Lizzie Holman had always given me the impression that she was a true believer. She radiated a serenity that calmed even the most neurotic animals under her care. As someone who had always struggled with the Catholic religion in which I was raised, I envied her faith. I might have resented it a little, too.

I had no tattoos, nor did I have need of artificial mementos; my body was adorned with scars. There was the permanent starburst of capillaries on my torso where a .45 ACP round had flattened itself against my bulletproof vest. There was the red line on my arm from when I’d fended off a crazed woman with a butcher knife. There was the white stitching along my hairline where a biker had broken a beer bottle over my head. These half-healed wounds told the story of my life more than a tapestry of inked images ever could.

“His heartbeat is fantastic, Mike,” Lizzie said, moving her stethoscope around Shadow’s furred chest. She was a competitive runner, with those narrow shoulders and twiggy limbs that some marathoners get. “His breathing, too. I’d never know he’d suffered a pierced lung.”

The wolf, during his brief sojourn in the wild, had been shot by a crossbow. The bolt had nearly killed him. Lizzie Holman had saved his life. And he had been with me ever since.

“That’s good to hear.”

“What about the damage to his ligaments? Do you ever see him limping or having trouble jumping up?”

“Sometimes his foreleg gives him problems. That’s never going to get better, will it?”

“Not until someone invents a program of physical therapy for wolves.”

Lizzie’s eyes were sunken, but bright and clear with good health and the serenity I mentioned. “I understand you brought a stool sample. We also need to draw blood and extract some urine. The usual tests. And I assume you want the full complement of shots. Unfortunately, most of them require a second dose be given in a couple weeks. How did he handle the trip today?”

“Those meds you gave me helped. He complained a lot in wolf-speak. I’m pretty sure he used foul language. I’m trying to get him reacquainted with the kennel.”

“You mentioned that you’ve been entering his pen more?”

“I have this idea he’ll be able to come inside my house eventually. I’m probably kidding myself. I doubt he’ll ever trust me enough. And I can’t say I wouldn’t have misgivings. I’ve watched him tear apart a road-killed deer in five minutes.”

She ran a bony hand through the fur along his rising and falling chest. “He’s got a divided soul, this one. Neither wild nor tame.”

Women had described me in similar terms.