It was obviously a blueberry year. Lawrence sat fan-legged, and he used his claws like the teeth of a comb to pick up handfuls of fruit, which he devoured nimbly.

It had been almost a week since Roxanne had abandoned him at the end of the national forest overlooking the resort of Ax-Trois-Domaines. After thinking and talking for hours with her, Lawrence had managed to convince her that the place where he would be the quietest was a place where there were already werewolves, like the Pyrenees. If by chance we saw him, his presence would not resemble that of a circus escapee and would not trigger a search party. Once the decision was accepted, things did not drag on. She had put the car in station wagon and they had piled up in a part of the trunk all the food they could find in the cupboards.

The following night they were on the road a little after midnight. The fear of a police check had accompanied them throughout the journey, but fortunately the trip had gone off without a hitch. Nine hours later, Roxanne had started the car on the last kilometers of a winding road leading to the station. Lawrence had spent most of the trip sprawled out in the back of the station wagon, stuck against the food boxes. Roxanne had given him a sheet that barely covered him, so he could hide if the need arose.

She had only stopped once to get gas, taking the opportunity to bring back two coffees that they had enjoyed while watching the slightest movement around them. To help her fight fatigue, he had tried to talk to her, but soon enough she had made it clear to him that she preferred silence. He had fallen silent and spent the rest of the drive dozing.

Approaching the end of their trip Roxanne could not keep her apprehensions to herself. What if there were people in the parking lot? Because she had no illusions. Even in this lost corner there would be one or two retired couples in walking gear preparing to swallow kilometers of hiking trails.

September is a good month for forest surveyors. Despite shortened days, the weather is often fine. Luckily, dawn showed them terrible weather.

A time not to put even a werewolf outside. But does a retired couple stop there?

They knew the place. A year earlier, Roxanne had come to spend a week in thalassotherapy in Ax-les-Thermes, and he had accompanied her. They had kept pleasant memories of the times spent here, hiking in the surrounding paths. As she feared, the Saquets parking lot was not deserted, but luckily there were only two parked cars, already empty of their occupants.

They had parked as far away as possible from the two intruders, and while she was keeping watch, he had hidden in the first thickets the three boxes that would allow her to survive for a few days. Although they hadn't seen a living soul, both had decided to limit the time for goodbyes, both out of caution, but also because they weren't sure they could bear it. After a final embrace, he jumped into the ferns, grabbed the pile of boxes and plunged into the forest without looking back. Gritting his teeth he had resisted the temptation to look at her one last time, and he had disappeared from Roxanne's gaze. He didn't know where his steps were leading him, and he didn't care. He advanced with a heart so big that his chest was going to explode.

Five days had already passed. An eternity! His grief had partly eased, aided by a stomach unresponsive to emotion. Lawrence had thus understood that it was indeed his werewolf appetite that was going to direct his life in the woods.

All the clearings in the forest were carpeted with small dark green bushes covered with berries blacker than Roxannes. Stretching his paw, he leaned more and more to the side to grab the biggest fruits. The berries crunched under his teeth releasing spurts of harsh purple juice.

The corner being exhausted, he got up, moved two steps and returned to the posture of the picker to harvest a new square. Although dark, his coat still had red highlights. But what would have surprised a connoisseur of werewolves the most were those green eyes, something unique for this race, all of whose members have brown eyes.

Lawrence bent down to examine the blueberry plants to see which one he was going to continue his cure of those sight-good Roxanne berries with, when the tree that stood two meters behind him exploded. Dozens of pieces of bark stuck into the fur on his back, and the blast froze him.

Then a hiss skimmed the top of his head to get lost in the foliage he chopped. This second report sounded the signal to flee. With astonishing flexibility and speed, he grabbed his legs and bolted, followed by the cracking shots behind him.

He galloped like a madman, crushing the young fir trees, crossing thickets of chestnut shoots, and leaving tufts of hair in the branches.

