes bright in the cold. “A night of gratitude. The towns on one call. Speakerphone. The whole square listening. If we’re going to remember what this feels like, we should do it together.”

Gabriel’s tail swished. “I can play something between calls—keep people warm.”

“Please,” Marta said. “But first we’ll need that long phone cord you threatened to throw away last year.”

Thane laughed. “I keep everything. Even the ugly things that save nights like this.”

“Good,” she said. “Bring your ugly cord.”

They got to work before the afternoon could think about slipping away. The utility closet at City Hall still smelled like dust and warm plastic; the Definity’s lights pulsed in even rhythm, calm as a metronome. Thane rummaged in a labeled tote, pulled out a coiled umbilical of flat beige cable that seemed to go on forever, and fed it through the window with Mark’s help while Holt carefully, carefully, didn’t step on it.

“Gentle,” Thane said.

“Gentle,” Holt repeated, eyes exaggeratedly wide. He lifted his paws high and picked his way across like the cord was a sleeping snake.

Rime stood at the sill and fed the coil steadily, the line snaking down to the square where Gabriel and two townsfolk ran it along the edge of the steps and up to a sturdy desk phone they’d set on a stout table. The phone’s speaker grille faced the square. Marta looked at the arrangement with her hands on her hips and nodded once. “Perfect. Old world meets open air.”

“Conference works like this,” Thane said, running through it again with her the way flight crews rehearse. “Press Line 1, then Conference, then Line 2, Conference, then Line 3—repeat as needed. Libby will call Spokane first—Line 2—bring them in. Then Eureka—Line 3—bring them in. Then Whitefish—Line 4 if we want it, but we’re using three tonight. Keep your voice steady; give each town a beat to answer so the switches can stay in step.”

Marta smiled. “Mayor or not, I can push buttons.”

“I’ve seen people with less pressure melt at a copier,” Thane said, but the grin took any bite out of the words.

The square began to fill with that special kind of noise that comes from people who want to be close to a good moment: a shuffle of boots, low laughter, someone telling a story that grew a little every time it was retold. Lanterns blinked alive along the eaves as the sky went lilac, and the breath from a dozen small fires made soft braids into the air. Someone brought a tin of cider; someone else brought a battered aluminum pot of stew that smelled like two extra hours over the flame and a good hand with salt. The phone sat on its table like an altar to the ordinary miracle no one would have noticed twenty years ago.

Hank arrived with his hat shoved back on his head, took one look at the cord draped across the steps, and grinned. “This what progress looks like? Extension cords and hope?”

“Exactly,” Thane said.

“Then I’ll stand where the cord isn’t,” Hank said, and did.

When the first star started to show and the lamps along the square threw warm pools onto the brick, Marta stepped up to the table, rested a hand on the phone, and raised her other to ask for quiet. The crowd’s voices ebbed without being told to hush. She held Thane’s eyes for a heartbeat—ready?—and he nodded. She pressed Line 2—Spokane—lifted the speaker button, and waited.

Ring… ring…

It sounded small, at first, in the cold air. Then the room behind them—the entire town—leaned into it with their listening, and the sound grew.

“Spokane here,” came Mason’s voice, clear and warm. “Libby?”

“Libby,” Marta said, her voice carrying as if the phone had chosen her. “Stand by for Eureka.”

She pressed Conference, then Line 3—Eureka—and the ring marched over the ridge lines and down into windows thrown open on a small square that had learned to love echoes. On the second cycle Franklin’s voice answered, breathless already. “Eureka here.”

“Hold, we’re adding Spokane,” Marta said, and the faint tick-and-chatter of relays somewhere in a world of racks and panels did their quiet ballet. The line came back with a subtle softening that meant the bridge had locked. “Spokane, you’re live with Eureka.”

“Evening, neighbors,” Mason said, and the grin traveled with the words.

“Evening,” Franklin answered, and the smile traveled back.

Marta pressed Conference again, then Line 1—Libby’s own internal line—just for ceremony, adding the home voice in so the phone’s logic stayed neat. The square seemed to lean forward as if what had been three was suddenly three plus the sound of its own listening. “This is Libby, Spokane, and Eureka,” she said, then turned to Thane. “Whitefish?”

“Let’s go big,” he said softly.

Marta nodded, pressed Conference, then Line 4—Whitefish—and the ring skipped across new copper that wasn’t new at all. Dawes came on with the tone of a man who’d been standing by a phone waiting for exactly this. “Whitefish here.”

“Welcome to the call,” Marta said, and the square clapped itself into a low rolling cheer that sounded like water running where it should.

For a minute, no one said anything. The silence didn’t feel empty. It felt full—the good kind—like a room just before music starts, all the notes in a pocket waiting their turn. Then voices overlapped in the immemorial way of families who’ve been apart too long. They talked over one another and then laughed, and then someone from Spokane said “You first” and someone from Eureka said “No, you,” and then they all laughed again, and then it sorted itself out the way these things always do.

Mason thanked Libby for the diesel filters they’d sent down the last trade. Franklin said the flour had made his whole town smell like bread and safety. Dawes said his son had taken the first call from Kalispell that morning and then spent an hour drawing the lines on a sheet of paper like they were rivers he wanted to memorize. In between, Gabriel stood to one side with his guitar and played a soft figure you could hum while you listened; it threaded around the voices without getting in their way.

When the night got a little colder, people edged closer together. Kids sat on the steps and looked up like they were watching a story drawn on the underside of the sky. Holt stood a little to the right of the phone with his arms folded, the way big dogs do when they think they are part of the security plan. Every time the conference dipped quiet, he looked offended on its behalf until someone spoke again and his tail beat once, twice, satisfied.

Thane stood with one shoulder to the lintel of the City Hall door, where he could watch the square and the faces and the line running into the building, all at once. A hand brushed his arm. Rime, slipping into his space with that silent way he had. He didn’t speak; he didn’t have to. His eyes went to the cord, to the phone, to the people, and then back to Thane. He gave a short nod that said: this is good.

“You kept Holt out of the stew,” Thane murmured, amusement in the corner of his mouth.

“Was hard,” Rime said, almost deadpan. “He hungry always.”

Thane huffed a laugh. “I noticed.”

Rime’s gaze went back to the crowd, the speaker, the edges of the square where darkness began. “Whole town safe,” he said, his voice low and even. “Feels… quiet inside.” He touched his chest with two claws. “Quiet here.”

Thane glanced sideways at him. “You earned that quiet.” He let the line on the phone carry its polyphony for a few breaths more, then added, softer, “You don’t get enough credit for how much of this is you.”

Rime didn’t look at him. Sometimes it was easier for the words to land if you didn’t make eye contact while you said them. “I do job,” he said.

“You do more than the job.” Thane’s voice gentled. “You watch the edges before anyone else sees them. You feel when a moment will go sideways and you straighten it. You kept pressure off me when I needed to look like I wasn’t feeling it. And you keep Holt from breaking the world in half when he gets happy.”

Rime’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Is big job. He very happy.”

“Exactly.” Thane turned fully then and, without ceremony, slid an arm around Rime’s shoulders and pulled him in, a firm side hug that asked nothing and gave everything. Rime had flinched at that the first months, muscles coiled like a spring under fur. Now he leaned into it, a weight shared back. His breath came out slow, a long ribbon that made a cloud in the cold.

“Thank you,” Thane said, not for the first time, but this time all at once.

Rime’s eyes closed, just for a heartbeat. “You see me,” he said. The words were simple, and they were the richest thing he owned.

“Always,” Thane said.

They stood like that for a beat more, two wolves at the edge of a square that had chosen to be more than a place to pass through. Then Rime straightened, rolled his shoulders once like a man resetting pieces on a board, and nodded toward Holt, who had in fact begun a negotiation with a boy about whether patting the phone would make it ring more. “He need stopping.”

“I defer to your expertise,” Thane said.

Rime went.

On the table, the conference carried on. Marta moved from the microphone to the people and back again the way she always did, bridging and binding, her voice the rope that made the raft strong. She brought someone from Whitefish onto the line who wanted to thank the woman from Libby who’d put a note in a crate of winter coats that read, KEEP WARM, WE ARE THINKING OF YOU; she brought a man from Spokane who told a joke so bad even the phone paused to consider whether it would dignify it with bandwidth. The square laughed anyway. The valley had learned to like the sound of its own joy.

At some point, someone fitted a second long cord so the phone could shift a few feet closer to the cluster of elders who didn’t want to stand so long. Thane watched Holt hovering with proprietary concern while Rime guided him by degrees into merely looking protective from a distance instead of stepping on the cord. Gabriel slipped a chorus into the space between one town’s hello and another’s story. Mark stood with his hands in his pockets and his mouth relaxed into the small, pleased shape it took when a machine did what it ought.

And there it was: four towns on one call, copper warmed by hands and breath, a square full of people who wanted to be exactly where they were. The sound of it all drifted up and over the roofs and into the pines and out to the river and up the valley road, where somewhere a phone that hadn’t rung in years might lift its head and listen, just for a second, the way an animal does when it hears its name.

They let it run for an hour, maybe more. Time got soft around the edges. Eventually Marta pressed Conference again and thanked each town in turn, and one by one the bridges eased open and the ring went back to a single tone waiting for tomorrow. The square applauded itself, not out of vanity but because gratitude always sounds better when it has hands.

People lingered. Food emptied. Firewood took its last good orange crackle and turned to a curl of gray. The phone sat quiet on the table, the long cord lying across the steps like a pale vein returning to the heart.

Hank clapped Thane’s shoulder once. “You keep doing this,” he said, which was the closest he got to speeches.

“Only because you don’t want to,” Thane said.

“Correct,” Hank said, and wandered off toward the cleanup, whistling the two notes that meant “someone carry those benches before I have to.”

They coiled the long cord back through the window with the kind of care that means you intend to use a thing again. Thane rested his palm on the Definity’s cabinet, listening to the soft insect hum of power moving through it. “You good?” he asked the machine, quietly enough that only the copper would be offended if it had an opinion.

“She good,” Rime said, matter-of-fact, moving past him with the table tucked under one arm.

“Mayor says we done?” Holt asked, appearing at Thane’s elbow like a large weather event with good intentions.

“Done for tonight,” Thane said. “No breaking.”

“No breaking,” Holt said solemnly. “No promises,” he added, and grinned, then ducked when Rime swatted the back of his head and told him, “Promises.”

They closed City Hall with that particular clicking of latches that sounds like a town tucking itself in. Outside, the square had quieted to the small noises that mean safety—chairs scraping, a broom, muffled laughter from the last cluster heading home. The sky had gone to ink; the stars felt closer, like the world invited them down. Breath made ghosts and then didn’t.

Thane and Rime walked the last loop of the square together. No hurry, no edge. Just habit and the good weight of it. On the far side, where the lamps fell off and the bricks cooled faster, Thane stopped and looked at the tower, at the wire, at the shape the town made against the dark. “We taught the world to talk again,” he said.

Rime stood with him, steady as a post, gaze fixed the way his always was when he was listening to things you could not hear with your ears. “Now we teach it to listen,” he said. The cadence was still his—simple, precise, a little feral around the edges—but the words were dead center.

Thane smiled. “You always were the smart one.”

Rime considered that, then let it be true without making a fuss about it. “Go home,” he said. “Sleep. Tomorrow—more talking.”

“Tomorrow, more listening,” Thane agreed.

They crossed back toward the trucks where Gabriel picked out a last quiet melody and Mark argued fondly with Holt about whether a bench can be both “up” and “done” at the same time. The phone inside City Hall rang once—just once—an engineer in Spokane trying a button before bed, a human impulse as old as switches.

The sound drifted through the window and into the square and rose on a breath of cold air until it seemed to hang in the night like a chime caught on a long thread. Rime tilted his head the way he always did when a distant animal called. Thane listened with him, the two of them standing easy in the dark like a thing learned and a thing remembered had finally become the same thing.

The ring faded. The night held. The town breathed. The sound carried.

