Chapter 2 - Dina
I sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the blank wall across from me. The apartment is almost too clean now. There’s a particular silence to living alone in a town of strangers, and it feels strangely loud.
Dad used to tell me, “Order your world, Dina. A clean room is a clear mind.” He was the sort of man who believed in shoe polish and discipline, who thought folding laundry was a spiritual exercise.
I think about him every time I fold a towel, which is a lot, because I don’t have much else to do these days.
I open the fridge and close it again. I’m not hungry, but the motion feels necessary, a small ritual to shake off the inertia.
My wolf is restless, pacing at the edges of my skin, but I’m not ready to let her out yet.
If I shifted now, I’d probably run until my legs buckled, then keep running on sheer willpower and the memories that chase me.
I turn back to the small kitchen table and set out a coffee mug.
There’s a note from Bryan still stuck to the side of one of the boxes of unused mugs that linger at the back of the cupboard.
He dropped them off with his mate after I moved in.
I’m not sure how he thought I’d use so many when I have no friends.
I don’t even know him very well, but he’s the only one here who knew my father and trained with him.
He’s the only one who would recognize the way I line up my shoes because that’s how he was trained, too.
He’s been kind, and his mate seems lovely, but I’m wary.
Maybe just tired of feeling on edge all the time.
Bryan thinks I should put in for Security.
He said it the first week I arrived, in that careful, roundabout way he does when he’s trying to be both supportive and nonthreatening.
“You’ve got the training,” he said. “Hell, you could probably teach the whole squad.” I heard what he didn’t say to me: that he knows I probably need a reason to keep moving, and he’s scared of what happens if I sit still too long.
People with our training don’t do well with nothing to do.
But I haven’t shown up at a single training session.
I’m not sure I ever will. The idea of standing in a gym with all those strangers, pretending it’s just another Tuesday, makes my skin crawl.
It’s not that I’m afraid. It’s that I don’t know how to be around people whom I’m not one hundred percent sure I can trust anymore.
I’ve lost everyone, and with that, my ability to tell who is a threat and who isn’t.
I don’t know how to start from zero, build a new self out of nothing but polite conversation and the hope that nobody looks too closely.
I’m doing it again. Sitting here, replaying my father’s voice in my head, like I can scrub the memory of everything that went wrong, of everything I’ve lost, if I just overanalyze it enough.
I know I should stop. I know the only way to get through is to be here, right now, breathing this air and drinking this cheap coffee and not letting the past control my present.
I force myself up, grab my coat, and lock the door behind me.
The air outside is sharp and clean, the kind of cold that wakes you up with a slap and an apology.
I breathe it in and let it scrape the inside of my lungs, then start walking.
The pack hall is at the far end of Main, past the bakery and the squat little gym that reeks of pack pheromones.
I tell myself I’m going to check the job board, even though I know it’s a waste of time; everything worth doing is snatched up by people with deeper roots and better connections.
Still, routine is its own comfort, and I need the walk.
Silvercreek’s downtown is a single street lined with tidy businesses, every one of them in better repair than anyplace I’ve ever seen.
People really care here. The hardware store is opening up for the day, an old guy with a beard down to his chest shoveling the last of the overnight dusting off the stoop.
He gives me a nod, and I try to nod back, but I trip over the rhythm and end up looking uncoordinated, so I keep moving.
The bakery windows are already fogged, and the smell of cinnamon rolls and fresh dough leaks out onto the sidewalk.
My stomach lurches, then complains, but I ignore it.
I can feel eyes on me: the woman behind the counter, the old man with the crossword, the bored teenager refilling the sugar dispensers.
I’m a curiosity here. The wolf who doesn’t belong.
They know my name, my story, but they don’t really know me, and I plan to keep it that way.
I make it another block before I spot the bookstore, early sun pouring gold through the glass.
Bookshops are thin on the ground in a town this small, but Ruby’s is an institution here; she calls it “The Den,” which might sound too hipster anywhere else, but somehow it fits just right here with her running it.
I feel a pull, a magnetic drag, and let myself drift off my route.
Inside, it’s warm and comforting, the air thick with the perfume of old pages and loose-leaf tea.
Ruby is perched on a rolling ladder, re-shelving hardcovers with the single-minded focus of someone who genuinely loves what she does, and it shows.
She doesn’t look up when I walk in, but I know she’s clocked me.
I head for the back, past the “staff picks” and the lurid romance covers, and lose myself in nonfiction.
The shelves groan with stories of war and survival, and I run my finger along the spines, pretending I’m looking for something new when really I just want to touch something that feels real.
Ruby descends the ladder and lands with a soft thump.
“Morning, Dina.” Her voice is low but as warm and welcoming as her store.
“Got something for you, it’s only 50 cents, and I know you’ll give it a good home, if you want it.
” She ducks behind the counter and reemerges with a battered paperback from the second-hand section.
I recognize it instantly: a copy of Man’s Search for Meaning.
