A/N: This story is a sequel and/or spin-off of "Heart's Blood," featuring Noah. It's a stand-alone story, but builds off the previous characters and world. ('^_^). 

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Thump.

Shit.

It's 1 a.m., I've been driving all day, I'm so tired my eyes hurt, and I'm almost home.

And I just hit a dog.

Shit.

~ ☾ ~

I pull to the side of the road, the gravel crunching beneath the tires of my trusty Honda Civic, and park. The engine cuts as I turn the key, and with it the strains of classic jazz I'd been using to keep myself awake on my long drive through the night.

The silence it leaves is like a vacuum—cold, empty, dark, and strangely deafening. It rings in my ears, and I have a sudden urge to talk to myself just to break it.

"Why me?" is all I can think to say.

My destination, the remote mountain town of Spring Lakes, is only a few dozen miles further on. There, my brother is waiting for me, waiting to welcome me to a new home and a new pack; a promise of a fresh start that is the only thing sustaining me right now. And it's so close.

I could keep going. I could pretend I didn't see the dog.

"Who am I kidding?" I whisper to myself and sigh. "No, I can't."

I lean across the boxes piled in the passenger seat (my car is full of boxes—my possessions, such as they are—the remnants of a life undone) and open the glove compartment.

Rummaging through the assorted crap I keep in there (among which is, in fact, a pair of gloves) I find the flashlight.

When I bought it, it was a very bright flashlight.

That was some time ago.

I switch it on and swear as a weak yellow beam illuminates a tiny area and fails to penetrate more than two feet into the dark.

"Useless piece of shit," I say, unsure whether I'm talking more about the flashlight or myself.

I turn it off and return it to the glove-box, smack the compartment shut with the palm of my hand, and then press myself back against my seat and close my eyes.

"You're a werewolf, Noah," I tell myself. "Stop being such a wuss."

Easier said than done.

Carefully, I open the door and get out, biting back a groan as my legs take my weight after nearly six hours behind the wheel.

Not that I have a lot of weight for them to take. At all of five feet and six inches tall (with a very straight spine) I'm a shrimp. The runt of the litter, as my sisters like to say. Combined with the metabolism of a racehorse, I'm lucky when a strong gust of wind doesn't knock me down. Not that anyone would notice. My small stature makes me easy to overlook, and rather than compensate with a big personality and a loud voice, I've gone the other way.

Quiet as a mouse, as they say.

Although 'they' have clearly never lived with mice.

Bracing myself, I removed my glasses, tucking them carefully in the pocket of my vest, and let my eyes adjust to the dark.

It's a trick I've learned, over the years, and something not many of my kind can do—to shift only my eyes to those of a wolf. If anyone passed me on the road right now, as I walk back towards where I hit the dog, they would see my eyes flare with uncanny brightness in the headlights' beams.

This stretch of road is deserted, though, at this hour, and the surrounding woods loom ominous and still to either side. Thick and shadowy, pine, fir, and cedar stand shoulder to shoulder, a vast army of trees hiding a forest of dark secrets beneath their boughs.

The only sound is the crunch of gravel beneath my tan leather oxfords as I walk, and the whisper of my unsteady breath.

An owl hoots somewhere close by, and I jump as its eerie call breaks the silence and sends a somber echo through the trees.

"Asshole," I whisper, addressing the owl. Like I need to hear a spooky sound right now.

Finally, I see it: a pale, crumpled form lying in the stickery weeds by the side of the road.

Maybe I was wrong, I tell myself.

Maybe it wasn't a dog at all.

Maybe it was just a coyote, and I can just leave it here for the vultures and—

Nope. It's a dog. A golden retriever, just like I'd thought.

Poor thing.

What was it doing out here, all alone? There are no houses, no recreation areas, nothing for miles. Maybe it was lost or, worse, abandoned, and left to fend for itself. It probably got all excited when it heard a car, and then...

Bang. All over. Just like that.

I kneel beside it, intending to check for a collar—if it has a license, I can just take that—and then, to my heart-stopping horror, it whines.

It's still alive.

I gasp and back away as my heart instantly kicks into high gear.

A dead dog is one thing—a sad, day-ruining kind of thing, sure—but a living, badly injured dog is quite another.

"Oh my God. Oh my God, what do I do?" I ask myself, one hand on my brow as the dog whines once more. Then its tail moves with a pathetic little wag and I know I have only one choice.

