no rest for the wicked

A lone wolf is a dead wolf, the words of Remi's mother repeated on a loop in her mind like a foreboding mantra. Her cropped ears shrank even further against the flat of her skull, head hunched tight between bony shoulders in an effort to hide from the strange sights, sounds and smells that lived in the swamp. She longed for the comfort of her pack and mourned for the loss of it. It hurt more than the removal of her ears and tail did. Her voice might have been lost too, but the damage to her throat had left her with a low raspy whisper.

Months had passed since she'd been attacked and cast out from her pack. The waif had wandered far, full of fear and empty of food. She scavenged what little she could and managed to survive the summer alone, but it was getting harder to bear. Her haunches collapsed beneath her in the sticky mud, exhaustion taking hold. Where would she go? How would she survive? The constant worries plagued her anxious mind and an unpleasant heaviness weighed on her thin frame.