Chapter 13

Chapter 13

I pour some lukewarm milk into a sandwich bag and tie it at the top. It's well after midnight... maybe four or five in the morning, I don't know. I'm starting to realize how short the nights are in Canada—the sun doesn't properly set until almost ten, and it rises again maybe five hours later. A half-moon peeks out overhead between the treetops, pale in the thin strip of visible sky, which is already beginning to turn a soft orange. Luckily tonight isn't as cold as most nights, because Brendan's got the side door and all the windows wide open, probably to air out the stench of wolf and puke. Now the whole camper smells like rosin and spruce needles. It sort of reminds me of the sage ointment Jayden and I had to use when we had coughs.

Baggie in hand, I walk back to my bed. I've built a little hollow for Grey, with a towel underneath him and the blanket rolled up in a ring around him, like an igloo without a roof. Whenever he's awake, he whimpers so pitifully that I wish I could keep him snuggled against my body so he'll know he isn't alone... but I can't, because I need both hands to get these milk baggies ready for him.

He needs to gain weight. I know it's selfish, but I want him to stay here with me. It's the thing I want second-most in the world. After my freedom.

Carefully, I hold the baggie to his mouth, and he starts suckling immediately. I let him have a bit more this time—I started him on ten gulps, and I'm increasing it gradually. So far, he's kept everything down.

My arms jingle as I squeeze the milk through the tiny opening for Grey. Brendan threaded some small bells onto cable ties, like pearls on a string, and then put one cable tie around each of my wrists, so I sound like a court jester every time I move. It's still nice to be free of the chains, though. Now that Brendan's taken them off, I can truly appreciate how obnoxious they were. Now I don't have to watch out to make sure I don't trip on them or get caught on stuff. Not to mention the whole constant, burning awareness of being chained up, of being a prisoner.

Grey keeps suckling on the empty bag, kicking against the blanket with his tiny paws, maybe hoping it will stimulate the flow of more milk. He's so small. Carefully, I unroll the blanket and lie down next to him, nestling my head against his so that he can feel my hair. When I was little and my dad was still alive, I found a kitten underneath some sagebrush, probably barely two months old, and somehow I managed to convince Dad to let me keep it. Every night when I went to bed, the kitten would snuggle in by my hair and purr, probably because my hair reminded it of its mother's fur. If Brendan hadn't cut my hair, I'd be able to cover Grey in it now.

I draw him closer and cover him gently with my hand, scritching his thin pelt. "It's okay, Grey," I whisper in the most comforting tone I can manage. "I'll make sure he doesn't drown you. He wants you to make it too, I know it. Even if he doesn't say so."

Grey doesn't start whimpering again. Maybe he's fallen asleep.

I allow myself to shut my eyes for a minute, too. The egg timer Brendan gave me is going to go off in an hour, and then I'll have to do the whole thing again, put the kettle back on and mix some more milk. I turn over what I just said about Brendan in my mind. Deep down, I think I genuinely believe it. Good people do good things , he said earlier. He found Grey and brought him home. He could have simply left Grey in the wilderness, knowing some other animal would eventually eat him, but he brought him here. Either to raise him, or to put him out of his misery. I think he probably would have done the same thing if he'd been out here alone. He just does what he thinks he needs to do. He didn't cut my hair to be cruel; he did it because he was trying to make me less afraid. Although I'm not all that convinced by the argument that a guy wouldn't chop off a girl's hair if he was planning on having his way with her, I do buy that he was doing it as more of a symbolic gesture. Weirdly, it didn't even make me mad when he did it, because I did buy his explanation—and I actually was less afraid afterward. As much as I hate to, I have to admit that not everything he does is completely terrible.

Grey burrows his head deeper into my hair, and his tiny muzzle nudges my ear.

"It's okay, Grey, I'm here," I whisper, and the bells jingle as I adjust my hand. Grey's breathing is even, and he seems to be keeping the milk down again this time. He's going to pull through.

I keep my eyes closed, but I can't sleep. A whiff of cigarette smoke wafts in through the open window, along with the sound of the campfire crackling. Every once in a while, I hear Brendan put another log on. I listen closely for the howling wolves we've heard on so many other nights, but tonight they're silent. I wonder whether Grey's mother was part of that pack, or if her pack was just her and her mate and Grey's siblings, which is what Brendan thinks. I feel Grey's warmth against my ear and cheek, and for the first time in weeks, I don't feel quite so alone. I even manage to doze off, and when the timer goes off, I startle upright.