Snow clung stubbornly to the shade of the pines as the convoy wound down the last hill into Whitefish. The afternoon sun was weak, barely a smear of gold through a sky gone pale with cold. Thane eased the lead truck onto Main Street, tires crunching through crusted frost. The small town opened up before them — neat blocks, a clock tower, and the old City Hall with its faded red brick and green copper trim.

Marta leaned forward in her seat, eyes scanning the storefronts. “Quieter than Eureka.”

Gabriel tapped the half-open window glass lightly with one claw. “Smells like coffee and sawdust. That’s a good sign.”

Behind them, Mark’s truck rumbled up, Holt and Rime perched in the back among crates of cables and tool cases. Townsfolk stepped out from doorways, cautious but curious. No one ran, and that alone spoke to how far the world had come.

Thane parked in front of the City Hall steps. “Alright,” he said, cutting the engine. “Let’s see if they’ve still got a heartbeat.”

A man in a thick wool coat emerged from the double doors, gray beard flecked with snow. His posture said he wasn’t afraid, just careful. “Afternoon,” he called, voice carrying easily. “You folks from Libby?”

Marta smiled and offered her hand as they met at the steps. “Marta Korrin, Mayor of Libby. This is Thane, and my crew — Gabriel, Mark, Holt, and Rime.”

The man shook her hand and nodded to Thane, eyes flicking briefly over the claws, the fur, the weight of him. “Henry Dawes,” he said. “I sit on what’s left of the Whitefish council. Heard about what you did in Eureka. Thought maybe it was just a story.”

Thane smiled. “Then you’re about to get the sequel.”

Dawes chuckled at that. “Come on in. You’ll want to see what we’ve still got running.”

The City Hall was warmer than most they’d visited, heated by a big wood stove near the main hallway. The walls carried old photos — fishing contests, parades, grinning faces from a quieter century. Inside an office behind the reception counter, a row of beige phones sat waiting on desks like patient old dogs.

Thane crouched to look under the counter and grinned. “AT&T Partner 208,” he said. “Eight extensions, four lines. Good shape.”

Mark whistled low. “These things were workhorses.”

Dawes rubbed his neck, half-apologetic. “We kept ‘em plugged in even after the power went out for good. Habit, I guess. Never could bring myself to toss them.”

Marta glanced around. “And now they’ll finally earn their keep again.”

Thane ran a claw along the power cord. “We’ll give her a sip of solar and see if she remembers how to hum.”

The equipment closet smelled of dust and cold metal. Inside, the Partner 208’s small plastic cabinet hung on the wall, its once-cream color gone soft with age. He connected it to a battery inverter and flipped the switch.

The red LEDs blinked once, then steadied. From the outer office came a sharp series of beeps as the phones powered up.

“Tone,” Thane said softly, half to himself. “Good girl.”

Mark crouched beside him, holding a worn binder of wiring diagrams. “System’s still tied into the old CO trunks through that wall conduit. I can almost guarantee those pairs are still running back to the switch.”

“Then we’re halfway done,” Thane said. “We’ll just have to find the right lines.”

Dawes blinked, trying to follow. “The right lines?”

Thane gestured toward the back of the building. “The cables that go to Libby, Spokane, and Kalispell. Each town still has its own connection through the central office. We don’t need to string anything new — just wake the old lines up.”

“You can do that?”

Thane smiled. “I used to work for the phone company before the world went to hell. Trust me, those copper pairs are tougher than cockroaches.”

Holt, waiting near the hall, puffed out his chest. “Cockroach strong. Good.”

Gabriel grinned. “We’ll put that on your business card.”

Rime cocked his head. “What is business card?”

“Never mind,” Gabriel said, laughing.

Thane slung his tool bag over one shoulder. “Let’s visit the CO.”

---

The Whitefish central office sat two blocks away, a squat concrete building half-buried under ivy and time. The front door creaked open with a reluctant groan. Inside, the smell of cold metal and old oil hit immediately — familiar, nostalgic.

Rows of equipment lined the room like sleeping giants: tall racks of relay frames, cross-connect panels, and cable runs vanishing through the floor. Dust lay thick, but the bones were all there.

Thane stood still for a moment, listening. “You hear that?”

Mark frowned. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly,” Thane said. “Means it’s waiting.”

He crossed to the main punch block, brushing away a decade of cobwebs with one hand. The labels were faded, but still readable in ghostly ink. LIBBY TRUNK. SPOKANE TRUNK. KALISPELL TRUNK.

Thane traced the pair with a gentle touch. “We’ll use these.”

He pulled a small hand tester from his pocket and clipped the leads. The tone probe gave a low chirp, soft but definite.

“Libby line’s still alive,” he said. “There’s your first heartbeat.”

“Holy hell,” Mark whispered. “After all this time.”

“Copper remembers,” Thane said again. “Always does.”

Rime stood near the door, tail flicking. “Feels like church.”

“Same reverence,” Gabriel said, smiling faintly.

They patched the lines carefully, bridging Libby’s trunk into Line 1 of the Partner system, Spokane into Line 2, and Kalispell into Line 3. When Thane finished the last punch, he stepped back and wiped a streak of dust off his muzzle.

“That’ll do,” he said. “Let’s go wake the council.”

---

Back in City Hall, a small crowd had gathered in the hall — maybe thirty townsfolk, some sitting on the benches, others standing near the door. Word had traveled fast. Even Dawes’s teenage son had shown up, holding a notebook like he might need to take notes on a miracle.

Thane picked up the phone on the front desk, pressed Line 1 and handed the phone to mator Dawes. The ring tone pulsed clear and clean, echoing softly off the tile floor.

Hank’s voice came faint and bright through the handset. “Libby PD here.”

Dawes’s breath caught audibly. “This is Whitefish,” he said, half-disbelieving. “Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” he said. “Welcome to the network.”

The crowd outside the office began to cheer, clapping and laughing. Thane motioned for Dawes to keep going.

“Hold on,” Thane said. “Try Line 2.”

He pressed the second button, and the ring started again. A few seconds later, a different voice answered.

“Spokane here. Is that Whitefish?”

“It is,” Dawes said, grinning now. “Good to meet you!”

“You too. Damn fine to have another light on the board.”

Thane hit Line 3, testing Kalispell. After a long pause, the ring tripped and a woman’s voice came through, breathless with surprise.

“This is Kalispell Council. Who’s calling?”

“Whitefish,” Dawes said. “And Libby and Spokane are listening too. You’re not alone anymore.”

Marta’s voice joined in. “Three towns connected. Four, now. You’ve made the network whole.”

Applause filled the room. Holt wagged his tail so hard it thumped the wall. Rime blinked slowly, ears tipped forward in something close to wonder.

Outside, the noise spilled through the open doors. People in the street craned to hear the voices echoing faintly from the hall — three towns speaking across the valley, alive again.

Gabriel grinned. “Sounds like the world’s breathing again.”

Dawes handed the phone to his son, who held it carefully, reverently, as if it might bite. “Say hello,” he urged.

The boy swallowed and said softly, “Hi, Kalispell.”

A laugh came through the line. “Hello there. You sound young for a councilman.”

“Not yet,” the boy said. “But maybe someday.”

---

By evening, City Hall had become a small celebration. Someone brought soup. Someone else found a bottle of homemade cider and passed it around. The phones on each desk sat glowing gently, all lines lit.

Marta leaned against the counter, talking quietly with Dawes about trade routes and coordination times. Gabriel plucked a soft melody on his guitar while Holt pretended to guard the phones, wagging his tail every time one of them rang.

Rime, perched near the window, listened with a faint smile. “World loud again,” he said.

“Yeah,” Thane answered. “But it’s the good kind of loud.”

Marta looked around the room — the people, the wolves, the faint hum of old technology alive again. “That’s the sound of civilization,” she said.

They camped behind City Hall that night, the air sharp and quiet except for distant laughter from the square. Marta had her small tent with a cot; the wolves shared one big canvas beside the trucks. Holt and Rime argued softly about blanket space until Gabriel muttered something about “furry toddlers” and pulled his own over his head.

At some point, one of them broke wind loud enough to shake the fabric.

“Not me,” Holt said instantly.

“Was you,” Rime replied.

“Wind.”

“Inside tent?”

Thane groaned. “Every. Single. Trip.”

From her tent, Marta’s voice floated across the cold. “If that tent collapses, you’re rebuilding it before sunrise!”

“Understood,” Thane called.

The laughter carried long into the night.

---

Morning broke clean and cold. Frost rimed the windows of City Hall. Dawes and his son were already inside when Thane came in to test the lines. The boy was on the phone again, talking to someone in Libby about the weather.

“All three lines check out,” Thane said. “You’re officially online.”

Dawes turned, smiling. “How can we ever repay you?”

Thane shook his head. “Just keep the lines open. Talk often. Don’t let the silence come back.”

Marta joined him, scarf wrapped tight around her neck. “That’s what this is all about — not the wires, the people on the other end.”

Gabriel grinned from the doorway. “And maybe a little about showing off our engineering skills.”

“Mostly that,” Thane said dryly.

They loaded the trucks, said their goodbyes, and rolled out of town as the sun cleared the trees. Behind them, the windows of City Hall caught the light, glowing gold.

Half a mile out, Thane looked in the side mirror and saw a man in the doorway of city hall, phone pressed to his ear, waving as he talked.

“Who’s he calling?” Gabriel asked.

Thane smiled faintly. “Doesn’t matter. Somebody who’s listening.”

The convoy turned east toward Libby, the valley behind them humming with new life.

For the first time since the world fell apart, four towns could reach each other by name.

And for the wolves heading home, that was more than enough.

The hum of wires filled the air inside Eureka City Hall, soft and steady like the world itself was exhaling for the first time in years. The place had once been a library before the Fall—sturdy brick walls, old oak beams, windows large enough to let in the morning sun. Dust motes floated in the light as Thane crouched near a gray steel cabinet marked Avaya Merlin 820, running his claw carefully along the faded logo like an archaeologist brushing off history.

“She’s still solid,” he murmured. “Some of these ran for thirty years before they even needed a reboot.”

Mark grinned from across the room where he was unpacking a tangle of handsets and modular cords. “Back when phones had real bones in them.”

Marta leaned against the doorframe, sipping from a mug of coffee as she watched the two wolves move with practiced precision. “You’re certain this can talk to Libby and Spokane?”

Thane nodded without looking up. “As long as the copper remembers its tune, yes. Each line gets its own connection—no party line nonsense. Line one goes to Libby, two to Spokane, three to Kalispell.”

Rime knelt beside him, eyes intent on the colored pairs of wire. “All these… talk to others?”

“Each one carries a voice,” Thane said. “You just have to wake them up the right way.”

Holt handed over a spool of blue-white cable as carefully as if it were sacred thread. “Line one?”

“Libby,” Thane confirmed, threading it into the first terminal block. “Then Spokane. Then Kalispell.”

Gabriel crouched near the solar inverter, connecting the leads. “You sure this system can run off your little panel rig?”

“It doesn’t need much,” Thane said. “That’s why I love it. Back in the day, these were bulletproof.” He paused, checked the final connections, and flipped the breaker.

The old Merlin gave a slow series of clicks and relays. Then—one by one—every desk phone in the building chirped to life. Small red lights glowed above each line key.

“Tone,” Thane whispered, lifting the receiver. He smiled wide enough that his fangs caught the light. “She lives.”

Marta exhaled, the relief audible in her voice. “That’s the sound of civilization.”

Outside, townsfolk were already gathering. The word had spread like lightning: Eureka was about to join the new phone network linking Libby and Spokane. The square filled with people bundled in coats, children perched on window sills, and laughter echoing down the street.

Mark checked the voltage readout on the inverter. “We’re good,” he said. “Solid power. No brownouts.”

Thane nodded, motioning for Franklin—the local mayor—to step forward. The old man’s face was lined but bright, the eyes of someone who’d kept hope alive by sheer stubbornness.

“Each town has its own line,” Thane explained. He pointed to the phone on the desk. “Line one is Libby, two is Spokane, three is Kalispell. Pick one and press it—like pushing a doorbell across the world.”

Franklin’s hand hovered above the button. “You’re sure?”

Thane chuckled. “Trust me. I used to do this before the world fell apart.”

Marta smiled softly. “He means it.”

