Sarah’s day started long before the sun.

  She found prey, an elk, huge, fast and honorable. It fought hard when she brought it down. She ate until her belly was full. Real food. Warm with life. Not jerky. Not frozen steak. This was meat that still remembered running.

  She didn’t want to leave the rest to rot. That would disrespect the kill. So she lifted her head and howled; long, low, carrying across the valley. It was a message to the grey wolf pack nearby: fresh meat. Come take it.

  She wanted to stay. Wanted to lie in the snow with real wolves, feel fur against fur, no words, no pretending. But another scent hit her nose; wrong, sharp, like freezer burn on rotting fat. Wendigo blood.

  Sarah waited until the pack appeared. They saw her size, her eyes, knew what she was. The alpha looked at her. She dipped her head toward the carcass, telling them to take it, and turned away. Better they eat it then some cat.

  The blood trail pulled her west. The thing was hurt bad. Bullets didn’t kill wendigos, you needed silver for that, not led. But whatever hit it hurt it. She could finish it. Probably.

  Then she heard weeping. Macy’s weeping. Raw. Broken.

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  Sarah ran.

  The smell of gunpowder was thick in the air as she neared the house; the smells of cordite, brass, fear-sweat assaulted her nose. Hunters back home killed clean. Killed what they ate. Sarah Respected that. Wendigos never did. They played. Toyed. Made it last. That was wrong.

  The porch was shattered glass and splintered wood. Macy sat in the empty window frame, clutching the rifle like it was the only thing holding her together. Tears cut tracks through gun oil on her cheeks.

  Sarah dropped low. Moved slow. Whimpered once; soft, careful.

  Macy’s head snapped up. Barrel rose. “What the hell!”

  Sarah kept ears flat. Head low. No threat. Just big sad dog.

  “Fuck… I don’t want to kill a dog tonight.” Macy’s voice cracked.

  Sarah bit back the growl. Dog. She hated that word. But Macy didn’t know better. And the wendigo would come back if she didn't stay.

  Change and talk? Macy might shoot.

  Run for help? Leave Macy alone. The Wendigo returns.

  …Play pet. Let the human think I'm safe.

  Sarah hated it. Hated every second. But she hated the idea of Macy suffering alone. Or worse being consumed by that thing if it came back.

  She crept forward on her belly. Whimpered again. Nosed Macy’s knee. Licked the salty tears and gun oil away from her face.

  Macy stared, then broke. She dropped the rifle stock-first and buried her face in thick fur. Sobs shook her whole body. Fingers knotted in the ruff behind Sarah’s ears like she’d disappear if she let go.

  Sarah endured the gun-oil stink, the salt, the shaking. Endured being called “girl” and “boy” in the same broken breath.

  First Kim. Now Macy.

  When she found that thing, she wouldn’t play.

  She’d kill it clean.