Part 8
Mara did not move toward her.
The distance between them was wide enough to keep the moment honest. Black Pine Creek ran through the ravine, traffic passed behind Mara, and the three wolves remained one startled decision away from the forest.
Cedar—or the wolf Mara believed was Cedar—stood slightly ahead of his brother. Ash watched from behind Juniper’s shoulder, still quieter even at that distance.
Juniper raised her head.
Mara could not know whether the wolf recognized her. Scent might not cross the creek, and a year had passed since the animal had last seen a human silhouette behind dark glass. The look could have been ordinary caution.
Mara no longer needed it to be more.
She raised one gloved hand.
“Go on,” she whispered.
Juniper remained in the open for another breath. Then she turned and entered the trees. The two young wolves followed her, their gray bodies passing between the trunks until the mountain absorbed them.
Several minutes later, a howl rose from beyond the ridge.
A second voice joined it, then a third.
Mara stood beside Noah’s cross until the final note faded.
She cried on the drive home, but she did not pull over. Otis slept across the back seat, his paws moving occasionally as he dreamed. The sunflowers on the passenger side leaned against the window without losing a petal.
At home, Mara placed one flower in a glass jar on Noah’s old desk. The rest remained at the memorial.
A photograph of Noah stood beside her wildlife textbooks. He was missing his front teeth and squinting into the sun, holding a sunflower with both hands. Mara had spent years avoiding that picture because happiness inside it felt unbearable.
Now she straightened the frame.
In May, she completed her first term. Tessa helped her secure a paid position at the North Fork center, beginning with intake records, equipment management, and supervised fieldwork. Mara did not become an expert because she had once rescued wolves. She became useful by studying, listening, and accepting how much she did not know.
Her first release involved an owl, not a predator.
The bird had recovered from a wing injury and spent weeks rebuilding strength in a flight enclosure. Mara carried the transport crate to a meadow while an experienced rehabilitator handled the release.
When the door opened, the owl remained inside.
Mara waited.
After several minutes, it stepped onto the grass, spread its wings, and lifted over the trees without looking back.
The familiar ache returned, but it no longer felt like an emergency.
That evening, Mara drove home to Otis and opened the window in Noah’s room. The space had changed gradually. His bed remained, but clean sheets covered it. Field guides filled one shelf. The wooden airplane sat completed beneath the solar-system poster, finished by Lucas and Mara together.
Otis settled across the doorway, guarding neither the past nor the future, only the room where Mara happened to be.
Cold air moved across the desk and stirred the sunflower in its jar. One yellow petal loosened, turned once, and came to rest beside Noah’s photograph.
Mara left it there.