Franklin pressed Line 1 and lifted the handset. The rhythmic ring filled the air—clear, alive, echoing through the open windows into the crowd outside. Everyone fell silent as if the sound itself was sacred.

Inside Libby’s City Hall, the clerk on duty nearly dropped her pencil before patching the line through to Spokane. The mechanical relays inside both switches clicked and clattered like applause.

“Libby here,” came the distant voice. “Spokane standing by.”

Thane handed the phone to Franklin and nodded. “Go ahead. Say hello.”

Franklin leaned toward the open window, his voice shaking with emotion. “This is Eureka calling Libby and Spokane. Do you hear us?”

The reply came crisp and clear, almost too loud. “Loud and clear, Eureka! This is Spokane. Welcome to the network!”

The square erupted—laughter, clapping, even tears. People hugged in the street, and a dozen children shouted, “We can talk again!” while bells rang from the church tower down the block.

Marta’s eyes glistened as she took the phone. “This is Mayor Marta Korrin of Libby. Congratulations, Eureka—you’re officially connected.”

“Thank you,” Franklin said, voice breaking. “You’ve given us back more than words.”

“Then keep them alive,” Marta said softly.

The windows carried the voices outward, spilling the sound of reunion into the waiting crowd. The cheers that followed rolled through the town like thunder.

The network had spoken—and the world answered.

---

By afternoon, City Hall’s front steps had turned into a stage. The workbenches and tools were cleared away, replaced with long tables piled high with food. Someone unearthed a crate of Christmas lights and strung them across the windows, powering them from Thane’s inverter. Children darted between the wolves’ legs, giggling.

Gabriel sat on the steps with his guitar, tuning lazily while Holt watched, fascinated. “You make it sing,” Holt said.

Rime sniffed suspiciously at the glowing string of lights. “Smell like lightning.”

“That’s electricity,” Gabriel said.

“Still lightning.”

“If lightning made the world this pretty, I’d let it hit me twice.”

Marta, seated near the door, laughed into her mug. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The phones inside City Hall still hummed gently. Every few minutes, someone would press a button and grin as the familiar tone came through. It wasn’t just a system—it was life made audible again.

As dusk settled, the crowd gathered outside for what had become an impromptu celebration. Gabriel stood on the steps and began to play, voice carrying across the square.

We found the lines that never died,
Woke the hum that slept inside.
From hand to claw, from town to flame,
The world remembered its name.

The crowd clapped along; some cried. Even the wolves joined in, howling in perfect harmony with the final chord.

Thane watched from the doorway, arms folded, face lit by the glow from the open windows. Marta came to stand beside him, her expression soft. “They adore you,” she said.

He shook his head. “They adore the hope. I just gave it a dial tone.”

“That’s the same thing,” she said quietly.

He looked back at the glowing lamps and smiling faces. “Maybe so. But this—this is theirs now.”

---

Night deepened, cold and clear. The square burned with small fires, laughter echoing long into the dark. The wolves set up camp beside the trucks on the edge of the square. Marta’s smaller tent stood a few yards away, a lantern glowing softly inside.

Inside the larger canvas tent, chaos reigned. Holt had claimed the middle spot, leaving Rime to curl up near the flap. Gabriel was still trying to unroll his blanket when Holt shifted, flattening it.

“Hey! I need that,” Gabriel said.

“Warm floor,” Holt replied calmly.

“It’s my blanket, not a rug.”

“Rug now.”

Rime sighed. “Every trip.”

Thane ducked inside, shaking his head. “Everyone still alive?”

“For now,” Gabriel said.

“Good enough.” Thane laid back. The canvas sagged slightly from the combined weight and heat.

After a few moments of peace, an unmistakable sound filled the tent.

Every head turned.

Holt blinked. “Not me.”

“Was you,” Rime said flatly.

“Wind.”

“Inside tent?”

Gabriel snorted so hard he nearly choked laughing. Thane groaned, rubbing his face. “Every damn trip.”

From her tent, Marta’s voice rang out. “If you blow that tent apart, you’re all fixing it before breakfast!”

“Understood,” Thane called.

“Mayor scarier than Alpha,” Holt whispered.

“Truth,” Rime said solemnly.

“Go to sleep,” Thane said.

They did—eventually.

---

Morning came bright and gold. The air smelled of woodsmoke and fresh bread.

Franklin met them on the steps as the convoy packed up. His eyes were bright with pride. “We called Libby and Spokane at dawn. Both lines are perfect. Even tried Kalispell. Got a clean ring.”

Thane’s ears perked slightly. “That’s good news.”

“You’ve done more than connect towns,” Franklin said. “You’ve rebuilt faith.”

Marta smiled. “Then keep it alive. Keep calling. Keep listening.”

The handshake they shared was long and firm, both of them knowing it meant more than words could say.

As the trucks rumbled to life, the townsfolk gathered again, waving from porches and rooftops. Children shouted goodbyes, chasing after the departing convoy until their voices faded behind the rise.

Gabriel leaned out the passenger window, waving his guitar pick like a flag. “Next stop—Whitefish!”

Mark chuckled from the driver’s seat. “Think they’re ready for this kind of noise?”

Thane smiled, eyes on the shining road ahead. “They’d better be. The world finally remembered how to speak.”

The convoy climbed the ridge, engines humming steady as the valley opened below them. The copper lines caught the morning sun and glimmered gold all the way back to Eureka, carrying the faintest pulse of electricity and laughter between towns.

Somewhere inside City Hall, a phone began to ring—a sound that once meant nothing and now meant everything. Franklin lifted it, smiling as a familiar voice came through.

“Libby here.”

“Eureka, loud and clear,” he said.

And through the open window, the whole town heard it again—the sound of life echoing back through the wires, bright and unbroken.

Eureka’s echo rolled out over the valley, a song of copper and courage, proof that the silence had finally ended. The world didn’t whisper anymore.

It answered.

The morning fog clung to the pines like a blanket, heavy and still. The convoy crept north out of Eureka with exhaust puffing small ghosts into the air. The road was clear but soft from meltwater, the sky bruised with early spring color.

Inside the lead truck, Thane drove while Gabriel fiddled with a coiled handset he’d scavenged from one of Eureka’s storage rooms.

“You know,” Gabriel said, holding it up, “these things have personality. Like little voices trapped in plastic.”

“They do,” Thane agreed. “They just needed someone to listen again.”

Gabriel grinned. “And here I thought I was the sentimental one.”

“Give it time,” Thane said. “You’ll see poetry in copper, too.”

From the back seat, Marta chuckled. “He’s not wrong. You two have been talking about wires like they’re living things for three days.”

“They are living,” Thane said without missing a beat. “They hum.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel added. “If you put your ear close enough, you can hear them purr.”

Marta rolled her eyes. “I’m traveling with poets disguised as electricians.”

“Wolves who fix the world,” Gabriel said with a wink. “We’re trendsetters.”

---

They reached Kalispell by midday. The town was smaller than Marta remembered — quieter, too. But there was life: smoke from chimneys, laughter near the square, and the rhythmic chop of someone splitting wood. A few wary faces turned as the convoy rolled in, curiosity outweighing fear when they saw the Libby banner on the truck.

An older woman stepped forward, bundled in a long wool coat. “Travelers?”

“Friends,” Marta called out. “From Libby.”

That name carried weight now. The tension eased immediately. People stepped closer, smiling hesitantly. A few whispered, “The wolves,” with a mix of awe and disbelief.

The woman introduced herself as Nadine Carver, Kalispell’s de facto mayor. Her handshake was firm, her eyes bright. “I’ve heard stories about you,” she said to Thane. “Didn’t believe most of them.”

Thane grinned. “Most of them are true.”

She laughed. “Then maybe we can add one more. What brings you here?”

“Connection,” Marta said simply. “We’ve re-established landline communication between Libby and Spokane. We’re offering the same to your town.”

For a moment, Nadine just stared — then smiled, slow and genuine. “Phones again,” she whispered. “My mother used to run the switchboard in this town. She’d cry if she could hear one ring.”

“Then let’s make that happen,” Thane said.

---

The Kalispell town hall had been converted from a church — tall windows, a bell tower half-collapsed, sunlight streaking through dust. Thane walked through the echoing space with reverence, setting down his toolbox near an old steel cabinet that still bore a yellowing sticker: Property of Mountain West Bell.

He opened it, half-expecting dust and rust — and instead found a tidy bundle of preserved wiring, coiled and taped with care. Whoever had run the system here had known what they were doing.

He turned to Mark, who was already setting up the battery inverter. “Hook the negative to the junction plate,” Thane said. “We’ll test continuity first.”

Holt crouched nearby, fascinated by the neat rows of terminals. “All tiny bones,” he said. “Each one talk?”

“Each one could,” Thane said. “You just have to wake them right.”

Gabriel plucked an imaginary chord. “Like strings on a guitar.”

Thane smiled. “Exactly.”

---

Within an hour, they had the first tone ringing through a single phone. The sound echoed through the old hall, startling a flock of doves from the rafters. The crowd that had gathered outside broke into spontaneous applause.

Marta lifted the handset, grinning. “Libby, this is Kalispell,” she said softly, just for herself. “And we’re alive.”

Nadine’s eyes glimmered. “What do we owe you for this?”

“Nothing,” Marta said. “But if you ever have word from another town… tell us. We’ll come running.”

Nadine nodded. “You’ll have it.”

---

As the sun dipped low, the crew lingered to test the remaining lines. Thane moved from cabinet to cabinet, tracing cables, listening to faint tones and measuring voltage. Each successful test felt like finding a heartbeat.

Then his tester beeped — a faint, irregular chirp on an unused pair of wires near the back panel.

Thane frowned and leaned in, twisting the probe. The sound steadied — a whisper of current, soft but undeniable. The line should have been dead, but the signal was there. Weak. Old. Still alive.

“Mark,” he called quietly. “Come here.”

Mark crouched beside him. “You’ve got a live one?”

“Yeah. Barely. But it’s carrying something.”

They checked the label beside the terminal block — faded print, still legible beneath a smear of grime:
TROY – TRUNK 2.

Mark blinked. “Troy? That’s south of here.”

“About sixty miles,” Thane said softly. “Never thought there’d be anything left there.”

Marta approached. “What is it?”

Thane handed her the tone probe. “That’s power. Weak, but consistent. Somebody’s still got juice down there.”

Gabriel leaned over his shoulder, eyes wide. “You mean there’s another town still wired up?”

Thane nodded slowly. “Or someone trying to be.”

The group went silent, the faint hum filling the gap. It was more than just sound — it was proof. Proof that beyond the hills, beyond what they could see, someone else had survived and was still fighting to connect.

Thane smiled faintly. “The line’s old, but copper doesn’t forget. If that signal’s there, there’s still hope.”

Marta’s voice was soft. “Then we’ll find them.”

---

That night, the convoy camped outside Kalispell’s northern edge. The stars burned cold above, and the air smelled like pine and woodsmoke. The wolves’ tent was already in comedic disarray — again.

Gabriel zipped the flap open to chaos. “Why does it look like a wrestling match in here?”

“Because it was,” Holt said, deadpan, sitting triumphantly on Rime’s tail.

“Not fair,” Rime muttered. “He heavy.”

“I champion,” Holt replied proudly.

Mark groaned. “Every time we travel, it’s like camping with toddlers.”

Thane chuckled from outside, stirring a pot over the fire. “Toddlers with claws.”

Marta’s voice came from her neatly arranged tent nearby. “If anyone breaks anything — tent, paw, or bone — you’re explaining it to me at breakfast.”

“Understood,” Thane called.

Rime muttered from inside. “Mayor scarier than Alpha.”

“True,” Holt said solemnly. “She no need teeth.”

Gabriel nearly choked laughing.

---

Later, as the others settled and the campfire burned low, Thane sat with Marta and Mark by the embers. The copper line coil sat in his lap, his claws brushing the insulation absentmindedly.

Marta sipped her coffee. “Still thinking about that signal?”

Thane nodded. “I can’t stop. That line shouldn’t be live. Not unless someone down there’s still got a working switch or a generator.”

Mark looked thoughtful. “Could be an old hydro site. Troy’s near the river.”

