“Is that the rock from yesterday?” I ask.

“Yeah. From the field.”

“It wasn’t a field.”

“What was it then?”

“A glade.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One’s made by humans, the other’s not.” I grit my teeth to stop the chattering. This conversation is nuts, but the stone is warm from his pocket, and the fear is quieting.

“This is the marker?”

He nods.

“You went back for it?”

“My wolf, uh—” He shuffles from one foot to the other. “He, like, held it in his mouth.”

“He cheeked it?” Preston lifts a shoulder while I flip it in my fingers. The edges are smooth. It’s a good rock. I tuck...