I spent ages looking at a new copy of it last week, but never had the guts to buy it because I’m on such a tight budget.
I can’t tell if she’s making a point or just being nice.
I take the book and flip it over, hiding my face by staring down at the cover. “Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound like I mean it too much. Gratitude is dangerous. People expect things in return.
Ruby leans her elbows on the counter, pushing a mug of tea in my direction from the stand she keeps on the wall behind.
“You know, we have a book club,” she says, soft and sly, like she knows I’ll say no but wants to test the waters anyway.
“It’s not fancy. We just meet up, talk some shit, and drink wine. Sometimes we even talk about books.”
My first instinct is to recoil, but the way she says it makes it sound so harmless, almost fun, and for a moment, I imagine myself sitting at her table, laughing at something stupid, letting the noise of other people fill me up instead of the endless echo in my chest. “Maybe,” I say, which is further than I thought I’d get.
Ruby grins. “I’ll save you a seat.” She pours herself a refill and sips, her eyes never leaving mine. “You settling in okay?” She asks it like she already knows the answer, but wants to give me the chance to lie.
I nod, because it’s easier, and because I want to believe it’s true.
Before I can change my mind, the bell over the door jingles, and Luna walks in.
Even in casual clothes, she looks impressive; she’s all beauty and intent, her presence crackling with the kind of quiet energy that makes you want to stand up straighter.
She’s got a box in her arms, the top layer packed with children’s books and battered picture books.
Her eyes scan the shop, and when she spots me, she tilts her head in that way she has, like she’s reading a second script beneath what’s actually happening.
“Dina,” she says, by way of greeting, then turns to Ruby. “Donations for the literacy drive.”
“Leave them by the register. I’ll sort them after I finish up here,” Ruby says, then to me, “Luna’s got the best taste in romance books, I’m sure they’re buried at the bottom beneath those children's books, so I’ll save them for the moms.”
Luna sets the box on the counter, laughing but not denying it, then gives me a measured look. “How are you finding things?”
It’s a loaded question, and we both know it. “Still looking for work,” I admit, before she can ask.
She nods. “I thought maybe you were. There’s something coming up. Not official, but it might suit you. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
It’s vague enough to be nothing, but the way she says it makes me think it’s probably the usual round of pack chores or busywork.
Maybe she means it as a way to see if I can be useful to the pack.
It doesn’t surprise me that Luna would know about every new job going before anyone else; she’s the heartbeat of the pack.
“Thanks,” I say, because she’s the Luna, and because I owe her more than I’ll ever be able to repay. She nods, satisfied, then turns her focus to Ruby, and I’m gently left alone with my thoughts and my book.
I stand there for a minute, pretending to read, but really just listening to the calm, easy rhythm of their conversation. For a second, I almost feel normal.
I finally buy the book, and on the way out, Ruby calls after me, “Book club’s on Thursday.”
I give her a half-salute. “Thursday,” I echo, even though we both know I probably won’t show. I have a gift for gently disappointing people, and Ruby seems like the kind who won’t take it personally.
The sidewalk is emptier now; the bakery crowd has thinned, and I guess most people are at work now.
The air has that brittle, early-winter quality, a blue-edged clarity that makes everything look sharper and more temporary.
I walk with no particular destination, because I have nowhere to be until the sun starts to go down.
I’ll run then, when the world goes quietly soft, and I can burn off whatever this is…
anxiety, need, leftover adrenaline from years of not being safe.
I turn the book over in my hands and read the back cover.
Man’s Search for Meaning, it says, as if meaning is something you can just find between the shelves, like a can of soup or a decent pair of boots.
I almost laugh at the irony. Mostly, I hope it works, because that’s exactly what I’m missing these days.
I want to believe that the right combination of words could pin me to the earth, keep me from floating off into the static of my own mind.
I want to believe that if I read enough, or run far enough, or fold enough towels, I’ll figure out how to start being alive again instead of just not dying.
A truck rumbles down Main, engine rattling like it’s on its last legs.
I turn away, not looking, but I know the sound of that exhaust, the lurch of that transmission.
Caleb. He slows at the intersection, window down, face hidden behind sunglasses and a week’s worth of stubble.
I keep my head low and pretend to be fascinated by an antique shop window, but my skin prickles all the same.
He’s not a threat. He helped rescue me, or at least didn’t make things worse.
But he’s Cheslem, and the part of me that will always be my father’s daughter can’t quite let that go.
There are rules, codes of loyalty, and even if all of us are refugees now, I don’t know how to stop seeing him as the enemy.
My wolf bristles, hackles up. She remembers better than I do.
I’m halfway down the block before the tension lets up.
Stupid. I tell myself he didn’t even notice me, but I know better.
If it were reversed, I’d have clocked him before he even hit the cross-street.
I wonder where he’s heading and then curse myself for the thought.
It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is whether or not I can make a life here.
The job Luna mentioned sounds promising.
I need to focus on that, not ghosts of Cheslem.