Thane’s ears tipped forward. “If they have power, they might have people.”

“Or a system like yours,” Gabriel added softly. “Someone else who remembered how.”

“Maybe,” Thane said, eyes distant. “I’d like to find out.”

Marta smiled. “Then we will. But one thing at a time. Tomorrow we head for Whitefish. The world doesn’t rebuild in a day.”

Thane nodded. “No,” he said quietly. “But it starts with a hum.”

---

Sometime after midnight, a soft rustle came from the wolves’ tent, followed by a groggy voice.

“Holt, your paw on my face.”

“Is pillow now.”

“Not pillow. Move.”

“Pillow soft.”

“Pillow bite.”

A pause. Then muffled laughter.
The tent shook as one of them thumped another with a blanket.

Gabriel sighed into his arm from the campfire, whispering to no one in particular. “How the hell did the world end and this still happens?”

Thane smiled faintly, his gaze drifting up to the stars. “Because this,” he murmured, “is the world trying again.”

---

The next morning dawned bright and clear. The convoy loaded up once more, sunlight glinting off the coils of copper wire piled in the truck bed. Before they left, Thane made one last stop at the Kalispell junction.

He clipped his tester to the Troy pair again — the faint tone still sang through. Weak. Persistent. Alive.

He whispered to it under his breath. “We hear you.”

Then he packed up his tools and climbed into the truck.

Marta leaned from the passenger seat. “Anything?”

Thane smiled. “Someone out there’s still talking. We just have to listen.”

As they rolled out, the rising sun caught the wires stretched between poles, making them flash gold for a moment — like threads of light connecting one heart to another across the valley.

And the hum of the line carried on, whispering the same word between towns and wolves alike.

Hope.

The phone on Marta’s desk had rung three times that morning.
That was still a novelty in itself.

Every ring felt like proof that the world was coming back to life — an invisible bridge humming between Libby and Spokane. The mayor’s voice on the other end always came through warm, proud, and still a little stunned.

“I swear, Thane, every time I pick this thing up it feels like talking to a ghost that learned manners,” he said that morning, chuckling through the line.

Thane grinned, leaning over Marta’s desk as she poured coffee for both of them. “You’re not wrong. Half the time, I still catch myself staring at it like it’s going to bite.”

“If it does,” the mayor laughed, “make sure you patent it.”

Marta smiled faintly, jotting notes about their latest trade schedule. “Alright, gentlemen. Spokane will send diesel and spare medical supplies by next week. Libby will ship flour and solar cells the week after.”

“Agreed,” the mayor said. “And please tell your people we’ve decided to paint a red line around the phone. Nobody’s allowed to touch it but me and the engineers. It’s like a holy relic.”

Thane chuckled. “After what it took to make it work, that’s fair.”

“Until next time,” the mayor said, his voice softening with genuine warmth. “Libby, thank you again. You gave us our voice back.”

The line clicked off with that satisfying analog thunk that no one had heard in twenty years. Marta leaned back, eyes gleaming. “It really is a miracle, isn’t it?”

Thane shrugged, though pride glimmered beneath the surface. “Just copper, current, and patience.”

“Don’t downplay it,” she said. “You’ve brought towns together faster than any government ever did.”

Thane smiled faintly. “Then let’s keep going.”

---

That afternoon’s town-hall meeting drew more people than any in recent memory. Word of the functioning hotline had spread fast, and Libby’s citizens — humans and wolves alike — filled the benches shoulder to shoulder.

Marta stood at the front, gesturing toward the map pinned behind her. “We’ve re-established communication with Spokane,” she said, her voice steady but excited. “And we’ve proven the system works. So… what’s next?”

A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd.

Marta pointed toward the east side of the map. “Eureka. They were hit hard during the raids last year. We know survivors held the town, but they’ve been isolated. If we can link them up, we’ll have a three-city network.”

Gabriel raised a hand. “You’re talking about the same Eureka that sent us those letters by courier last winter?”

“Exactly,” Marta said. “They were trying to re-open trade routes, but without comms, it’s all guesswork. If we can connect them, they’ll finally have a lifeline.”

Thane nodded thoughtfully. “They’re on the same trunk line that runs through Libby. I could patch them easily once we’re there.”

Marta turned to him. “Then we’ll go — if you’re willing.”

Thane smirked. “When have I ever said no to a good field trip?”

The room laughed, and even Sable — who was visiting for council talks — gave a faint approving nod from the back. Marta outlined the plan: a multi-day road trip to visit friendly towns, reconnect them, and offer lines to the network. Thane would handle the technical work; Mark, Gabriel, and several ferals would assist; Marta would manage the diplomacy.

“Travel will be slow,” she said. “But if we succeed, every friendly town will be able to call for help — or for hope.”

The cheer that followed nearly shook the rafters.

---

The next morning dawned bright and cold.
The square buzzed with organized chaos — supplies being loaded, tools packed, and one stubborn coffee machine being debated over.

“Marta’s not leaving without her espresso setup,” Gabriel muttered, strapping it down beside the crates of wire spools.

Marta rolled her eyes. “It’s instant coffee, Gabriel. I’m not a diva.”

Thane smirked. “We know. That’s why you get your own tent.”

She blinked. “My own tent?”

Thane’s tone was matter-of-fact. “You’re our mayor. You get comfort. We’ll rough it.”

“Thane, that’s not necessary—”

“Respect thing,” Holt interrupted with a grin. “Mayor get bed. Wolves get dirt.”

Rime nodded solemnly. “Fair.”

Marta sighed in mock defeat. “Fine. But only if you all promise not to argue about who sleeps where.”

Thane snorted. “No promises.”

---

By noon, the convoy rolled out — two trucks and a supply trailer.
Their route would take them southwest first, toward Eureka, then on to Kalispell and Whitefish, two small towns that had weathered the worst of the Black Winter but still traded sporadically.

The road was half-frozen and bumpy, but laughter filled the cab. Gabriel rode shotgun with Thane, sketching notes for a future song titled “The Wolves Who Wired the World.”

“Catchy,” Thane said.

“Needs a verse about you swearing at a cable splice,” Gabriel replied.

“Already too realistic.”

Behind them, the second truck carried Mark, Marta, and four ferals — Holt, Rime, and two of Sable’s younger wolves, Tern and Lio. It didn’t take long before the younger ones started arguing about tent space, leading to the inevitable.

“I get corner spot!” Tern barked.

“Corner drafty,” Lio countered. “You take it.”

“Corner mine.”

“Not now it isn’t.”

Mark sighed from the driver’s seat. “I swear, you lot are worse than my kids were.”

Holt grinned. “We big kids.”

Marta just rubbed her temples. “I’m starting to understand why Thane gets that look sometimes.”

---

They reached Eureka by dusk.
The town sat quiet and wary — a handful of old brick buildings surrounded by pine. The smell of smoke and cooking fire hung on the air. When the trucks rolled in, heads turned; people stepped from doorways with curiosity and caution.

Thane climbed down first, his massive frame outlined by the last light of the sun. Marta followed, calm and steady, her presence grounding the moment. “We’re here in peace,” she called. “From Libby.”

An older man approached — lean, grizzled, wearing a patchwork coat and the cautious posture of someone who’d spent years keeping people alive. “Name’s Franklin,” he said. “I run what’s left of the council here.”

Marta extended a hand. “Marta Korrin, Mayor of Libby. This is Thane.”

Franklin’s eyes flicked up to Thane’s towering, fur-covered figure. “The… wolf I’ve heard about.”

Thane offered a polite nod. “Depends on the story.”

Franklin chuckled nervously. “Most of them end well. You’re the one who got phones talking again?”

“That’s me.”

“Well,” Franklin said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We could sure use one.”

---

Eureka’s town hall had once been a post office — brick walls, high windows, and a faded mural of mountains and mailmen. Thane unpacked his tools while the townsfolk gathered around in fascination.

“Just a few simple hookups,” he said, setting down a small inverter and battery bank. “This will power your phones even through the night.”

A young woman leaned close. “Phones? Like… dial phones?”

Thane grinned. “Exactly. Hear that hum?”
He twisted two copper pairs together, and a faint tone filled the handset. “That’s the sound of connection.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Marta smiled softly, watching the wonder spread.

Within an hour, Thane had the first line patched from the Eureka central cabinet to the trunk line that ran north toward Libby. “You’ll have a direct connection to City Hall,” he said, tightening a terminal screw. “Pick this one up, and Marta can hear you clear as day.”

Franklin looked almost overwhelmed. “You mean… just pick it up, and Libby answers?”

“Exactly.”

Thane hesitated, then added quietly, “And I wired a second line — dormant for now. If Spokane ever wants to connect you directly, they can. Just one patch in their office.”

Franklin stared at him for a long moment, then clapped his shoulder. “You wolves… you’re giving us the world back.”

Thane smiled. “Just the quiet parts first.”

---

That night, they camped outside town by the river.
Marta’s tent looked almost luxurious — a small cot, an electric lantern, and even a travel kettle powered by one of the battery packs.

The wolves’ tent beside it looked… less so.
It sagged slightly in the middle, smelled vaguely of pine and wet fur, and already contained more elbows, tails, and arguments than any structure should.

Holt shoved Rime’s leg. “You move paw.”

“Paw already move.”

“Move more.”

“Then no tent left.”

“Then I win.”

Mark poked his head through the flap. “You two done?”

“Almost,” Rime said flatly, as Holt pretended to snore loudly.

Gabriel laughed from his sleeping bag. “This is better than radio.”

Marta’s muffled voice came from her tent. “If you all tear that down in the middle of the night, you’re rebuilding it before breakfast!”

“Understood,” Thane called.

An hour later, as the fire burned low, one long, unmistakable sound echoed from the wolves’ tent.

Holt muttered, “Not me.”

“Was you,” Rime said immediately.

“Was wind.”

“Inside tent?”

“Wind sneaky.”

Gabriel groaned, laughing into his blanket. “There it is. First wolf fart of the mission.”

Thane just rolled over with a sigh. “I swear, if this tent smells any worse, I’m making all of you sleep in the dirt.”

---

Morning brought laughter instead of argument.
The townsfolk of Eureka stopped by to deliver fresh bread and coffee in thanks. Franklin shook Marta’s hand firmly. “The line works. We called Libby at dawn. I don’t think we’ll ever stop hearing that tone.”

Marta smiled. “Don’t. It’s the sound of life.”

Thane packed up the tools and stretched. “One town down,” he said. “Two more to go.”

Gabriel strummed a lazy chord on his guitar, already composing lyrics under his breath. “Wires hum like rivers, and wolves sing the spark… Yeah. That’s a keeper.”

Mark grinned. “Just don’t make it rhyme with ‘fart.’”

“Too late,” Gabriel said, still smiling.

As they loaded the trucks, the townspeople waved — some cautiously, most warmly — and children shouted goodbye from rooftops.

Marta turned to Thane as the engines started. “You realize this might become history, don’t you?”

Thane smiled, glancing back at the rising town. “Then let’s make sure it’s a good story.”

And with that, the convoy rolled on — toward Kalispell, Whitefish, and the growing hum of a world learning how to speak again.

Morning sunlight spilled across the rooftops of Libby, the air sharp with frost but full of purpose. The whole town was humming again — hammering, laughter, and the low purr of generators. For once, it wasn’t just survival. It was progress.

Inside City Hall, Marta was already poring over maps when Thane stepped through the door with a small toolbox under his arm and a spark in his eye.

“Morning,” she said, looking up. “You’re up early. Don’t tell me you’re already working on the phone project.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Thane said, though the grin on his muzzle gave him away. “Just wanted to check something in your utility closet.”

“That’s what you said before you rewired half the grid.”

“Yeah,” Thane replied. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Marta sighed but smiled, motioning toward the hallway. “Go. But if something explodes, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair,” Thane said, and disappeared down the hall.

---

The utility closet still smelled like dust and old carpet glue. Rows of metal cabinets lined the wall, each filled with neatly labeled cables and blinking indicator lights. One rack in particular caught Thane’s attention — a gray metal chassis with AT&T embossed on the side and a small brass label that read: DEFINITY 25.

