Chapter 3

If scavenger attendance at the Academy drops under a certain number, the nobs reduce the Bog’s supply allotments. It’s important to them that they feel like they’re doing all they can for us before they consign us to the crap jobs and handouts. They don’t seem to care which of us show up, just that enough do. An older cousin will usually do a day for you in exchange for some food or a pair of gloves or something.

We lapse into silence, Essie leaning heavily on the spoon while I try to spot her so she doesn’t pass out into the kettle, but I keep getting distracted each time the fire spits sparks. My mind wanders, and probably because of the conversation, it casts up an old memory. I was a pup. My parents had gone for their walk a few months before, and the elders had finally wrangled me into going to the Academy.

Like most scavengers, I didn’t catch on to what was expected of me right away, and I’d venture from the classroom if the instructor wasn’t paying attention and the door was open. That must have been how I’d found myself alone in a hallway of the lower school.

I’d caught sight of a bottle cap on a high window ledge above a water fountain. It looked like the kind from Pa’s beer, and I knew in my soul it was a bread crumb or a clue or a talisman. I had to have it, but it was well out of my reach, even when I jumped.

I was a short niblet, but persistent. I managed to get within an inch of the bottle cap by wedging my left foot in between the wall and the water fountain. My ankle was twisted at an unnatural angle, well and truly stuck, but I still stretched my spine and ribs and sides as far as they could go to get a hair closer to my treasure.

I was sweating and grunting and no doubt bright red when the bell rang for the upper elementary change of classes. I kept swiping for it while nobs walked past, pointing and jeering, highly entertained by the grubby scavenger pup too stupid to know she was trapped. A tall male bent over my head and flicked the bottle cap further back on the ledge.

I tugged my raw, burning ankle and strained every joint in my arm and fingers as if I could lengthen my bones by sheer force of will.

That bottle cap was mine.

And then a curt voice cut through my frenzy.

“Hold still.”

Preston Charge was untying my sneaker. I froze, more from surprise than submission.

He made quick work of it. He slid my foot from the shoe, and the shoe fell to the ground. Then he lifted me down, no fuss, and fished the bottle cap from the ledge, frowned at it, flipped it, shrugged, and handed it to me.

I snatched it from him with alacrity. It did have a picture of a red eagle on it, the exact kind my Pa drank.

I grinned my thanks, but he was already striding down the hall. Kyle Freeman, Preston’s shadow even back then, had tousled my hair and said, “Water fountains are for drinking, not climbing, scavenger.”

Scavengers, by nature, treasure small things. A bottle cap. A word. An act of common decency.

That’s why we’re at the bottom of the pack. We don’t care about the big, important things that matter to the nobs.

That’s why you steer clear of them—why if you’re given a choice between two of them, the real answer is “neither” every time. They’re lost. It’s a real dumb wolf who follows a pack leader who’s heading the wrong way.

The fire pops, and my mind meanders off again. Essie stirs, the metronome ticks, and Richard snores. Almost at the exact second that the sun rises, Bert squeaks out a fart and startles himself awake.

Essie and I burst out laughing. Richard flails his limbs, staggers to his paws, and then plops on his butt, baffled by his surroundings. Eventually, he shakes out his bristly tan fur and starts licking his crotch.

“Seriously?” Essie mutters.

Richard’s what we call ‘all dog.’ Most shifters have some tell when they’re in their wolf form—an air of otherworldliness, an intelligence in the eye, whatever. Then, there’s folks like Richard. He’ll lick his butthole right in front of you.

While he’s doing that, Bert trots over to piss on a tree. When he comes back to the bonfire, he’s in human form, limp member swinging.

He holds his hands out to the fire. “We done?”

“Yeah, we are.” Essie rolls her eyes. “Thanks for all your help.”

“You’re welcome.” Bert grins and scratches his hairy ass.

I maneuver the Dutch oven off the tripod while Essie grabs the guys’ clothes from the branch where they hung them. She tosses Bert his jeans and Baja hoodie and balls up Richard’s stuff and pitches it at him. She misses, and they land in the dirt. Richard noses and paws at his flannel.

Using silicone oven mitts, I carry the dragon’s tongue into the Airstream and stow it on an old Weber grill I set up in the shower.

When I leave, I double check that the door latches and locks properly. It’s tetchy, and the lock wouldn’t keep a scavenger out—superstition and a healthy fear of the witch do that—but if a raccoon or a bear manages to get in, the dragon’s tongue will be gone. Cassie won’t thank me if she gets back from her walkabout or spirit quest or wherever she’s gone off to this time and the trailer reeks of dead animal. Again.

My ears are still ringing from the last time.

When I’m satisfied the old trailer is critter proof, Essie, Bert, and Richard are ready to go. Richard’s still in wolf form, but Bert’s got his clothes on. The morning breeze carries howls and yips, coming closer. Some folks will be heading back to the Bogs, and those like us who still have time to serve at the Academy have to make our way to the rutted dirt path that runs along the lakeshore.

We hike in silence. Along the way, our numbers grow with our cousins from the Bogs. Those who eke out every last second as their wolf dart off after rabbits and birds—or nothing at all but another minute of freedom—and then they slink back to the group, trailing those of us in our human forms.

I use the term loosely. We’re scavengers. Even in our skins, there’s a lot of fur, claws, fangs, pointed ears, and long snouts. I haven’t shifted yet, so I’m smooth, but I’m an outlier. Most female scavengers have gone into heat and had their first shift by sixteen. I’ll be nineteen in five months.

For a while, the walk along the lake is calming, like a meditation. A pair of herons swoop like they’re practicing take-off and landing, and on the far shore, the water is still stained pink and orange from the sunrise.

But then, as we pass the Narrows, the path becomes level and paved. The black walnuts and honey locusts and persimmons disappear and are replaced with trees that don’t belong here and will never die, planted in configurations designed to mimic a natural distribution. There are fancy lampposts at regular intervals even though the oldest wolf in the pack can see at night if he’s still got his nose.

In other words, shit becomes civilized. Our stroll becomes a trudge. The younger pups begin to complain of belly aches. Bert passes around linty hard candies from his pocket to shut them up.

We smell the Academy well before it comes into sight. Exhaust from the cars the nobs insist on driving even though their digs are only two or three miles further along the lake shore. Their human perfumes and shampoos and aftershave. Coconut body lotion. Pumpkin spice hand sanitizer.

Predators disguising their scent as food. It’d be funny if it didn’t make your head ache.

Unfortunately, we haven’t dragged our feet enough this morning. First bell hasn’t rung yet. Pups are romping on the playground by the primary school, and the humans are waiting in clusters, chatting. The Quarry Pack wolves are hanging out on the sidewalk where their bus dropped them off. They’re not too excited about starting the day, either.