By Wednesday afternoon the poster was everywhere.
Jana had outdone herself — a tall, bold painting in rich blues and golds: a stylized dragon curling around a glowing screen, silhouettes of humans and wolves sitting together in rows, all washed in warm, lantern-colored light even though nobody actually used lanterns anymore. At the bottom, in neat block letters:
SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE DOME
7:00 PM
FIRST SHOWING: SONG OF THE EMBER SEA
“ALL WELCOME — SEATS UNTIL WE RUN OUT!”
Kids stared at it wide-eyed. Adults paused in front of it a little longer than strictly necessary, their expressions softening in ways they didn’t always let people see. It spread the way good news did in spring — quietly, warmly, like fresh grass creeping through cracks in the pavement.
Thane noticed it every time he crossed the square. It wasn’t the art itself — though it was beautiful — but the sound that came with it. Laughter. Wonder. People making plans again. Entire conversations built around “What if we sit all the way in the back like we used to?” and “Do you think the seat cushions still squeak?” and “My kids have never seen a movie before the Fall — is it scary? How loud is it? Does the screen move?”
Thane always answered gently, reassuringly: “It will be loud, but not hurting-loud. The screen doesn’t move. And there are seats for everyone.”
(He didn’t mention the wolf row. They’d see that soon enough.)
By Friday evening the whole town felt charged in a way Thane hadn’t felt since the Fall — that subtle, humming anticipation of something shared, something joyful.
Mark found him outside KTNY as Gabriel finished a late afternoon broadcast.
“So,” Mark said, hands in his pockets. “We ready for tomorrow?”
Thane snorted lightly. “Ready as we’re going to be.”
Gabriel emerged from the station, slinging his headphones around his neck. “I swear, I’ve had at least twenty people call in just to ask what the movie is about.”
“You told them?”
“Of course not. Spoilers, Alpha.” Gabriel clapped Thane on the arm. “Let ’em discover the dragon song on their own.”
Saturday dawned bright and warm, the kind of spring day that felt like a promise. The smell of pine drifted on the breeze from the mountains, mixing with the clean scent of running water from the Kootenai River. The moment breakfast was finished at the cabin, Thane clapped his hands together once, sharply.
“All right,” he said. “Everyone up. Today’s training: theater operations.”
Rime straightened like he was being enlisted. Holt perked up instantly. Kade set down the towel he’d been using to dry the dishes and stepped forward with soldierly calm. Varro looked intrigued, ears angled with quiet attention. Even Mark and Gabriel tried not to laugh.
Inside the Dome, Thane led them through the lobby like a commander addressing new recruits.
“Okay,” he said, pointing at the concession stand. “Popcorn first. Kade, you’re on kernels and oil. Holt — you stir.”
Holt blinked. “Stir… what?”
Thane flicked the machine’s starter. The kettle snapped on with a cheerful metallic pop.
“This,” Thane said. “Do not put your face in it.”
Holt’s ears wilted at being pre-emptively corrected. “I was not going to,” he muttered.
“Yes you were,” Rime said, grinning.
The machine warmed quickly. Kade measured precisely as Thane instructed, pouring in the kernels with scientific accuracy. Holt took up the long metal stirrer and swiveled it gently — carefully, earnestly — like the device was a newborn animal.
“Oh God…” Thane murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose as Holt whispered, “Good kernels. Stay safe.”
Popcorn erupted in an enthusiastic burst a moment later, rattling inside the kettle. Everyone flinched except Holt, who gasped in awe as if witnessing fireworks.
“Alpha!” he shouted. “It multiplying!”
“That’s the idea,” Thane said patiently.
“I love this place,” Holt declared.
Meanwhile Varro had stepped over to the soda fountain, examining the valves and tubing like a battlefield diagram. “These levers regulate flow,” he said. “These buttons choose flavor.”
“Correct,” Thane said. “Just don’t press all the buttons at once.”
Varro paused, mildly offended. “I am not Holt.”
Across the lobby Holt yelled, “Hey!”
Tickets came next.
Gabriel pulled out an old roll they’d found in the back room — long, perforated, faded red. “All right,” he said, settling behind the booth like he’d been born for it. “You hand people these through the window. Then you smile.”
Rime frowned. “Show teeth?”
“NO,” Mark and Gabriel said in perfect chorus.
Rime nodded solemnly. “I smile… gently.”
“Perfect,” Gabriel said, patting him on the shoulder.
Thane moved them through the workflow briskly:
— Rime at the ticket booth
— Varro at the auditorium door, tearing tickets cleanly with claws held carefully back
— Holt and Kade managing concessions
— Mark helping wherever things broke or jammed
— Gabriel handling lobby music and welcoming announcements
— Thane running the projector upstairs
At one point Holt tried to hand a pretend soda to Kade and crushed the paper cup just by holding it. He stared at the flattened thing in horror.
“I murdered it.”
Kade sighed, took the next cup, and handed Holt a plastic one instead. “Use these.”
Later, Varro misjudged the gentleness needed to tear a ticket and accidentally ripped three at once clean down the middle.
“I killed it too,” he said, ears dipping.
“That’s why we practice,” Thane called from the lobby, suppressing a smile. “Try again.”
By noon the wolves were running full dress rehearsals, each one smoother and funnier than the last. They even developed a little system for the candy jars — Holt’s hands were too big to scoop the smaller pieces, so Kade did that part while Holt carried the containers with reverent precision.
By late afternoon, the energy in town felt electric.
People were already walking past the Dome just to peer inside:
A mother holding a toddler who pointed excitedly at the “OPEN TONIGHT” sign.
