“Elara?” the elder whispered.

Then, on the fourth morning, a strange thing happened. A grey wolf limped into the village square, dragging the tattered wolf skinsuit in its jaws. The wolf laid the suit at the feet of the head elder, then sat back on its haunches and waited .

The second night was worse. The pack accepted her. She ran with them, howled with them, and for a glorious, terrible hour, she loved the taste of raw deer heart. She nearly forgot her human name. Only a splinter of her old self—the memory of her mother’s knitting needles clicking by firelight—made her rip the suit off at sunrise.