Chapter 5 #2
We run in silence, our energy too precious to waste on banter. With the promise of a hot shower and a full belly ahead, every thought funnels into closing the miles.
My wolf claws at my insides, urging me faster, harder. Home is close, relief is close, Maggie is close, and I hate how desperately I want all of it.
Finally, the trees thin, and the world opens into a clearing. The rain hits like icy needles, soaking deeper into our fur in seconds.
Thanks, Mother Nature. Screwing us even harder now—no lube, no dinner first.
The boys grunt and shake out their coats, but my gaze stays locked on the shape ahead: a tin roof with smoke curling from the crooked chimney.
Maggie’s.
The moment I spot it, exhaustion rushes me, like that finish-line collapse when your body realizes the suffering is almost over and decides to give up early.
My legs go weak with relief I didn’t earn, my chest tightening like it wants to sob. Not happening, not now.
C’mon, Jason. Don’t fall apart now. We’re so close. Hold it together for two more damn minutes. That’s all. Two minutes.
Dawn breaks somewhere behind the clouds like a heavenly light. Surreal. A beacon of hope. And I swear I hear a heavenly chorus—until I realize it’s the raccoons sitting on the railing, and the sight alone gives me one last surge. Mama “Raccoon” Maggie is right in the house. So close.
My wolf damn near whimpers at the sight of her porch. There is warmth, safety, belonging—all the things we don’t deserve.
The five porch steps might as well be Kilimanjaro, but somehow I make them, moments after Froggy and Buff reach the top.
We shift as one, sodden clothes clinging to me and Froggy, Buff naked as the day he was born. I shiver as the soaked fabric glues itself to my skin. I wish shifter magic were more sophisticated; if it can keep our clothes intact during a shift, why the hell can’t it keep them dry?
Cold knifes through me, a reminder that I barely have anything left to give.
Before Froggy’s shivering hand can hit the red door with its peeling paint, it swings open.
“Saints above, if it isn’t my favorite pack of disappointments.”
Mama Raccoon barrels out, barefoot, forest-green robe flapping, hair piled in a braided mess. She smells like sage, grease, and moonshine—she limits herself to one shot a day.
Her voice alone is a damn balm, so steady, loud, and unapologetic. Something inside me loosens just hearing her.
Buff drops to his knees, panting and grinning. “Mags! You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
“You’re a sight for sore everything, Beauford Bergen,” she huffs, then calls over her shoulder, “Jimmy, bring me three towels! Not the good ones.” She turns back to us.
“You’re filthier than my compost heap. And you, Beauford—what in the goddess’s half-cracked crockpot happened to you? You’re as naked as a plucked chicken.”
“Long story,” I mutter, rubbing my face.
My voice sounds wrecked even to my own ears, thin and frayed, and the relief in it makes me feel weak.
“I’ve got time. In. All of you, before you catch your death.”
If she only knew how true that almost was. And how true it will be if we don’t get to Mexico before the Terrible Two find us.
Hope and dread tangle in my throat. Being here feels like breathing after drowning, but danger’s curled up right behind us like a shadow that won’t stay gone.
We stumble inside—Buff first, towel barely covering his dignity. Froggy reaches the threshold, and Maggie slaps a hand to his chest.
“You clog my toilet again, and I’ll clog your ass, Freddie. And you won’t like it. That I promise you.”
“It was one time,” he mutters.
“Once too many.”
The kitchen is an explosion of cast-iron pans, crocheted potholders, and half a dozen cubs—none of them hers—playing with a ferret under the table.
Years ago, she stole three abused wolf pups out from under a commune’s nose—stuffed them into her coat and bolted like a raccoon raiding a trash can.
She’s been rescuing strays and shiny things ever since.
The smell of bacon hits so hard my knees almost buckle.
My stomach tightens, from hunger and from sheer relief, like my body can’t decide whether to feast or collapse.
Maggie bustles about like she’s got six arms, muttering about idiots and frostbite and boys who can’t keep their clothes on. Raccoon shifter. Figures.
Every surface is cluttered with half-built contraptions, and the gears, coils, and welded bits of scrap she turns into steampunk art. She sells the stuff at markets to pay for all the orphans she collects.
Her chaos feels like home in a way nothing else ever has, and God, it hits me somewhere soft I didn’t know was still alive.
“Sit.” She points her greasy fork at me. I nearly leap on the table and lick it. (Don’t judge, we’ve burned a thousand calories a minute.)
“Not you, Buff. I don’t need your bits and bobs on my furniture. Laundry room. Now.”
He laughs sheepishly, fiddling with the necklace around his neck, a habit he formed as a child whenever he was uncomfortable or upset. She cups his cheek as he passes, possibly realizing that, too.
I collapse into a chair, and the wood creaks under me, or maybe that’s just my bones. Everything in me sinks, melts, gives in to safety for the first time in days.
“You boys look like you’ve been chewed up and spat out. Who’re you running from this time?”
“Twin alphas,” I say. “Eustace brothers.”
The fork slips from her fingers, clattering and splattering grease. A raccoon darts in, grabs the fallen bacon, and vanishes. Normally, Maggie would skin it for the audacity, but now she just stares, wide-eyed, her deep brown skin gone ashen.
