11. Eye Level
The woman nods, her expression grave. "She shouldn't be out there alone. Not with her injuries, and certainly not in her state of mind."
"We'll find her," he replies with quiet confidence.
I listen intently, piecing together what's happening. This Nadya who attacked us, maybe she is related to the wolf who was shot. The thought makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.
The woman's gaze shifts to me, her eyes narrowing. "So this is the Communicator?" She steps closer, examining me openly. "She doesn't look like much."
I stand still, trying to focus on my breathing while I feel the scrutinizing glances on me.
"Nadya deserves justice for her son," another woman says loudly.
Oh. My breath catches in my throat as understanding washes over me.
"Her son was barely sixteen," someone calls out from the gathering crowd. "Just a boy!"
"The humans need to pay for what they did," another voice adds, anger vibrating through the words.
The murmurs grow louder, like the rumble before a storm. People begin to press closer, their faces hardening with each passing second. I try to make myself smaller, painfully aware of how vulnerable I am. The leader raises his hand, and the crowd falls silent—a testament to his authority. "Enough."
"We know what happened," a man spits. "The humans shot him, we need consequences. We need justice for our boy."
"And they'll pay," the leader says, his voice carrying across the clearing. "But we'll do this right. We're not like them."
More muttering follows, but the hostility in the air seems to decrease slightly. Still, I can feel their eyes on me—calculating, judging, hating.
The leader turns to me, his expression unreadable. "This way." He gestures for me to follow him, careful not to touch me but positioning himself between me and the crowd as we walk. I can feel eyes boring into my back with each step.
"If you want to live, keep your head down," he advises under his breath. "And don't challenge anyone with your gaze."
We move away from the center of activity toward one of the smaller structures at the edge of the clearing.
The structure we approach is unlike anything I've seen before—a small house built in harmony with a massive tree, as if they've grown together.
Branches weave through parts of the roof and walls.
"You'll stay here tonight," he says, opening a door.
I step inside, and he follows, closing the door behind us. The interior is simple but comfortable—a small table with chairs, a few shelves with books and other items, and two doors leading to what I assume are other rooms.
"The pack is on edge," he says, his voice tight.
The weight of that responsibility settles heavily on my shoulders. "Nadya, her son is the wolf who was shot today?"
He nods once, his jaw tightening. "Sixteen years old. First time in human territory."
The implications of that hang in the air between us.
"You can change in there," he finally says, nodding toward one of the doors, and I suddenly become acutely aware of how disheveled I must look.
I step into the small room and close the door behind me. My legs nearly give out as the adrenaline finally begins to fade. I lean against the wall, letting out a long, shaky breath. I'm alive. Despite everything, I'm still alive.
My hands tremble slightly as I pull off my backpack and rummage through it, finding the clean t-shirt I packed. Hope really does spring eternal.
My long-sleeved uniform is muddy from the journey, and I peel it off, leaving the white top underneath. I pull on the fresh t-shirt and take a deep breath before stepping back into the main room.
The leader looks up from where he's standing by the table. His eyes suddenly narrow and he walks toward me. Instinctively, I back up until I feel the door behind me. What have I done know?
"Who touched you?" he asks, his voice sharp, coming to a stop in front of me.
"What?" I ask, genuinely confused.
He doesn't move closer, but his gaze is fixed on my arm.
I look down and notice the bruises forming a distinct handprint around my forearm.
For a second, I actually have no idea how I got it, until I suddenly remember.
It's John's handprint. I'd completely forgotten about that moment in all the chaos.
"Who did it?" he repeats, his tone shifting to something cooler, more controlled.
"Why do you care? I was almost killed by one of your wolves tonight."
"Maybe," he acknowledges, "but shouldn't humans treat each other better than this? We don't tolerate violence against anyone in our pack."
This catches me off guard. After all the warnings about aggressive wolves, this statement contradicts everything I've been told.
"What are the consequences for this with humans?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
Good question. I could probably file a report, but Mr. Miller would likely dismiss it. And John would just say it happened in the chaos of the moment, and they'd both agree I was exaggerating.
"Nothing," I answer honestly.
"Nothing?" The disbelief in his voice is genuine. "There has to be something. You talk so much about your precious justice system. What does it say about that?"
"Well..."
"In our world," he continues, "violence against each other will always have consequences. We teach our young pups that from the beginning."
I open my mouth, but no words come out. It's jarring to realize that wolves—whom humans describe as "uncivilized" and "wild"—might actually have more advanced social protections than we do.
"It's actually quite normal in the human world to suffer from violence and have no one take responsibility..." I look at my arm and add, "especially for women."
His expression shifts into something I can't quite read—a mixture of disgust and disbelief, but not directed at me.
"Your kind call us savage," he says quietly, dangerously. "Yet you allow your own to be marked like property?" He gestures toward my bruised arm. "And you do nothing?"
The intensity in his eyes makes me uncomfortable, but I hold his gaze. "Our systems are... imperfect."
"Imperfect," he repeats, the word dripping with disdain. "Is that what you call it?"
He steps back abruptly and moves to the table. "Sit," he says—not a request, but not quite a command either.
I sit down at the table and look up at him still standing. The silence stretches between us. "Tell me everything you know about what happened today," he demands suddenly, his tone harsh.
The abrupt change throws me off balance, but I recover quickly. "That's not how this works."
"Excuse me?" He asks, his tone dripping with arrogance.
"If you want information, you should learn how to ask for it properly. There are principles to communication."
He stares at me for a long moment. "Principles, you say," he crosses his arms, looking at me contemptuously. He leans forward a little.
"What kind of principles?" he asks, his voice laced with distaste.
"Well, for example, we learned that to communicate effectively, we have to see everyone as equal and..." I stop, looking up at him.
"And what?" The challenge in his voice is clear.
"And having a conversation at 'eye level' or 'face to face,' whatever you want to call it, is important."
"Eye level," he repeats skeptically, still looking down at me.
"Yes," I maintain eye contact as he starts to move.
"What are you doing?" I try to lean back in my chair, but there's no room left.
"What does it look like?" he says, lowering himself on his knees in front of me. "You wanted eye level, you got it. Now tell me exactly what happened with those boys in the forest, I'm listening."