A teen couple whispering about which seats were the best for the sound.
Mrs. Carley bringing a basket of huckleberry muffins “for the staff.”
Hank stopping by to check on things, giving Thane a subtle nod of approval.
The marquee glowed with brand-new bulbs, every letter shining:
NOW PLAYING — SONG OF THE EMBER SEA — 7 PM
It looked like a piece of the old world pulled forward into the new one.
Half an hour before showtime, the crowd began to gather.
Thane stood in the lobby for a moment watching it happen — families walking hand in hand, neighbors greeting each other with laughter, older couples leaning into one another as if the memory of theaters was something sacred they were finally getting back.
He felt something warm tighten under his ribs. Pride, maybe. Or hope. They didn’t feel that different.
“All right,” he murmured. “Pack — positions.”
The wolves straightened instantly.
Rime slid into the ticket booth and opened the little window. “Next!” he called in a cheerful tone that startled everyone nearby.
Varro took his place by the auditorium doors. Gabriel started playing soft guitar through a speaker near concessions — warm, welcoming chords that made the room feel alive.
Holt and Kade stood behind the counter with matching aprons someone had found in the storage closet. Holt’s said POPCORN in giant letters. He was thrilled.
The first guests stepped up to Rime’s booth — a father and his two daughters.
He smiled at them, a tight but friendly curl of his muzzle.
“Welcome to movie night,” he said. “Three tickets?”
The girls giggled and nodded vigorously.
Rime handled the roll delicately, tore the tickets neatly, and slid them through the window with obvious pride.
“Enjoy story,” he said.
They scampered in.
Varro handled the next part, taking each ticket with careful precision, tearing the stub cleanly, and gesturing toward the seats. “Row six good sound,” he said. “Not too loud. Not too soft.”
People listened. They trusted him. They walked inside smiling.
Holt and Kade were… a sensation.
“Popcorn?” Holt boomed, then immediately shrank his voice to a whisper when a child jumped. “Sorry. Popcorn?”
Kade handled the scooping and measuring with calm efficiency, passing each bag to Holt, who held it like it was a priceless artifact.
“Please do not spill,” Holt said solemnly, handing them off. “Was born forty seconds ago.”
Children adored him.
By 6:55 the house was nearly full — humans and wolves mixed in the aisles, chatting, laughing, settling in. The designated wolf row at the back was already half-occupied; Holt sat on the floor instead because the seats “felt small and scared” under him. Rime took a seat beside him, tail neatly tucked.
The lights dimmed exactly at 7:00.
A soft hush flowed through the room.
Thane stood in the projection booth, finger resting on the start control. He looked out through the small window at the sea of faces — lit by soft house lights, hopeful, eager, alive.
He pressed the button.
The projector fired up with a low rising hum, the beam slicing through the dark, flooding the screen with brilliant color. The opening notes of the score swelled from the surround speakers — warm, orchestral, absolutely enveloping.
A dragon lifted its head on the screen, scales shimmering in gold and ember light.
The audience gasped.
Gabriel whispered from his aisle seat, “Oh hell yes.”
The movie swept them away.
Laughter rolled through the room at the silly parts. Gasps hit like waves during the first flight scene. Children whispered “whoa” loud enough for the whole audience to hear. Grown men wiped their eyes discreetly during the emotional bits.
At one point, Holt whispered to Rime, “If dragons real, I ride one.”
Rime whispered back, “You fall off.”
Holt flicked his ear with one claw.
As the film reached its finale — the dragon soaring against a sunset sky while the protagonist sang the last lines of the ember song — the room felt like it was breathing together.
When the end credits rolled, no one moved at first.
Then someone clapped.
Then everyone clapped.
Thane leaned against the booth window, letting it wash over him — the applause, the voices, the joy. After everything they’d been through — RKV-23, the Fall, raiders, winter — this felt like a small miracle.
A loud voice from the front row shouted, “WHEN’S THE NEXT ONE?!”
Mark laughed. “Next Saturday! Same time!”
People cheered.
As the crowd filtered out, chatting in excited bundles, Marta and Hank stood in the lobby watching everyone pass.
Marta’s eyes shimmered with the kind of pride that didn’t need words.
Hank’s arms were crossed, but he looked softened — like a man remembering what normal felt like. “Damn good night,” he murmured.
“Damn good decision,” Marta said.
Thane joined them in the lobby as the last of the crowd drifted into the mild spring night. The air smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and the river breeze.
“You did this,” Marta said.
“We all did,” Thane replied. “All I did was flip a switch.”
“You flipped more than that,” she said. “You brought back something we thought we’d lost.”
Mark and Gabriel joined them, both dusted in popcorn flakes and smelling faintly of soda syrup. The wolves gathered too — Rime calm and pleased, Kade quietly proud, Varro thoughtful and observant, Holt buzzing like he’d swallowed a lightbulb.
“Next week bigger?” Holt asked hopefully.
“Probably,” Thane said.
“What movie?” Kade asked.
“Something with less singing,” Varro murmured.
“Something with more dragons,” Holt countered.
Gabriel held up the movie list like a treasure map. “We’ll vote tomorrow. But I’m putting in a strong case for Neon Frontier. Lasers. Horses. It’s perfect.”
Thane looked around at all of them — humans, wolves, friends, family, the whole valley humming with the afterglow of a joy they’d earned the hard way.
Saturday nights were back.
The world felt bigger again.
And Libby felt like home.
Outside, under the bright marquee, kids skipped down the sidewalk humming the Ember Song, their voices echoing against the buildings in warm, bright notes that seemed to promise the valley a thousand good nights still to come.