“Ah, hellfire… you’ve really outdone yourselves.” She glances toward the window. “I hoped the rumors were just rumors. They’ve put a bounty on you, sweetheart. Word came through two nights ago. Whole west territory’s lit up. Commune packs, crime crews… everyone’s sniffing around.”
Froggy stills. “So… we can’t go east?”
“No, you can’t go anywhere near Mexico without getting your tails mounted on a bar wall.”
Silence settles, broken only by the pop of bacon fat and the skitter of tiny claws.
The quiet is suffocating, pressing down on my spine and whispering that we were not getting out of this alive.
“Then we go farther north,” I say finally, voice scraped raw.
Saying it out loud is like swallowing glass. Like admitting every other path is already drenched in blood.
Maggie snorts. “To Canada? You planning to freeze your asses off or charm a moose into smuggling you?”
“Both, if it works,” Froggy answers.
She stares at us for a beat, then laughs—a deep, wild sound. “You’re idiots,” she says fondly, handing me a full plate of bacon. “Idiots, but mine. Eat, sleep, and don’t bleed on the rugs. You’ve got twelve hours before I pretend I never saw you.”
I take it, warmth curling in my chest. “Thanks, Maggie.”
The gratitude coursing through me is so overwhelming, it almost hurts, like my ribs don’t know how to hold something warm anymore.
She pats my cheek. “Don’t thank me, wolf-boy. Just make it worth something next time fate drops a miracle in your path.”
Her touch is grounding—sharp and soft all at once. It’s the sort of touch that reminds you you’re still worth saving. Even when you don’t believe it.
“Mister. Hey, mister.”
The tiny cub’s voice cuts through my sleep. I blink awake to find a little one with markings so similar to Froggy’s when he was young that for a second I think I’m dreaming.
My heart stutters, ghosts of old memories flickering like they want to crawl out and haunt me, but I shake it off.
Morning came too fast. I’m still exhausted, but not the bone-deep kind where every step feels like a negotiation.
This was more like the ache after a good cry—still raw, but able to move. Barely.
“Mister, Mama Maggie says to come get breakfast so you can get the hel—”
“You finish that sentence, Emery, and you’ll be chopping wood until your next birthday,” Maggie calls from the kitchen.
Her barked threat snaps my brain into focus. If Maggie’s yelling, the world might still make sense.
I wink at Emery. “She hasn’t changed.”
“I heard that too.”
“Sure you’re not half wolf yourself?”
“Less questions, more getting ready to get the hell out. You want eggs and coffee or not?” Maggie hollers.
Buff sits up faster than I’ve ever seen him wake. I look around. “Where’s Freddie?”
“He’s with Kylie. Tea party.” Emery leans in and giggles. “He made me promise not to tell, but you’re his alpha, right?”
The word alpha lands hot, sharp, and wrong. My chest tightens, heat crawling under my skin like shame trying to claw its way out. If she knew the truth, she’d run the other way.
“Emery, get your brothers and sisters and go collect acorns.”
I get up, fold my blanket, and drape it over Froggy’s. Buff does the same, then makes a beeline for the kitchen.
“Mama, I’m getting you firewood,” I say, hand on the door, ready to run from my shame.
“Hurry up. Your twelve hours are running out.”
Outside, the air is crisp from last night’s rain, but the sun peeks out shyly. I chop more wood than Maggie will need for a week. Grateful she took us in with a bounty on our heads. Grateful she fed us. Grateful she distracted Emery from her alpha talk.
Each swing of the axe cracks through the quiet, cleaner than the noise in my head. If only guilt split as easily as wood.
She’s told me a hundred times I’ve got more alpha in me than wolves twice my size. Easy words from someone who isn’t the one failing.
If Maggie could see the rot under my ribs, the cowardice wrapped around every choice I’ve made, she’d take it back. Hell, I’d take it back.
She doesn’t know I took the coward’s way out. She doesn’t know I handed Buff and Froggy a death sentence.
We inhale breakfast, then say our goodbyes. It’s always hard leaving Maggie, but the sooner we go, the safer she is. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her because of us.
Leaving her porch feels like tearing a bandage off and exposing the raw wound underneath.
We’re about a quarter mile away when we shift again. That’s when I smell the sage. Stronger than usual—she’s burning a shit-ton to mask our scent. It’ll mask the cubs’ scent too.
My chest aches at the thought. Maggie shielding us even now, even when we bring nothing but danger to her door.
The twelve hours helped, but it wasn’t enough. We need to run faster. The good food fuels us, but exhaustion still hangs heavy. We’ve got at least a full day until the Canadian border. Even with rest, we’re running at a deficit.
My muscles feel like they’re filled with wet sand; every stride drags, every breath scrapes. The finish line feels a lifetime away.
My eyes keep drifting closed. I’m not thinking anymore, just putting one paw in front of the other. Head low, senses numb. Which is exactly why I don’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late.
The world narrows to the mud beneath my paws and the breath shuddering out of my lungs. No past, no plan, just instinct and survival. But even instinct is fading.
The forest thins.
The trees spread out.
And we come face-to-face with two horses.
My heart lurches, too tired to decide whether to panic or pray.