And it might have been the wind, the low keening that blew up to our window, a sound like howling but something else too: older, crueler, more eager. At the sound, whatever light remained in Johanna’s gaze extinguished. “Please,” she said as the door blew in. A thing like heat haze, that my brain could acknowledge as quadrupedal but would not otherwise describe in any way that memory would capture, could only flinch from like it was a flame, like it was teeth, crawled in through the hallway. It growled. The Skinless Wolf. All at once, I was struck by the sense that it existed not just in
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