Epilogue
MOLLY
Ajolt shoots through my body in response to the piercing blare of the radio that sits docked on the dresser. I feel my shoulders jerk as my eyes fly open, blinking in the dark as my brain plays catch-up; trying at warp speed to orient itself to reality.
The blaring has ceased, but a loud and prominent static fills the room, letting me know I’m not off the hook and there’s a matter that needs my attention.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Wolf grumbles from behind me, and I don’t need to turn over to know his eyes are still closed, he has an arm shoved under his pillow and his features are all pulled tightly into a vexed scowl.
“Ignore it,” he gripes, laying a heavy arm over me and pulling me back into his body; close enough that I can feel his disgruntled breath on my neck.
I’m not happy about the hour either, but that’s the job and I love the job.
“Do you ignore it when you’re on call?” I challenge him, my tone dubious but still thick with sleep.
“Ughh,” he grunts, and I know it’s because I got him there. My radio bleeps again and he lets out another caveman expletive as I manage to lift his leaden arm off of me and shimmy to the edge of the bed.
Shuffling in the dark, I make my way over to pick up the radio, propping an elbow on the dresser to rest my head against as I answer.
“Owens five, go.”
Our on-call dispatch comes through in crackly spurts.
“Jefferson Creek - looks like a river otter - won’t run away but fights when someone gets near it - open gash that looks like a superficial laceration…”
Rubbing my eyes, and pushing my hair out of my face, I nod along until my sleep-addled brain remembers they can’t see me and I respond affirmative, asking for a twenty minute response time.
I put the bathroom light on and leave the door cracked to provide me just enough light to get dressed.
As I pull on my jeans, the endorphins start to set in and wake me up just a little bit at a time.
I’ve never gotten to work with an otter before and the realization that this is my life - heading out into the middle of the night to help an animal - is giving me just enough of a push to move quickly. I’ll still need coffee of course…
Our experience helping the injured bobcat seemed to stick with Wolf, and the more we settled into our life together, the more he talked about forming an animal triage unit to the Owens outfit.
The team includes myself and a collection of other aspiring veterinary medicine students in the area.
I still want to be a licensed vet one day, but the time I’ve spent in therapy and with my family has shown me I’m in no hurry.
And God, has this new job ever been rewarding.
We’ve just graduated from our trial period to an up and working division of the outfit, and so far, I feel like I might just want to stay where I am.
I’ve just wrangled myself into a cotton bralette when I see the covers on Wolf’s side of the bed get whipped aside. I turn to regard him and even in the meager light of the bedroom, sure enough, every feature of his face is pulled into a tight sour puss as he swings his legs out.
“Can’t they send someone else?” he bargains. “There’s got to be another vet student you could call.”
“It’s a river otter,” I emphasize as I braid my hair to the side, my fingers working quickly. “There’s no way in hell I’m not going.”
“Who the hell is even up at this hour to notice an injured otter?” His griping continues as he snatches yesterday’s jeans off the nearby chair.
“Mr. Karas. You know that’s his ‘bite window’ for trout - you know what, what’s the big deal?” I glare at him as I pull on my Owens Wildlife Wardens fleece. “Just go back to sleep.”
“It’s still pitch black out there,” he says, stepping into his jeans.
“And?”
“And my wife isn’t going out in the middle of the black night alone to answer some wildlife distress call.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you,” he drolls out like someone is holding a gun to his head.
My shoulders feel heavy as I watch him amble over to the dresser, pulling out a t-shirt. He clearly didn’t hear the location of the animal, and while my lips part open to speak, the right words don’t seem to want to form on them.
“You don’t have to, I’ll be fine,” I weakly decide as he slips the grey t-shirt over his head.
“I’m coming with you, end of story.”
“Wolf, it’s Jefferson Creek.” It comes out on a rattled sigh.
The stall in his movements is instant but subtle, as if someone hit the pause button in a movie.
I don’t need to tell him that this creek is off Skyview Road; the place he still has trouble going near.
His eyes shift to the ceiling as he fumbles with his belt.
While his mind seems to be mulling over this piece of information, his body clearly has no intention of slowing its progression.
It’s been two years since we got married and he decided this was something he wanted to overcome.