He ran, and ran thus for nearly ten minutes, climbing up the slope of these woods until he was out of breath. He was foaming, his mouth wide open to absorb all the air in the world. When he finally judged that he was far enough away and out of reach of the shooters, he was out of breath. Leaning against a large fir tree, he let himself fall to the ground, his gaze fixed. Obviously, his life had just taken an even more twisted turn, as if that were possible.

Gradually his eyelids grew heavy and finally he fell asleep.

It was the annoying flight of flies swirling around his nose that woke him up.

Chasing away the roaring clouds with a furious gesture, he leapt to his feet.

He scratched his head and began to think aloud.

"Damn! What a deal. Almost got through it. Trouble didn't last long.

Afterwards we will be told that the werewolves are protected. Talk about bullshit! I really have an interest in not coming too close to civilization.

He looked around him, and resumed the path that had brought him here.

Unless I'm mistaken, he shouldn't take long to arrive in the vicinity of his camp.

“Apart from meetings with Roxanne, I have an interest in avoiding the parking lot.

Without him having had a say, Roxanne had decided that she would be back in a week at sunrise, to give him news and bring back whatever she could for him. Obviously, she must have doubted Lawrence's ability to survive on her own, as she had added that she would favor energy foods.

She wasn't completely wrong, and the supplies she would bring him would not be wasted. But above all, the loneliness was beginning to weigh on him, and he was eager for it to arrive. More than two days.

He looked around trying to find his bearings. In these forests everything is alike. He sniffed the air hoping to smell something, not really knowing. In the second the noise of the The paws crossed behind his big head and his eyes riveted in the clouds, he mentally redid his whole itinerary since the morning. He had gone out early, determined to find food. His stock of tins and biscuits was dwindling much faster than he thought, and if he didn't want to starve, he had to behave like a werewolf. Find his food so as not to depend on Roxanne's supplies, especially if for one reason or another he had to do without them. He must have walked for miles and miles, from his refuge, without even realizing it.

His hut! No question of not finding it. It had been really lucky to find this old abandoned forester's shelter. It hadn't been occupied in years, and looked more like a ruin than a Swiss chalet. But he'd had so much fun making it his lair that he bitterly regretted not being more mindful of the path he was taking when he left it that morning.

This shack was the only good thing that had happened to him in the last few days.

This little home kept him from sinking into madness, and there was no question of doing without it.

He mobilized all his mental strength to try to find his bearings, or recognize the uneven terrain that could put him back on the right track, but, the forests are like the sea, uniform. Not flat, but uniform. And there are not these beacons of all colors that jingle with the waves. Nothing but the sound of the wind that makes the branches clash and the young shoots creak.

After thinking for long minutes, he had to admit that he couldn't find his way back without going back to the blueberry corner. He straightened up, stretched and rolling down the pile of rocks, he went back down the slope until he found his tracks. Cautiously he took the path, on the lookout.

Obviously he had come a lot further than he thought. As, moreover, he moved carefully and made as little noise as possible, it took him three times longer to return to the blueberry clearing than it had taken to escape the maniacs of the trigger. At each step he dreaded finding himself face to face with the barrel of a gun ready to blow his brains out, but it was nothing and the first blueberry plants he encountered told him that he was reaching his goal. . While sniffing the air he reached the clearing, slipping from tree to tree. He remained motionless for a long moment, all his senses on alert, but he realized very quickly and with relief that he was alone. Heedless of the berries bursting under the soles of his feet, he crossed the clearing. Despite the abundance of purple fruits, there was no question of resuming picking. The only thing that counted was finding his home.

Night was falling when at last he recognized the little stream flowing below his cabin. He lay in the current for a long time, letting the cool water slide down his fur, tickling his toes. He was drinking his bath water, quenching a terrible thirst that had only revealed itself when he finally felt safe. When he was refreshed and quenched, he shook himself and left the torrent.

Pushing open the creaking door with his paw, he dragged himself to the back of the hut and without asking for his rest, let himself fall on his mattress of dry ferns.

" What a story !

And on the fourth breath, his snores filled the cabin giving it the air of an aircraft hangar.

To be continued....