I clutched the papers in both hands as I stared at the picture beneath the caption. A lump rose in my throat. SAVE THE OLYMPIC WOLF Under the words, there was a detailed drawing of a wolf in front of a fir tree, its head thrown back in the act of baying at the moon. It was a disconcerting picture; something about the wolf’s plaintive posture made him look forlorn. Like he was howling in grief. And then I was running to my truck, the flyers still locked in my grip.