He crouched, running a claw along the edge of the cabinet. “Well I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “You’re still here.”

It was like finding an old friend.

The Definity 25 was a hardy little system — a private branch exchange used by office complexes and city halls all over the country. It was built for uptime, not convenience. It didn’t need much power, and it could survive just about anything short of a meteor strike.

He cracked the cover open and whistled softly. The cards were all in place, the wiring blocks still intact. “You old beast,” he said fondly. “You just needed a nap.”

With careful precision, he ran a pair of leads from one of Libby’s solar-fed power banks through the wall conduit and into the backplane. The system clicked softly — once, twice — then a low hum filled the air as LEDs blinked in perfect, steady rhythm.

In the offices beyond, every desk phone suddenly sprang to life — 35 of them, across City Hall, the police department, and the fire station. Lights blinked, handsets came alive with dial tones that hadn’t been heard since the fall.

Marta’s voice echoed from her office. “What did you do?!”

Thane grinned. “Just woke up your phone system.”

He could hear her laugh, half disbelieving, half amazed. “Every light in this place just came on!”

Thane closed the panel, his tail flicking. “Told you — still here, waiting for someone to care.”

---

From City Hall, he made his way down Main Street to the old central office — the brick building with a faded Northwest Telecommunications plaque over the door. Inside, the air was cool and dry, carrying the faint metallic scent of copper.

He walked through the aisles of ancient switching racks until he found the distribution frame — the towering grid of wires where every line in town once converged. Each row was labeled in faded ink: “Hospital,” “Sheriff,” “City Hall,” “Library.”

He found the block marked C.Hall – P.D. – F.D. and traced the twelve-pair cable leading out of it. “Twelve lines,” he said aloud. “Twelve possible links.”

Thane crouched beside the row, his claws delicately parting the bundles of color-coded wire until he found what he needed: the white-blue pair — line one. He smiled to himself, a low, satisfied rumble. “Line one’s about to get a long-distance upgrade.”

He pulled out his punch tool and tapped the wire neatly into place on the outgoing trunk labeled TRUNK–SPOKANE. The old insulation crackled faintly as it seated, like it approved of being useful again.

Standing, he brushed the dust off his hands and grinned. “Line One… Spokane.”

---

By midmorning, the plan was in motion. Mark and Rime waited by the truck as Thane loaded up a small bag of tools — splicers, wire strippers, a tone generator, and a multimeter so old it still had a Bell logo.

Mark leaned against the fender, arms folded. “So, we’re really gonna make a landline call in 2040?”

Thane chuckled. “Let’s just say I’m done relying on luck and short-range radios.”

Rime tilted his head. “Phones carry words in wire?”

Thane nodded. “They always did. It’s like a song made of electricity.”

Rime considered this. “Then you… wire singer.”

Thane laughed. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

---

The drive to Spokane felt lighter this time. The roads were clear, the sky a soft pale blue that promised spring. Word of Libby’s growing legend had spread fast; people waved from porches and crossroads as the truck passed.

When they pulled into Spokane, the response was immediate. The crowd that gathered near the gate wasn’t fearful this time — they were cheering. Someone actually had a banner that read WELCOME BACK WOLVES! in hand-painted letters.

Mayor Mason met them in the square, flanked by his son Eli and the city engineer, a wiry man named Dennis with thick glasses and a grin to match his curiosity. “Thane!” the mayor called. “I was hoping you’d come back soon. Word got around fast about your plans.”

“Couldn’t wait,” Thane said, shaking his hand. “You still have your phone system in City Hall?”

Mason laughed. “We’ve been using the phones as paperweights since the Fall. Dennis knows where everything is.”

Dennis adjusted his glasses. “Nortel Meridian. Twenty-four lines. Old-school solid.”

Thane’s grin widened. “Perfect. Let’s make some history.”

---

Inside Spokane City Hall, the lights were dim, but the air felt alive with potential. The Meridian system sat tucked in a corner of the records room, cables draped neatly to the ceiling conduit. Thane crouched down and popped the cover open, inspecting the cards.

“Not bad,” he said approvingly. “These things were built to run forever. They’d outlive us if we let them.”

Rime hovered nearby, tail twitching. “All this metal… talk?”

Thane chuckled. “Yeah. All of this used to connect voices across miles.”

“Like radio,” Rime said.

“Sort of,” Thane said. “But quieter. More private.”

Mark squatted beside him, handing over a bundle of power cables. “I’ve got juice coming in from the solar inverter outside.”

Thane nodded. “Good. Let’s wake her up.”

He clipped the leads, flipped a switch, and the system gave a low hum — steady, smooth. LEDs came alive one by one, green and solid.

Dennis’ eyes widened. “She’s live! I never thought I’d see this again.”

“Let’s see what she remembers,” Thane said, pressing the line test button.

Every phone in the building beeped in chorus. Light after light blinked alive. Dennis laughed in disbelief. “She’s routing internally!”

“Good girl,” Thane murmured, patting the side panel. “Now let’s give her something to talk to.”

---

They crossed the street to Spokane’s own central office — an older but sturdier building. Inside, it looked like Libby’s twin, right down to the rows of aging switch racks and the faint smell of ozone.

Thane found the trunk labeled LIBBY – TRUNK 4 and tested it with the tone generator. A faint, steady hum answered back. His grin widened. “Beautiful. Signal’s clean.”

He pulled the white-blue pair from the conduit and patched it neatly into Line 1 on the City Hall trunk.

Dennis leaned close, eyes wide. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Thane said. “Simple is good.”

Mark smirked. “So theoretically, someone could pick up a phone right now and—”

Thane held up a claw. “Not yet. Let’s make it official.”

---

They returned to the mayor’s office, where Mayor Mason and Eli were waiting by a polished desk with a single beige office phone sitting like a relic from another time.

Thane gestured toward it. “Alright, Mayor. Pick up the receiver and hit Line One.”

Mason hesitated, smiling nervously. “Feels strange, doesn’t it? Like waking up a ghost.”

Thane grinned. “A friendly one.”

The mayor pressed the Line 1 button.

The phone clicked, then emitted a soft, pure tone — followed by ringing.

Not static, not noise — ringing.

Everyone froze.

Over a hundred miles away in Libby City Hall, Marta was working through ledgers when a sound stopped her cold. A phone was ringing. On her desk. Line One.

Her eyes went wide. She lifted the handset slowly. “Hello?”

From hundreds of miles away came the ecstatic shout:

“THIS IS SPOKANE!”

Laughter exploded in both towns at once. Cheers went up outside the mayor’s office; in Libby, people poured into the hallways as the news spread. “It’s them! We’re talking to Spokane!”

Marta pressed a hand to her chest, still laughing. “You magnificent wolf, you did it!”

Thane took the handset from the mayor, smiling as his deep voice carried across the line. “We told you the lines still worked.”

Marta’s laughter softened into something that almost sounded like tears. “You just changed everything, Thane. You just gave the world its voice back.”

---

The celebration in Spokane was instant. People cheered in the streets; others ran to old offices, dusting off long-dead phones just to see if they’d ring too. The sound of laughter and hope mingled in a strange, beautiful harmony that hadn’t existed since before the Fall.

Outside, Thane and his pack prepared to head home. The crowd followed them to the gate, clapping, shouting, waving.

As Thane tightened the straps on the truck bed, he noticed a cluster of children approaching. They were hesitant at first — until one small girl darted forward and hugged Rime’s leg.

Rime froze, eyes wide, his muscles tensing.

Another child hugged him. Then another.

Rime’s lips twitched upward instinctively, teeth glinting in surprise — halfway to a snarl before Thane stepped forward and laid a paw on his shoulder.

“They love you,” Thane said softly. “You are a hero to them. No harm, Rime. Just hearts.”

Rime’s breathing slowed. He looked down at the cluster of small arms wrapped around him, then let out a slow, rumbling sigh. One clawed hand rose awkwardly — and gently patted a child’s shoulder.

The crowd melted with warmth.

As they climbed into the truck, a cheer rose behind them — hundreds of voices shouting, “THANK YOU, LIBBY!” and “THANK YOU, WOLVES!”

About an hour away from Spokane, Gabriel’s voice crackled over the radio from home. “I can hear the cheering from the cabin,” he said, laughing. “You really did it.”

Thane smiled, watching the city recede in the mirror. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We did.”

Mark glanced over. “How’s it feel?”

Thane looked out across the snow-covered highway stretching between the mountains — the invisible line that now carried voices, laughter, and hope.

“It feels,” he said, “like the world just got smaller… and a lot more alive.”

---

As they disappeared into the woods on the drive back to Libby, Rime looked toward the horizon where the radio towers gleamed faintly in the setting sun.

He spoke softly, almost to himself. “World talk again.”

Thane smiled. “Yeah, Rime. The world talks again.”

And this time, everyone could hear it.

The town hall felt different these days. The air didn’t hum with tension anymore — it hummed with life. The seats were full, the stove was warm, and laughter had started to replace the sound of caution. For the first time since anyone could remember, they were planning something for the future, not just for survival.

Marta stood at the front, gesturing to a map spread across the wall. “—so the west stockpiles are full, the grain stores are ahead of schedule, and the hydro wheel is back to ninety percent efficiency thanks to Sable’s team.”

Polite applause broke out. A few ferals lounging near the door flicked their ears at the sound, unsure if they were supposed to join in.

Marta smiled. “Now, there’s one other thing we need to talk about. Communication between towns.”

That word — communication — quieted the room a bit. It was a constant sore spot. Too many times they’d gone blind waiting for word from trade partners or scouts.

Marta looked toward Thane. “Right now, we’re still limited to handhelds and the shortwave relays Mark maintains. The repeaters barely reach halfway to Kalispell. There’s no way they’ll touch Spokane.”

A few murmurs circled the table. Hank scratched his chin. “Two-way’s good for a day’s drive, tops. After that, we’re yelling into mountains.”

Gabriel raised a hand. “Could try carrier pigeons. You know, with Holt handling the training. What could go wrong?”

Holt, sitting two seats down, looked deeply offended. “Birds stupid. Drop letters.”

“See?” Gabriel said. “Already pessimistic.”

The room chuckled. Even Marta smiled. “I think we’ll pass on the birds.”

That’s when Thane leaned back, tail giving one lazy sweep across the floor. “You know,” he said, “I might have an idea.”

Marta tilted her head. “Oh?”

Thane folded his arms, voice casual but steady. “Before the fall… I worked for the phone company.”

The room blinked at him. Even Holt looked confused. “Phone… what?”

“The old landline system,” Thane said, half-smiling. “Wires. Switchboards. Central offices. The whole thing.”

Silence.

Marta blinked twice. “You’re serious?”

Thane nodded. “Indiana Bell. I ran a central office for years before everything went sideways.”

Gabriel choked on a laugh. “Hold on. You mean to tell me you—big, scary Alpha of the forest—used to work in a cubicle with a tie?”

Thane shot him a look. “It was a collared shirt, not a tie.”

That broke the room open. Even Rime’s quiet laugh rumbled low and brief.

When it settled, Thane continued, tone a little more serious. “The point is… those lines are still there. The cables in the ground. The junctions, the trunk lines—they’re all buried deep and shielded. The copper doesn’t rot, and the switches are mechanical. They don’t need an internet; they need power. That’s it.”

Hank frowned. “Even after all these years?”

“Absolutely,” Thane said. “They were built to last through nuclear winters and lightning strikes. We could power a small section—say, here to Spokane—with a few solar panels and batteries on each end.”

Mark leaned forward, interest lighting his eyes. “You could really do that?”

Thane nodded once. “If we can find the old phone office here and the one there, yeah. I could wire up enough lines for emergencies and trade coordination. Wouldn’t be fancy, but it’d work.”

The room went quiet again—but this time it was the kind of quiet that meant everyone was thinking the same thing.

Then Holt said softly, “Alpha make phones talk?”

Thane grinned. “That’s the idea.”

Gabriel burst out laughing. “Of course you can! You’ve been fixing everything else since day one—why not resurrect Ma Bell while you’re at it?”

Marta’s laughter came next, shaking her head in disbelief. “You never cease to amaze me, Thane.”

