Chapter 2
I remain petrified, rooted to the spot. His eye is a piercing electric blue, a color so intense and unnatural that it seems to pulse with its own bioluminescent light amidst the heart of the storm. There is no trace of aggression in that gaze, none of the feral glint one would expect from a cornered, wounded predator. Instead, there is a silent plea—a final, desperate remnant of a profound intelligence clinging to the fraying edges of existence. That blue eye anchors me to the frozen earth more firmly than the ice itself. I cannot let him die like this. Not under my watch. Not in my sanctuary.
"Don't move... well, I know you can't," I tell him, my voice trembling violently as I try to steady it, speaking more to convince myself than to soothe him. "I'm going to help you. I promise."
I bolt back inside the house, panic injecting a surge of adrenaline that makes me momentarily oblivious to the biting cold. I scramble through the linen closet, grabbing the thickest sheet I own and a heavy wool blanket. I step back out, and this time the frost pierces straight to my marrow, but I no longer care.
As I reach his side, the logistical nightmare of the situation sets in. This creature is massive. He must weigh at least two hundred pounds of pure muscle and sodden fur. It is physically impossible for me to lift him. I have to be smarter than the strength I lack.
My mind races feverishly as I spread the sheet on the ground, flush against his spine. I drop to my knees in the snow, feeling the ice bite into my skin with a cruelty that is actually necessary to keep me focused and awake.
"Forgive me, this is probably going to hurt a lot," I whisper, hoping the cadence of my voice conveys that I am not a threat.
I sit on the ground, digging my boots into the packed snow to find enough traction to keep from sliding. The plan is simple but grueling: I have to get him onto the sheet first. I position my legs on either side of his inert body and brace my thighs against his uninjured side, careful to avoid direct contact with the gaping wound. I can't lift him... I'll have to roll him.
With a groan of exertion that tears at my throat, I shove with the full weight of my back while simultaneously heaving the sheet from the other side. The enormous dog lets out a low, hollow growl—a deep vibration that I feel echoing in my own bones. The scent of blood intensifies, hot and metallic in the freezing air. I feel the warmth of the liquid soaking through my robe, staining my hands and my clothes. A wave of dizziness threatens to disconnect me, to send me spiraling into the dark, but I grit my teeth until my jaw aches.
"Move, damn it!" I scream, delivering one last, desperate thrust with my legs.
With a clumsy, heavy thud, the dog's body finally rolls onto the fabric. I gasp for air, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged bird trying to shatter its own wings. But the labor is far from over. Now comes the hardest part: dragging him to the house.
I stand up, wrapping the ends of the sheet around my hands until the fabric cuts off my circulation, and I begin to pull. My muscles burn as if they are literally on fire. I move backward, inch by inch, facing away from the cabin as my feet slip repeatedly in the slush and mud churned up by the animal's immense weight. Every inch is a victory bought with pain. Negotiating the two small steps of the porch requires a superhuman effort that makes me see stars in the darkness. Finally, with one last heave that leaves me completely breathless, I cross the threshold and drag him into the center of the living room.
I slam the door shut, throw the bolt, and collapse by his side. The warmth from the heater envelops us immediately, but under the warm glow of the indoor lights, the sight is far more gruesome than I imagined.
He lies there on my light-colored rug, leaving a trail of filth, mud, and gore that looks like a violent crime scene. I sink to the floor beside him, my hands shaking so uncontrollably that I have to press them hard against my thighs. Seeing my own palms coated in his blood triggers the nausea again with renewed force. I rush to the bathroom and retch into the sink, my fingers gripping the cold porcelain rim until my knuckles turn white.
"Calm down, Cassandra. Breathe. If you pass out now, he dies," I tell my reflection. My face is as pale as a ghost's, my eyes wide and frantic.
I return to the living room. The dog is barely breathing; his chest rises and falls in increasingly long, terrifying intervals. With clumsy fingers, I grab my phone and search: "how to treat a deep wound in a dog," "first aid for large animals." Nothing I read seems sufficient for a laceration of this magnitude. I check the time: it's two in the morning. I can't believe how much time has slipped away. No veterinarians are open at this hour, and even if they were, I have no way to transport him nor the money to pay for an emergency night call.
"I'll have to do it myself," I whisper, feeling the crushing weight of fate settling on my shoulders.
I retrieve the first-aid kit from the bathroom. I have alcohol, gauze, and a suture kit I've kept since my grandmother, with her rural wisdom, taught me how to stitch wounds on the farm. I also find an old bottle of whiskey someone gifted me ages ago. The latter will serve... for disinfection and, perhaps, to give me the courage I am sorely lacking.
I heat water in the microwave and return to his side. I sit on the floor once more, straddling him with infinite gentleness. With the warm water, I begin to wash the wound. As I clear away the crust of dirt and frozen snow, the cut reveals itself in all its raw brutality. Someone attacked him with pure malice. The cut is clean, diagonal, almost surgical. This wasn't an accident with a jagged branch or a territorial scrap with another wolf.
"Who did this to you?" I ask, as the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
The dog doesn't answer, obviously. He doesn't even whimper when the alcohol touches his open flesh; he is far too weak to defend himself or even to process the pain. I take advantage of this semi-conscious state to begin stitching. My hands, which were trembling moments ago, become strangely steady, guided by a surge of pure adrenaline. Every time the needle pierces his thick skin, I feel a small electric jolt in my fingertips. My mind disconnects from the gore and focuses solely on the task, following the instructions of a tutorial video playing on a loop on my phone, propped against a cushion.
Stitch after stitch. Knot after knot. When I finally finish, I bandage him tightly, wrapping his massive torso with strips of clean cloth. I am utterly exhausted. Moving him to pass the bandages underneath was like trying to shift a mountain of living stone.
I can already predict that my meager rent savings are destined to vanish tomorrow on medication and, if I'm lucky, a clandestine visit from a vet who won't ask too many questions. But in this moment, looking at this being breathing heavily in my living room, money feels like a problem from a completely different lifetime.
I go to the kitchen, warm up some chicken broth, and, using a dropper I normally use for my plants, I begin to hydrate him drop by drop between his long, sharp, white fangs. I follow with water.
Finally, I drag a pile of blankets over and cover him completely, leaving only his snout exposed. I watch him, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction mixed with a latent, buzzing terror. The fear hasn't left; it has only changed shape. What if he wakes up and tears my throat out? What if he decides I'm his next meal? I've heard stories of large dogs turning on their owners... and this isn't even a normal dog.
The adrenaline begins to ebb, leaving a heavy vacuum in my muscles. I retrieve my small air pistol—the only thing I have for defense in this isolated cabin—and migrate to the sofa, just a few feet away from him. My eyelids feel like they weigh tons. The last thing I see before succumbing to sleep is the flicker of the fireplace reflecting off his fur, now clean, and those blue eyes that, before closing, seemed to trust a human being for the very first time.