Unfortunately, it hasn’t come as easy and quickly as we would’ve hoped.
The couple times we’ve tried could’ve gone worse, as we prepared him pretty well for them; they just didn’t go exactly well either.
One time, he tensed up and seemed to space out, and I had to grab the wheel to keep us from going off the road.
The next time several weeks after that, the same thing happened pretty much only while I was driving - as we’d learned from the time before.
That time, he seemed to really check out, his whole face going blank while staring straight ahead at seemingly nothing.
I’d pulled over, and tried to talk him down, but he would barely respond.
It wasn’t until I drove us at least another half mile away that he seemed to come back to the present.
These were clearly his own mind’s attempts to protect him and it’s been a while since we’ve tried again.
And yet, here Wolf is at barely three in the morning, pushing his wild hair out of his face as he puts his trusty ballcap in place; giving the bill a couple of tugs.
“Wolf,” I address him carefully, stuffing my hands in the back pockets of my jeans.
He stands at the head of the stairs a moment before letting a long breath out his nose and finally speaks. “I’m coming along.” His voice is a soft mutter, but allows for no argument as he turns and trudges down the stairs.
I press my lips in a line and mentally nudge my legs to move, following him down.
Once coffee is made and poured into our to-go mugs, we lock up and head outside, arguing over whose truck to take. It’s annoying, but I allow it as it serves as a distraction for him, a sense of normalcy. What I don’t allow is his presumption that he’s going to drive.
“Nooo…” I draw the word out with soft admonishment as Wolf swings the driver’s side door of his truck open. “We’ll take your truck but I’m driving.”
Wolf lets his head drop back to regard me over his shoulder. His green eyes beckon in the flood light affixed to the side of the house.
“Molly… come on.”
“Nuh-uh.” I come up close, wedging myself between him and the seat.
“Molly, I got it. It’ll be fine, I can feel it.”
“Nope,” I look up at him, giving him a look I’ve come to learn he can’t resist. The one that very gently but effectively dares him to challenge me.
He finally blinks, looking away as he lets out a breath, dragging it over gravel before he leans in close to me. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he states, squeezing mine before moving past me to round the back of the truck.
I hop in and start the engine but before getting in the passenger side, I watch as Wolf crosses the yard, his silhouette moving against the barn's floodlight and his breath floating off as vapor into the unknown.
After unlocking the freezer, he tosses a cutlet of salmon out into the yard and turns, coming back towards the truck as the unmistakable outline of Velvet dashes into the clearing and just as quickly bolts back to the trees with the morsel of fish.
“Mutt,” he grunts, climbing into the cab.
“You love her,” I return as I put the truck in gear to pull out onto the dirt drive.
The sound of the road beneath our tires drones steadily in the dark and though neither Wolf nor I feel inclined to fill the silence, I inwardly brace myself for the turn coming up.
I slow the truck as I come to the fork and give Wolf a quick glance in my peripheral before making the left turn onto Skyview.
Once I’ve turned us back straight, I feel his hand creep over into my lap.
I take hold of it, wrapping my fingers around his larger ones and give it the lightest of squeezes.
I don’t mention it out loud, but this is the farthest we’ve gotten. Either the darkness is making for good blinders for Wolf, or his stubborn determination to not let me come out here alone is the most advanced form of armor. Either way, I decide not to bring attention to it.
It’s dark, our headlights picking up little else than what’s straight ahead of us, but I know when we come to the three-way intersection; the one where the drunk driver had blown the stop sign and would’ve put himself straight into the old oak tree on the other side had it not been for Wolf’s parents driving past at that moment.
I can feel Wolf still beside me, as the outermost scope of the headlights scrape along the sides of the road.
I only barely take note of the green and white road sign of Wembley - the road the other driver was coming down - on my left and the oak he pinned Wolf’s parents against on my right.
My attention is too hyperfocused on my husband beside me, who simply squeezes my hand.
I squeeze back, not looking at him, not wanting to break whatever protective bubble he has in place for himself because he sure as hell has something working for him at the moment.
With the crash site behind us, I make no mention of the accomplishment. I just keep hold of his hand on my lap and keep on driving.