Thane shrugged. “What? I may be wolf, but I did have a regular job back when the world wasn’t dead.”

That brought another ripple of laughter, but underneath it was excitement—the kind they hadn’t felt since the first lights came back on in Libby.

Marta finally said, “Alright. Let’s plan it. We’ll take a trip to Spokane and discuss it with their mayor. If you can pull this off, Thane… it could change everything.”

---

Three days later, the truck rolled into Spokane again.

This time the gates opened the moment they saw the wolves. Word had traveled fast after the envoy’s visit, and now the guards waved eagerly, smiling as if greeting old friends.

Mayor Mason himself waited in the square, coat flapping in the wind, Eli standing proudly beside him with a carved wooden wolf in hand.

“Thane!” the mayor called, grinning wide. “Back so soon?”

“Couldn’t stay away,” Thane said with a grin. “We’ve got an idea.”

“I was hoping you would,” Mason said. “Eli’s been asking every day when the wolves would visit again.”

Eli stepped forward shyly. “Hi, Mister Thane.”

Thane crouched. “Hi, Eli. You keeping your dad out of trouble?”

Eli giggled. “Trying.”

That earned laughter from everyone, breaking the last of the old fear. Marta stepped forward, shaking hands with the mayor. “We’ve come about communications. Thane thinks he can link our towns through the old landline system.”

The mayor’s brow lifted. “Landlines? You mean telephones?”

Thane nodded. “Exactly. I used to run a central office back before everything fell apart. I know what to look for.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” the mayor said, gesturing for them to follow. “Ours is still standing. We’ve been using it as storage for years.”

---

The Spokane central office sat on the corner of what had once been 2nd and Pine. The brick façade was weathered but intact, its glass doors scuffed but unbroken. A faded sign above the entry read Northwest Telecommunications Exchange.

Thane’s breath caught for a moment as he stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of dust and insulation — home to a man who hadn’t been inside one of these in decades.

He ran a claw along a rusted rack of circuit cards. “Looks like an old 5ESS system,” he murmured. “Solid gear. You could drop a tank on this thing and it’d still ring through.”

Marta looked around, awed by the rows of silent equipment. “This used to connect every phone in the city?”

“Every one,” Thane said, voice softer now. “All that noise and conversation, moving through here in a heartbeat.”

He found the stairwell and descended, claws clicking lightly on metal. The others followed, flashlights cutting through the dark. The basement opened into a concrete vault — a tangle of cables as thick as tree trunks feeding through the wall in neat, ordered bundles.

“Here it is,” Thane said quietly. “The cable vault.”

Even Holt fell silent. The sight was almost holy in its complexity.

Thane knelt by one of the massive conduits, brushing dust away from an embossed label: LIBBY – TRUNK LINE 4.

Marta gasped. “You’re kidding.”

Thane smiled faintly. “Told you it’s all still here.”

Mayor Mason stared, half laughing in disbelief. “And you think you can bring this back?”

“Not all of it,” Thane said. “Just enough. A few lines. I can build a small solar-fed mini-switch, splice into this trunk, and do the same in Libby. Once it’s powered, it’ll carry voice like it used to. Quiet, secure, invisible.”

Marta was already nodding. “That would give us a private line no raider could jam or intercept.”

The mayor grinned wide. “You’ve just made my week. What do you need?”

Thane looked thoughtful. “Copper wire, a few rotary phones, relays, and batteries. I can build the rest from scrap.”

Mayor Mason slapped him on the back. “You’ll have whatever you need. You’ve already given us peace — now you’re giving us a voice.”

Eli tugged Thane’s hand. “Can I help?”

Thane chuckled. “You just did, kid. You found the line.”

---

Upstairs, as they left, a crowd had gathered — word spreading again like wildfire that the wolves had returned.

Children ran ahead of their parents, giggling and waving. Several called out, “The wolves are back!” and “It’s the big one!” Holt, who had been quietly inspecting a phone booth outside, looked up in alarm.

“They talk about me?” he asked, tail wagging in confusion.

“Yep,” Gabriel said. “You’re famous, big guy.”

Holt looked genuinely pleased. “Good famous?”

“The best kind,” Thane said, smiling.

When they reached the trucks, a half-dozen children darted up, all trying to touch fur or claws. One small boy—a bundle of energy in a too-big coat—jumped right in front of Holt and looked up with fearless eyes. “Can I ride on your shoulders?”

Holt blinked. “Ride?”

Thane laughed. “Go ahead.”

Holt hesitated, then gently lifted the boy up, settling him on his broad shoulders. The child squealed in delight, clutching Holt’s ears like reins.

“Careful,” Holt warned. “No steer fast.”

The kids following behind shrieked with laughter, and Holt started walking proudly through the crowd while the boy waved like a king on parade.

Marta whispered to Thane, smiling. “You do realize you’ve started a new legend in Spokane, right?”

Thane grinned. “Good. Let them remember the day the wolves brought the phones back to life.”

Gabriel snorted. “That’ll be the first song with a dial tone solo.”

---

By the time they reached the trucks, the crowd was still waving. The mayor shook Thane’s hand again. “You’ve got our full support. I’ll have a team gather parts from every old exchange we can find. You’ll have what you need.”

“Then we’ll be back soon,” Thane said. “When the line rings… answer it.”

The mayor laughed. “You’ve got a deal.”

As the engines rumbled to life and the convoy turned toward home, Holt lifted the small boy off his shoulders and set him down gently. The child hugged his leg and ran back toward his parents, waving until they were out of sight.

Gabriel leaned out the passenger window, grinning. “You’re really gonna make the phones ring again, huh?”

Thane smiled at the snowy road ahead. “One line at a time.”

Marta looked over from the map she was folding. “You realize what this means? When it works, we’ll have the first long-distance connection since the fall.”

Thane nodded. “A voice between cities. A line between worlds.”

Holt rumbled softly from the back seat. “Good name.”

Thane glanced back. “For what?”

A song, “The line between us.”

Thane smiled. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “The lines between.”

It began with the sound of engines.

Not one or two, like a normal supply run, but a rumble that rolled down the west road in a steady, growing chorus. From the radio tower, Gabriel leaned out the window and squinted toward the treeline.

“Uh… boss?” he said into the handheld. “We’ve either got visitors or someone’s trying to invade politely.”

Thane, sitting near the square with Holt and Rime, lifted his head. “How many?”

“Six vehicles,” Gabriel answered. “Big ones. Looks like a convoy.”

Thane’s ears tipped forward. “That’s… too many for trade.”

“Maybe heard stew was good,” Holt offered.

“Or come for Holt singing,” Rime added dryly.

“Ha!” Holt barked. “They come for wolves, stay for voice.”

Thane smirked. “You sound confident.”

“I sound true.”

Thane’s comm crackled again. “Hank’s on the wall,” Gabriel said. “He’s flagging you.”

---

By the time Thane reached the west gate, the sound was unmistakable: engines idling, crunching snow, the metallic hiss of exhaust in the cold. Hank stood atop the barricade, binoculars in hand, scarf snapping in the breeze. He looked down at Thane and muttered, “You’re not gonna believe this.”

“Try me.”

Hank pointed. “Spokane.”

Thane’s brow furrowed. “Already?”

“They sure didn’t pack light,” Hank said. “Six trucks, maybe thirty-five people. I count at least three with clipboards, and—uh—one waving.”

Thane squinted. “That’s the mayor.”

“Yep. And his kid’s with him.”

Thane couldn’t help the grin that tugged his muzzle. “Open the gate.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Thane said. “If they came to fight, they wouldn’t have brought children.”

Hank chuckled. “Fair point.” He signaled the guards. The heavy wooden gates creaked open, hinges groaning. Snow dusted down from the tops as the convoy rolled to a careful stop.

---

The lead truck door opened, and out stepped Mayor Hal Mason — bundled in a long brown coat, face red from the cold, grin wide as the valley. Beside him, the small figure of his son Eli hopped down, his hat slipping sideways.

Thane didn’t wait for introductions; he waved them forward. “Mayor Mason. Eli.”

The mayor broke into a huge smile. “Thane, I’ll be damned! I told you we’d visit!”

Eli grinned up at him. “You remember me!”

“I’d have to be struck deaf and blind to forget you,” Thane said warmly. “You’re the bravest human I’ve met.”

Eli puffed his chest. “I told everyone about you! Half the city didn’t believe me, so they came too!”

That earned laughter from the crowd of bundled figures behind the mayor — Spokane townsfolk, traders, engineers, and curious citizens all trying to look casual about standing in front of real wolves.

Marta appeared at Thane’s shoulder, coat dusted with snow, clipboard in hand. “Now this is a surprise.”

Mayor Mason stepped forward, shaking her hand with both of his. “We hope it’s a good one. We brought fuel, food, and goodwill… though mostly curiosity, I’ll admit.”

Marta raised an eyebrow. “And thirty-five volunteers?”

He laughed. “Everyone wanted to meet the wolves. I couldn’t exactly stop them.”

Thane chuckled. “Then let’s meet the wolves.”

He tilted his head back and let out a howl — long, clear, carrying over the rooftops and through the frozen forest.

The sound echoed, hung a moment, and answered.

A ripple of movement stirred in the trees — white against gray, motion against stillness. Fifteen ferals, led by Sable herself, emerged from the snow-shadowed pines. Their fur caught the sunlight like silver thread. The Spokane visitors froze as the wolves descended the slope, moving not like beasts but like a formation — steady, composed, eyes bright with recognition.

Sable reached the gate first, her gaze flicking between Thane and the humans. “Call bring us quick,” she said. “All well?”

“All well,” Thane said. “We have guests.”

She looked the convoy over. “Many.”

“Volunteers,” Marta said dryly.

The mayor found his voice. “My word… they’re magnificent.”

Sable tilted her head. “He speak strange.”

Thane smirked. “All humans do.”

---

Inside the walls, the convoy parked along the main road. People spilled from the trucks, chattering and laughing nervously, trying not to stare. Libby’s residents came out of their homes, cautious at first, then smiling as greetings began to ripple back and forth. Someone shouted, “Spokane!” and applause broke out, awkward but sincere.

Mayor Mason extended his hands in apology. “I swear we didn’t mean to overrun you. It’s just… after word got around, I had more volunteers than sense. Everyone wanted to see for themselves.”

Thane’s grin widened. “You’re welcome here. And if they came to see wolves—” he gestured to the square “—let’s make it worth the trip.”

Within minutes, the town transformed. Tables were dragged into the square, tarps stretched into awnings, and the big kettle from the town hall basement found its way to the fire pit. Holt hauled barrels of water while Rime helped the merchants unload their trade goods, moving with the quiet precision that fascinated the onlookers. Children peeked from behind their parents, giggling when a wolf glanced their way.

Gabriel appeared with a guitar slung over his back, grinning. “Guess it’s a party now.”

Thane raised an eyebrow. “You volunteering for entertainment duty?”

“Already tuning,” Gabriel said. “Holt, you’re up.”

Holt looked scandalized. “Up where?”

“Second guitar.”

“Oh.” He brightened immediately. “Music. Yes. Play good.”

Rime muttered, “Maybe.”

---

By midday, the square was alive. Smoke curled from cookfires; laughter spilled between buildings. The scent of roasting vegetables mingled with cured meat and coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Sable and her ferals mingled easily among humans, the older ones trading goods, the younger ones letting curious Spokane kids pet their fur with careful, delighted hands.

Marta coordinated trades with the mayor’s aides — diesel for flour, textiles for metal parts, spare radio components for medical stock. She did it all with her calm precision, balancing warmth and shrewdness. “We’re all rebuilding,” she said at one point. “Might as well do it together.”

Mayor Mason smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Holt and Gabriel took the stage — which was, technically, two stacked crates by the well. Gabriel strummed a lazy rhythm, voice low and smooth. “Alright, Spokane,” he said, “this one’s about peace, fur, and questionable decisions.”

Holt grinned and jumped in, voice rough but steady. “We come from trees and mountain stones, / Found new pack, made it home…”

The crowd clapped along, hesitant at first, then louder. Someone produced a harmonica. Someone else started dancing, boots skidding on the icy stones. Even Sable cracked a faint, rare smile.