"You can sleep a while longer," I hear Brendan say. "I'll put the kettle on." I blink sleepily at him and then at Grey, who's awake because I moved and is turning his little head back and forth, searching for me. Immediately, I lie down beside him again and snuggle my hair against his head.

"Tomorrow, I'll cut up a bedsheet and make a sling so you can carry him like a baby," Brendan says. When I hear the words "cut up," I remember the scissors in the overhead cabinet.

I nod, but inside, I make myself a promise: I'm going to nurse Grey back to health and pretend like I'm coming to terms with this whole situation. Grey will even help me with that, because I actually do feel better when he's around. And while I'm taking care of Grey, I'm going to work out a new escape plan, a super well-thought-out one that will work. I just have to get Brendan to stop putting the chains on me. For good, I mean. I can't run right away, of course; I have to wait it out, to make him trust me more and more.

I pet Grey softly. "But first you have to live," I murmur quietly to him.

When Grey's two-day reprieve is up, Brendan takes the scale out of the kitchen cupboard. I'm so anxious I accidentally bite the inside of my own cheek.

"Put him on," Brendan orders, his expression perfectly neutral. His lips are thin and hard, his eyes impossible to read.

My hands shake as I place the bundle of fur that will someday be a wolf onto the tray. Grey drank plenty of milk, but he had some mild diarrhea, too. Now I'm afraid he's lost too much water, or that he'll stop keeping the milk down.

"You need to let go of him, Louisa."

It's so hard to take my hands away. I feel like I'm abandoning Grey when he needs me.

Brendan pushes the button on the side of the scale. His eyebrows drift upward, and I detect a hint of a smile on his face. "He's gained eight ounces," he says, sounding relieved. "That's really good."

"It is?" I ask in a trembling voice. I'm not letting myself get my hopes up. Apparently, I'm getting to be a real pro at that, because now I genuinely can't believe I'm hearing good news.

Brendan nods, and I see the rigid mask fall away from his face.

"So you're not going to drown him?" I reach for Grey, but Brendan gets there first, picks him up, and puts him in my arms.

"No. I think he's turned a corner. Now all we can do is hope he keeps gaining." His eyes shift from me to Grey. "You should probably go on feeding him frequently for a few more days. Every two hours, maybe. I'll help if you want—I can do part of the night shift."

I blink, sleepy but relieved. I've barely slept in two days, and I'm only now realizing how much my bones ache. "Sounds good," I say, forcing myself to keep my tone breezy. "It'd be great to get a few hours of sleep in a row again."

Brendan regards me quizzically—surprised by the ease in my voice, maybe. "Okay, I'll take the second half of the night, then."

Should I mention the chain? Is it too soon to ask for that? Will he get suspicious? Maybe I should be patient about that.

"Do you want to eat outside with me tonight?" Brendan asks as he puts the scale back in the bottom cupboard. "We could drink to Grey's will to live." He straightens up and turns his gaze to me.

My stomach does a flip-flop, and I feel the blood draining from my face. Maybe hearing me use a friendly tone of voice makes him think he's going to get lucky. Or is he expecting gratitude because of Grey?

"Hey, Lou." He pulls on a too-long strand of my hair—not hard, but not gently, either. "It's just eating and drinking a toast. Maybe laughing a little. That's all."

"Eating and toasting," I echo, forcing myself to concentrate on not clutching Grey too tightly. "Okay. If you promise not to put anything in my drink."

Brendan's expression darkens immediately. "I thought we were past that."

"And I thought you weren't going to touch me," I say in a tight voice.

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture, palms out. "Sorry, I was just joking. And it was only your hair."

"Bad joke."

"I agree. I shouldn't have provoked you."

We lapse into silence for a while.

"So what do you think about this evening?" Brendan asks, sounding for all the world like a boy trying to get a date.

"Only if you don't put the chain on me," I blurt out before I can stop myself. "Um, I mean... because it's been two days, and... you said two days..." So much for patience. I'll have to do better than this when it comes to my escape plan.

Brendan shrugs almost nonchalantly. "I was planning to start leaving them off during the day anyway. At least while Grey's going to need to be fed. After that, we'll see."