“You’re lucky. This looks worse than it is, boy,” he said in a low, even tone as he cleaned the lesion. “It’ll heal, eventually. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but I’m going to keep you here in the garage, at least overnight. You’ll freeze to death and are a sittin’ duck with your leg like this.”
He bandaged the damaged ankle and foot tight, then walked into his house. Quickly washing his hands at the kitchen sink, he dried them, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed some chicken he’d had defrosting. He placed it in a bowl of lukewarm water to ensure it was fully defrosted, then grabbed an old cereal bowl he rarely used, filling it with distilled water from a jug. He checked the chicken after a few minutes, found it suitable, then opened up his kitchen cabinet.
As a ranger, he always kept a small supply of canine antibiotics. It was amazing how many tourists and campers brought their dogs to the park, only for the family furball to be stung in the nose by a wasp, eat a poisonous plant, or get bitten by a snake or some such fate. He grabbed the bottle of amoxicillin, opened a few of the capsules, and rubbed the medication on the chicken skin, until it dissolved. With food and water in hand, he returned to the garage.
The wolf was still lying there where he’d left him. It was a bit toastier in the garage now. He set the food down, keeping his eye on the beast, which now was alert, sniffing the air. A certain eagerness flashed in its eyes. It tried to stand up but couldn’t bear any weight on the injured foot. Jack positioned the bowls just so, making it easier for it to reach them. The sounds of lapping water filled the garage as the wolf sloppily drank from the bowl. It then proceeded to chomp on the chicken, so fast Jack doubted it even tasted the food. It wasn’t long before the bowl was sparkling clean.
He went to one of his trucks parked in the garage and found two thick blankets. Unfolding them, he placed them on the hard ground, then turned on a small lamp on his workbench, turning off the overhead light so it would be far less bright in there.
“Time to rest, wolf. Medicine and sleep. That’s what’s going to heal that foot of yours.”
As if knowing exactly what to do, the wolf began to scoot and drag itself over a couple of feet to the blankets. The last bit of snow on his gorgeous black coat melted, causing trickles of water to stream in a few thin cracks on the ground. Jack and the wolf stared at each other. What a beautiful creature…
He’d been up close and personal with wolves a few times in his life. Typically, they ran in packs and he’d have to make a bunch of racket to drive them away. The wolves didn’t bother people too often. It was rare to hear of a vicious attack.
He refilled the bowl of water and brought it back out.
“Here. This is yours.” He set the bowl down, and a little water sloshed out onto the floor. “You need it. Now, rest up. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll check on your wound at that time. If it looks worse, I’ll drive you down to the vet.”
The wolf looked at him curiously as he spoke, as if trying to decipher the meaning of his words.
Jack lingered a bit longer than necessary. Something about this animal drew him in. He had a great respect for nature, and all of her children, but this situation hit him right in the heart. The way the wolf’s big eyes looked into his own… with so much sadness. So much necessary trust. Almost as if to say, ‘Protect me. My life is in your hands.’
Dying. Open eyes. Head laid against the wall of an old, rotting cabin. My black-haired boy was on the cold ground. Alone. Outside. Trapped.
His heart burned in his chest, and his vision blurred as emotions swelled. Rage and sorrow boiled within him, and it took all of him to take it off the hot eye. Jack blinked a couple of times, shook his head as if coming out of a dream, then turned and walked back into the house.
Chapter Eleven
Kim twirled her favorite gold pen around between her nimble fingers, then crossed off a few items from her grocery list and added others. She hadn’t gone shopping in two weeks, and the pantry was beginning to look bare, the freezer a deserted frozen space, and the refrigerator pathetic. She often ate at work, but she wanted more of her own food—recipes she missed from back home. Spicy Jamaican jerk chicken from Brooklyn. Bronx Dominican dishes. Queens Puerto Rican spaghetti, the kind with the green olives, and authentic New York style pizza. Where were the falafel platters and fresh bagels drowning in schmear/cream cheese? The breakfast sandwiches—greasy bacon and artery-clogging cheddar? She missed the corner bodegas, the colors and the vibe. Yet, she didn’t miss the crime and the smog, and she didn’t miss the hurt and pain. The residue of a life riddled with lies that she’d left behind. As different as it seemed, this truly was a fresh start. A place where no one knew her name. Her family. Her hurt.