Rime leaned on a post beside Thane and muttered, “They loud.”

“Good loud,” Thane said.

“Still loud,” Rime replied, but his tail flicked once, betraying amusement.

---

Near the fire, Eli had gathered a small group of Spokane kids and two feral adolescents. They sat cross-legged in the snow, comparing claw sizes and laughing over whose footprints were bigger.

One little girl gasped as a young gray wolf traced a pawprint next to her mitten. “It’s bigger than my whole hand!”

“Strong paws,” the wolf said shyly.

“Fast paws,” Eli added.

“Clumsy paws,” the gray admitted, earning laughter all around.

Hank wandered past with a mug in hand and shook his head, smiling. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Marta walked by beside him. “Which part? Wolves teaching, or humans trusting them?”

“Both.”

---

As the afternoon stretched on, trading gave way to stories. Spokane merchants spoke of rebuilding old markets and radio stations. Libby’s residents told tales of how the wolves helped defend the town during the Black Winter raids. Someone roasted chestnuts. Someone else discovered that Holt had never eaten popcorn and promptly fixed that.

“Pops in mouth!” Holt exclaimed, eyes wide as the kernel cracked. “Magic food!”

Gabriel laughed so hard he nearly dropped his guitar. “That’s it. I’m writing a song called ‘Magic Food.’”

Rime muttered, “Do not.”

“Too late,” Gabriel said. “It’s happening.”

The mayor’s wife approached Thane near the fire, smiling shyly. “You’ve given our city hope,” she said. “They’ve been telling stories since the day you left. Real ones this time. Not fear, not rumor. Just… wonder.”

Thane inclined his head. “Then we’re even. Spokane gave us fuel and faith that humans can still laugh.”

“Seems fair trade,” she said warmly.

---

By sunset, the sky burned gold over the frozen treetops. The square was still full — humans and wolves side by side, laughter carrying into the cold air. Someone began humming The Road to Spokane, and soon Gabriel picked it up, the melody wrapping around the square like a memory made real.

When the last verse faded, Mayor Mason clapped his hands. “Alright, friends, before the roads get dark, we’d better roll back. Spokane’s going to think we got kidnapped by kindness.”

Marta laughed. “You’d have eaten too well for ransom.”

Holt grinned, wiping soup from his chin. “Come back soon. Bring more popcorn.”

Eli threw his arms around Thane’s leg. “You’ll visit again?”

Thane crouched, voice gentle. “Count on it. You tell your dad we still owe him coffee.”

Eli giggled. “I’ll remind him!”

The mayor extended a hand. Thane took it — clawed, massive, steady. “Until next time,” Mason said.

“Until next time,” Thane echoed.

The convoy loaded up slowly, waving goodbyes. Libby’s people lined the road, lanterns flickering, breath steaming in the orange twilight. As the engines rumbled to life, Holt raised his muzzle and howled — not warning or challenge, but farewell. The sound carried long and low, and to everyone’s surprise, several Spokane voices joined in laughter and imitation.

Thane watched them disappear down the road until the sound of tires faded. Then he looked around the square — empty plates, melting snow prints, and the faint red glow of coals. The quiet afterward was warm, not hollow.

Marta came to stand beside him. “That went better than I dared hope.”

Thane nodded. “This is how it starts. People showing up, not to fight… but to see.”

Holt padded over, holding a half-empty bag of popcorn. “I keep this.”

“You earned it,” Thane said.

Rime looked toward the forest edge where Sable’s ferals were vanishing back into the trees. “Good day.”

Thane watched the last taillight vanish into dusk. “A very good day,” he agreed. “A better world.”

The night fell soft, full of echoes — laughter, music, and the memory of a hundred humans waving at a pack of wolves like neighbors who’d known them forever.

The storm had come out of nowhere.

A warm front from the valley slammed into a wall of mountain cold, and by dusk Libby looked dipped in glass. Branches bowed under clear ice, eaves glittered like sugar, and every gust turned the town into a windchime. By midnight the radio sputtered, the east line sagged, and one of the new relay poles folded like a paper straw. When morning laid a pale blue over the hills, the damage was honest and everywhere.

Gabriel stood at the station window with a dented mug in both hands, squinting through the rime. “That explains why the forecast cut off at ‘chance of—’ and then sounded like a drowning kazoo.”

Thane tugged on his jacket, claws careful with the zipper. “Mark’s got the truck warming. We fix what we can before the next freeze glues it all in place.”

Holt’s tail thumped the wall with a hollow thud. “Fix lines! Good day for work.”

Rime tilted his head, eyes tracking a skating sheet of ice sliding off the roof. “Lines thin. Break easy.”

“Exactly why you are not allowed to yank on anything,” Gabriel said, pointing at him. “Especially anything that hums, buzzes, or looks important.”

Rime blinked. “Not yank. Pull careful.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Gabriel muttered. “You nearly turned the antenna into a javelin.”

The truck groaned up the forest road with chains clinking, tires chewing packed snow. Mark drove, jaw tucked into his collar; Thane rode shotgun. Holt, Rime, and Gabriel braced in the bed with rope slings, breath streaming like smoke. The trees glittered with ice, every twig crusted, trunks wearing clear sleeves of winter. When they rounded the cut above the east ridge, the problem waved hello: a relay pole listing hard at forty-five degrees, feed drooping into the drift like dead tinsel. One guy wire lay snapped and curled in the snow.

Mark climbed down, kicked at the frozen anchor, and hissed. “Plate bolts sheared. We’ll have to reset the footing and tie new guys.”

“I hold pole,” Holt announced proudly.

“No,” Thane and Gabriel said in the same breath.

“Why not? Strong.”

“Because we want it upright,” Gabriel said, “not in the next county.”

Holt frowned, insulted and earnest at once. “I gentle now.”

Rime crouched by the base, tapping the anchor with a claw. “Ground frozen. Need dig.”

“Right,” Thane said. “Holt, with me—start a hole. Rime, help Mark on the bolts. Gabriel, you’re on the box. And if it sparks, do not lick it.”

Gabriel shouldered the ladder, deadpan. “There goes my whole plan.”

Fifteen minutes later, the frozen ground had become a crater. Holt dug like an avalanche with opinions. Snow and dirt clods flew in heroic arcs. Mark dove aside as a chunk the size of a watermelon sailed past his head.

“Hey!” Mark yelped. “Hole. Not quarry.”

Holt leaned on his shovel, satisfied. “Hole big enough for two poles. In case first gets lonely.”

“Great,” Gabriel said from halfway up the ladder. “We can marry them in the spring.”

Thane pinched the bridge of his nose. “Next time, smaller hole.”

Rime, still quiet at the anchor, grunted. “Told him. He dig like bear.”

“I am bear-size,” Holt replied, offended and pleased in equal measure.

They worked the chaos into order. Mark wrestled fresh plates into the trench. Thane slid a shoulder under the leaning pole and lifted with that controlled, unmoving strength the town had learned to trust. Holt stepped in to steady, and the ground trembled every time he reset his feet. Rime threaded new guy wire through his claws like rope through a pulley, movements neat and deliberate. Gabriel popped the frozen face off the relay box with a screwdriver and started swearing like a sailor in love with his ship.

“Coupling line,” he called, not looking.

Thane tossed the coil up without shifting the weight of the pole. Gabriel snatched it one-handed, tail flicking. “Nice throw, quarterback.”

Ice cracked in a long, clear run up the pines. The pole came true. Guys sang faintly with tension. Gabriel snugged the coupling and breathed on his fingers. “Okay, give me a test.” He twisted the dial. A crackle answered down the line, a shy little pop, then silence that felt too final.

“Tell me that wasn’t our splice,” he said.

Rime lifted his muzzle. The faintest thread of smoke tugged skyward from the next ridge. He pointed. “There.”

“Oh, come on,” Mark groaned.

They slogged upslope through knee-deep powder, breaking the crust with a squeak every step. The second relay looked punched. Ice had overloaded the span; a snapped strand had kissed the mast and cooked the ground lead to charcoal. The access hinge had seized under a rind of clear ice.

Gabriel wedged his screwdriver under the seam and levered. “Frozen solid.”

“Let me,” Rime said. He set his claws precisely, pressed in, and the metal gave with a crisp crack that sounded like a knuckle popping the size of a door.

Gabriel stared. “You could do that the whole time?”

“Was waiting,” Rime said. “Looked fun for you.”

Holt barked a laugh so big it scared three crows off a branch. “Rime funny now.”

“This is how the world ends,” Gabriel said. “Rime develops a sense of humor.”

Mark peered at the burnt wire and grimaced. “Ground lead’s toast. We’ll cut it back to clean and crimp a new eye.”

“I fix,” Holt announced, and reached for the blackened cable.

“Holt, wait—” Thane started.

The cable kissed his paw with leftover bite. Holt yelped. Every hair on his forearm stood out, making him look like a shocked dandelion.

For two beats no one moved. Then Gabriel bent double, howling laughter into his sleeve. “You—” he wheezed, trying to breathe, “—you just tased yourself to prove you’re helpful.”

Holt blinked at his paw, smoke wisping. “Felt tingly.”

“Congratulations,” Mark said, equal parts relieved and amused. “You’re grounded. Literally grounded.”

Rime shook his head with solemn pity. “Alpha’s headache.”

Thane exhaled, the kind of breath that keeps a chuckle out by force. “You’re chopping firewood for a week.”

“Worth it,” Holt said, extremely proud. “Now cable dead. Safe.”

“By the power of Holt,” Gabriel whispered, wiping tears. “Patron saint of short circuits.”

They replaced the lead and reseated the clamps, careful of hidden ice. Sun edged through ragged cloud and turned the ridge to glitter. Back at the box, Gabriel tuned the relay, tongue peeking at the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“Beacon’s back,” he said. “We should be good—” He paused, listening. “Okay, we are good. One more check at the river bend and I’ll play a victory song so sweet you’ll think you’re on hold with a nice dentist.”

“That is not incentive,” Mark said.

They dropped to the old logging road that snaked toward the river. The bank there kept its own climate: colder, slicker, the air with a knife’s edge. The last relay clung to a post near the water’s curve, half-lacquered in hoarfrost. The access box had frozen shut; the hinges looked encased, like a bug in amber.

“Frozen solid,” Gabriel said, frowning.

Rime stepped up again. He set both hands, felt for the stress line, and snapped the hinge with a little twist. The door swung open as if the cold had been a rumor.

Gabriel stared at him a second time. “You’re just—okay. We’re going to have a chat about your secret toolbox later.”

“Paws,” Rime said simply, and set about separating spaghetti into neat, obedient lines.

Thane checked the span while Mark hammered an anchor wedge back into snug, working carefully around ice that wanted to shatter into treacherous confetti. Holt, chastened by electricity and stern looks, carried tools like sacred objects and set them down with exaggerated delicacy.

“Careful,” Mark said as Holt’s elbow brushed the mast. The pole shivered a fraction. Holt froze in a statue of innocence, eyes wide, hand hovering.

“Pole lean first,” he said.

“You lean first,” Rime murmured.

“Do not.”

“Do.”

“Children,” Gabriel said under his breath, smiling.

By late afternoon the last connection seated with a satisfying click. Sunlight reached through thinning cloud, caught ice, and scattered it like powdered glass. They tested the line; it sang. They listened for pops and got none. The forest made its winter quiet again.

On the trudge back to the truck, Holt looped a leftover coil of wire around his neck like a scarf. “Good look?”

“Very runway,” Gabriel said. “Winter, by Clumsy Feral.”

“Better than city coat,” Holt said. “Too tight.”

Marta’s voice crackled over the handheld clipped to Thane’s belt. “How’s my favorite chaos team?”

“All fixed,” Thane said. “Power clean. Relays good. Holt discovered electricity.”

A pause. “Do I want details?”

“No,” Gabriel called. “File under ‘things that worked out.’”

Dusk had just pushed the sky from pewter to deep blue when they rolled back into town. The square glowed with lanterns. Kids chased each other around the bakery steps; the air smelled like stew and bread and woodsmoke. From the station, a clean signal spilled into the street.

