The wolf snarls and howls, but when I don’t bend, he changes tack. He starts digging, furiously scrambling at the dirt, covering the stems soaked in Una’s scent. Like we’re hiding a crime. This isn’t right. But he won’t leave until he’s obliterated the evidence of whatever happened here. And even then, I have to drag him away. He rages at me while I force his paws further from camp, step by step. It’s like dragging a semi.