"Hey, doggie, I'm so sorry," I say, kneeling beside it again and stroking its head. "I'm so sorry. I'm gonna get you help, okay? Nice doggie."

I lift it carefully and stand. It's not heavy—maybe forty pounds—but forty pounds of dead weight feels like a lot.

I make it back to my car and open the back door, shove aside some boxes with my foot, and lay the dog on the seat. Then I retrieve my blanket from the trunk (I may or may not have been sleeping in my car for the last several days) and wrap it around the poor thing.

Finally, I get back behind the wheel and look up the nearest emergency vet on my phone. It's in Spring Lakes, about twenty minutes away.

With a bit of speeding, I get there in fifteen.

~ ☾ ~

I park in front of Crystal River Veterinary Hospital (open 24/7) and retrieve the sad bundle from the back seat, relieved to feel it move a little as I do. I hadn't seen any blood, but I had no idea if the dog was just in shock or if it was on the verge of death.

Scooping it into my arms, I head for the door and punch the handicap button with my knee to open it. Striding through, I blink against the harsh brightness within (my eyes are human again, but fluorescent lights are kind to no one) and carry my burden towards the reception desk.

"Um, hello," I say, as the young woman seated behind it looks up at me. She has a bored expression, short auburn hair, and wears a set of teal-colored scrubs. "I—I need to see a doctor, right away, please."

She blinks at me from behind a pair of trendy glasses with pink frames.

"This is an animal hospital, sir," she says. "The ER is two blocks over, on Hawthorne and Main."

I admit I've had a rough few days, but surely I don't look that deranged.

"No, I mean—" I clear my throat and try to speak up, "—I mean that this dog, which I hit with my car, needs to see a doctor. Of veterinary medicine. Immediately. Please."

I do my best to lift the blanket high enough for her to see.

For a werewolf, I'm not very strong.

She glances at the bundle and turns back to her computer. "Have you seen us before?" she asks.

It takes me a moment to realize what she means. "Um, no. I've never been here before. This isn't my dog."

She stops typing and looks at me again, her small mouth bending downward in a little frown.

"I see. Well, you do understand that we can't treat an animal without a guarantee of payment. Bills are due at the time of service rendered."

"Uh..."

"If you want to surrender the animal, that's fine. We can scan for a microchip and try to contact an owner, but there's no guarantee."

Meaning that in the meantime, the poor dog...

One in the morning is not the best time for rational decision making, I've found.

"Yes," I hear myself say. "I mean, yes, I'll pay."

She smiles. It's not a particularly friendly expression. "Great."

Then she says something into the PA system, and almost immediately two other women emerge from somewhere and take the bundled blanket from my arms. Unlike the receptionist, they seem genuinely concerned for the dog, and after offering me some kind, if misplaced, words of sympathy for the sad plight of my pet, whisk it off into some back room and out of sight.

"Do you have a credit card?" the receptionist asks.

"Oh, er, yes."

I dig it out and hand it over.

She runs it, and then hands it back, along with a clipboard and a stack of forms.

"You'll need to fill these out," she says.

"Oh, okay." I take them. After a small hesitation, I ask, "Do you know how much this will cost? Because I don't really—"

"You'll know as soon as we do," she says, with something closer to real compassion. Maybe she's just not at her best at 1 am. Well, 1:28, by now.

I know I'm not.

"Have a seat," she says, indicating the waiting area. "Dr. Thorne's the best. Your poochie's in good hands."

"It's not my..." I start to protest, and then give up and go do as she says, taking a seat on a long wooden bench against one wall. It looks like it might have once been a church pew—oddly ornate in the otherwise bland sterility of the room—and it feels about as uncomfortable as one, too.

Settling the clipboard on my lap, I study it, the contrast of the text on the paper so sharp beneath the harsh lighting that it makes my eyes water. I blink and try to focus, filling out the first line.

Name: Noah J Hunter.

That's easy enough.

The next line though, has me stumped.

Address:

I realize, with a shock that makes my eyes blur and my breath stop, that I don't have one. Not at the moment, anyway. I'm an untethered boat, a bark adrift, a vessel between ports.

I'm in limbo.

And nowhere feels more like Limbo than a hospital waiting room (veterinary or otherwise) in the middle of the night.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall, breathing the scent of antiseptic and listening to the buzz of a fluorescent bulb, and wonder how I got here.

Homeless and alone, with my heart and my life in pieces, waiting to hear whether a dog I don't own, and don't really care about, is going to live or die, and wondering how much it will cost me either way.

If I'd only known.