Gabriel sprinted inside, hands flying over the board, and stuck his head back out. “Signal’s rock solid. We are officially a radio station again.”

Mark patted the rack like a loyal dog. “That’s my girl.”

Outside, Holt and Rime stacked tools in a neat pyramid, trading a low, pleased rumble—the wolf equivalent of applause. Thane brushed frost off his sleeves and listened. The little outdoor speaker by the door carried the sound of a familiar voice from a night that felt a lifetime away:

“To anyone listening… we are still here.”

The words hung in the cold a second. Holt’s tail thumped. “Still here,” he echoed, grinning. “Still loud.”

“The best kind of still,” Gabriel said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Good sound,” Rime added, aiming his face at the sky like he could taste it.

“The best kind,” Thane agreed.

People drifted to the bonfire as night settled. Mark brought a pot that smelled like pepper and beef; Marta arrived with bread; someone scrounged an old speaker and coaxed quiet rock through it from the newly repaired line. Laughter rose and fell. The signal held.

Holt sprawled near the flames, steam rising from his fur. “I like fixing lines,” he said around a mouthful of bread. “Fun.”

“You got shocked, fell in a hole, and almost knocked a pole over,” Gabriel said, ladling stew into bowls.

“Still fun.”

Rime cupped tea with both hands. The mug looked comically small in his claws. “Holt like anything with breaking.”

“True,” Thane said. “But he is learning to break the right things.”

That got a circle of chuckles, the tired, satisfied kind that come after good work. For a while they ate in companionable quiet, listening to the song drift over the square. Stars pricked through the haze. Snow whispered down from overloaded limbs in slow releases, soft and steady as breath.

When the pot scraped empty and the fire sank to coals, Holt stretched and nodded toward the ridge. The relay’s tiny red marker blinked through the branches like a patient heart.

“Look,” he said, voice softer. “Still shining.”

Thane followed his gaze. “Yeah,” he said. “Still shining.”

Gabriel raised his dented mug in a mock toast. “To Holt, the world’s first electrically-charged wolf.”

Rime added, with the faintest hint of pride, “To Alpha. Pole not fall this time.”

Mark lifted his cup. “To Libby—miracles and wire and dumb luck.”

Holt’s grin spread like sunrise. “And strong claws.”

Warm laughter rolled out and up, mingling with the steady hum in the wires above them. The repaired line stamped its faint rhythm on the night, a pulse connecting cabin to cabin, den to den, all the small stubborn lives stitched under the winter sky. It sounded like survival. It sounded like home.

Later, when the crowd thinned and the speaker ran to static, Thane stood a moment alone by the station door. The cold nipped clean at his nose; the square shone with hoof and boot and pad prints frozen into a temporary map of a day that had gone right. Behind him, Gabriel hummed under his breath, tidying dials. Down the street, Holt and Rime lumbered toward the cabin with a coil of spare cable between them, arguing in low voices about which one of them had the better “gentle.”

“Not yank,” Rime insisted.

“Gentle,” Holt replied solemnly, and then tripped over his own spare cable and caught himself with both hands like a gymnast sticking a landing. He glanced around. No one saw—except Thane, who chose not to smile until Holt had disappeared into the dark.

The Alpha turned his face to the ridge one more time, watched the little red blink wink and return, steady as a heartbeat. He let a breath out and felt the world give one back. Still here. Still loud. And for tonight, blessedly ordinary.

Winter settled over Libby like a soft, forgiving blanket. The sky stayed low and pale, and every roof wore its own crown of snow. Smoke rose from chimneys in neat gray ribbons. The radio in the square hummed quietly with music; the wolves kept watch from the tree line while the townsfolk went about their days. After months of fire, it finally smelled like home again — pine, ash, bread, and cold.

But peace never stayed perfect for long. One morning, Marta stood in the square with a ledger in hand, frowning at the numbers.
“Fuel’s dropping faster than we planned,” she said. “If the winter stays this long, we’ll run dry before spring.”

Thane leaned against the truck, arms folded, steam curling from his breath. “How far short?”

“Three, maybe four weeks of full power,” Marta said. “We can ration, but I’d rather not. We need another source.”

Rime rumbled from where he sat, massive paws folded. “We trade.”

“That’s the idea,” Marta said, tapping her pencil against the page. “Closest big city still standing is Spokane. Bigger population, more storage. Worth a try.”

Holt grinned, teeth flashing. “Road trip.”

Marta looked between them and sighed with the faint amusement of someone used to chaos. “Alright then. You, Rime, Thane, and I. We take the truck, bring some furs, cured hides, spare tools — trade goods. Gabriel, you and Mark are on radio and tech watch until we’re back.”

Gabriel gave a mock salute from behind the console. “I’ll keep the airways warm.”

The next morning, the truck roared to life in the cold — diesel coughing white clouds into the gray sky. Marta took the passenger seat with her ledger; Thane drove, claws gentle on the wheel. Holt and Rime rode in the open flatbed, tails flicking in the wind, massive and content.

The road wound north, snow thick on the shoulders. The mountains fell away to low valleys where the world looked half-asleep. Holt leaned over the cab roof to shout above the engine, “Civilization better have coffee!”

Marta laughed. “You’ll settle for gasoline.”

Rime said nothing. He watched the trees pass, expression unreadable. But when they crossed the long stretch of frozen highway that once carried freight trucks, he muttered, “Too quiet. World forget how breathe without noise.”

Thane nodded. “Let it rest. It’s earned it.”

---

By midday, Spokane appeared — a cluster of high-rises scarred by fire but still standing, ringed by barricades and guard towers. The smell of human life reached them first: wood smoke, diesel, old metal. It was a city still alive, stitched together by stubbornness.

At the first checkpoint, armed guards stepped out, hands half-raised — ready but wary. Their eyes darted between Marta and the wolves.

“Easy,” Marta said, window rolled halfway down. “We’re traders out of Libby. We’ve got goods and we’re looking for fuel.”

One guard, a woman with a parka two sizes too big, stared openly at Thane.

“Werewolves,” Marta said simply. “Don’t worry. They’re polite.”

That earned her a bewildered look. “You’re serious.”

Thane met the woman’s eyes and inclined his head. “We don’t bite traders.”

The second guard snorted, nervous and half-amused. “Well, that’s new.”

After a long pause and a radio check, the gate lifted. “You cause no trouble, we got no problem,” the first guard said. “Mayor’ll want to see this.”

“Understood,” Marta said, and the truck rolled through.

---

Inside the walls, Spokane was a humming patchwork of humanity. Rows of stalls lined the streets, steam curling from cookpots. People wore layers of patched clothing and carried themselves with the casual alertness of survivors who’d seen too much. But when the truck came down Main Street — a woman and three wolves riding in — the crowd stopped moving.

Hundreds of eyes followed.
A child gasped.
Someone dropped a tool.
And then the whispers started.

“Are those—?”
“They’re real.”
“God, look at the size of them.”

Thane parked in an open market square. Marta climbed out first, waving in greeting to a cluster of merchants who stared like she’d stepped off a different planet. “We’re here to trade,” she said cheerfully. “Furs, hides, tools, some dried meat.”

The merchants blinked. Then, slowly, commerce overcame fear. One man approached with a cautious smile. “You’re from Libby? Heard of it. You got diesel?”

“Looking for it,” Marta said. “You got any to spare?”

The man nodded toward a rust-streaked drum. “A few barrels left. Price depends on what you’ve got.”

Thane and Rime unloaded furs while Holt kept a lazy eye on the growing crowd. The trades went smooth — furs for fuel, knives for salt, canned fruit for wire spools. Marta’s sharp bartering matched the city merchants move for move until everyone seemed satisfied.

But as the deals wrapped up, curiosity spread like wildfire. People gathered at a distance, forming a wide ring around the square. The air filled with whispers. Children climbed onto benches for a better look.

“Never seen one up close,” someone murmured.
“They smell like pine and smoke.”
“Look at their eyes…”

Holt shifted, muttering under his breath, “Next one who pokes loses finger.”

Rime’s ear flicked. “You talk too much.”

“And you never talk,” Holt shot back, grinning.

Thane ignored them, helping Marta secure the last trade strap. “We square?”

“All square,” she said, closing the ledger. “And stocked enough to keep us warm through spring.”

---

They were preparing to leave when it happened. A small voice piped up from the edge of the crowd.
“Can I touch your claws?”

The crowd hushed. A boy — maybe six years old, bundled in a coat too big — had slipped past the line of adults and stood staring up at Thane with wide, fearless eyes.

Thane blinked, then crouched slowly. “You can,” he said gently. “They’re sharp, though.”

The boy giggled. “I’ll be careful.”

He reached out, tiny fingers brushing over Thane’s curved claws. His smile widened in awe. Then, emboldened, he reached up and patted Thane on the head like he was a very large, very patient dog.

The crowd collectively gasped.
Holt and Rime froze, then burst into twin, rumbling laughter.

“Oh no,” Holt said between laughs. “He petted Alpha.”

Rime’s tail flicked once. “Brave pup.”

Thane couldn’t help it — he laughed too, a low, rolling sound that warmed the air. “You’ve got courage,” he said to the boy. “Hold onto that.”

A shout cut through the square. “Eli!”

A man came sprinting from the crowd — older, coat thrown half on, panic written all over him. He skidded to a stop, eyes wild. “Get away from—” He froze when he saw the scene: his son laughing, three wolves grinning, and no one bleeding.

The man blinked. “He—he’s okay?”

“He’s fine,” Thane said, standing tall again. “He’s got a good instinct for people.”

The man swallowed hard. “You—You’re one of them… from Libby?”

Marta stepped forward, smiling warmly. “We all are — just trying to make it through the winter. You’re the mayor, aren’t you?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Mayor Hal Mason. And that’s my boy, Eli.”

“Well, Mayor Mason,” Marta said, “you’re looking at Libby’s head wolf, Thane. We came to trade, not to scare anyone.”

The mayor managed a small, incredulous laugh. “You’ve… succeeded at both.”

Holt chuckled behind them. “Happens.”

Marta introduced them one by one, explaining who they were and what Libby had become — a cooperative town, human and wolf, rebuilding instead of fighting. As she spoke, the tension in the crowd eased. People stepped closer, murmuring, curious instead of fearful.

Mayor Mason’s expression softened. “We thought we were alone up here. Guess not.”

“None of us are,” Marta said. “We’re building again. You’re welcome to visit, trade, see for yourself.”

He nodded slowly. “You’ve got a deal. And… thank you for not eating my son.”

Holt snorted. “Wasn’t on menu.”

That earned the first laugh from the gathered crowd — nervous, then genuine. The tension broke like thin ice.

---

When the truck finally rumbled back toward the gate, nearly a thousand people had gathered along the street to watch. Some waved. A few clapped. It looked, Thane thought, like a festival pretending it wasn’t one.

Marta leaned out the window, waving. “Be sure to keep that promise, Mayor Mason. We’ll bring coffee next time!”

The mayor smiled wide. “You bring those big guys again, you won’t have to pay for it!”

Holt barked a laugh. “You hear that? Free coffee!”

Rime’s voice was quiet but smug. “Worth trip.”

As they rolled out through the gate, a gust of snow swirled around the truck, catching in the morning sun. Thane glanced in the side mirror — the city behind them glowing faint gold, hundreds of faces watching as if the world had grown a little larger.

Marta sat back, arms crossed, a faint smile on her lips. “That,” she said, “was diplomacy.”

Holt tilted his head toward Thane. “So… how feel being pet like dog, Alpha?”

Thane gave him a sidelong look. “If it gets us fuel and peace, I’ll take the pat.”

Rime’s low chuckle rumbled through the cab.

The road stretched ahead, snow glinting. Behind them, Spokane buzzed with the kind of story that spreads hope — a story about wolves and humans trading like old friends, and a fearless child who saw no monsters at all.

Thane’s claws tapped lightly on the wheel. “Maybe,” he said softly, “this is how it starts.”

Marta looked over. “How what starts?”

“Something better.”

The truck rolled on through the white silence, engine humming steady, the road home waiting beneath the endless winter sky.