See? I am a dog going home, not the foreign mate of a foreign Alpha running away from a nice werewolf.

I found myself in a garden that was much bigger than the four-board fence had made it appear, because the garden extended along the space between the two buildings and into a back area that was pretty and green.

There was a dog in the garden—a very big dog who couldn’t have squeezed out the hole I’d squeezed in through. The large female mastiff came around the corner of the building just as my follower grabbed the top of the fence and chinned himself up to look over the fence.

The werewolf probably thought I smelled weird. It is hard to smell yourself—but I’d been in an accident, been hauled to Italy, smuggled myself aboard a diesel bus, then traveled halfway across Europe. “Interesting” was probably a light word for what I smelled like. Maybe he’d caught a whiff of pack, but since I could hardly feel them, I didn’t think so.

The mastiff, bless her, welcomed me into her yard like a golden retriever welcoming a burglar into his home—that is to say, with a wagging tail and licks of affection. That is not my usual experience with mastiffs, but I wasn’t going to complain. The werewolf in human form laughed, dropped off the fence, and patted it. He said something cheerful and quiet—and he left.

I snuggled against the lonely mastiff for maybe a half hour before getting up from her side and sliding back under the fence. She didn’t notice my going. Her quiet snores made me feel guilty, like a lover who sneaks away in the night. I was comforted by her sleek, well-groomed body; someone loved her.

I checked the fence from habit—and yes, I’d left some fur behind, but that couldn’t be helped short of changing back to human and cleaning the bottom of the boards—naked. So I ignored it and walked off thoughtfully (and painfully—I was becoming less pleased with the cobblestones with every step).

I probably would have returned to my camping spot, but I didn’t want to go straight back to where my purloined backpack was. I was being paranoid, but paranoia was a good thing. The Lord of Night was after me.

The circuitous route back to the restaurant took me through the old Jewish Quarter—I knew that because there were lots of signs for lost English-speaking tourists like me to follow. And because of the Old-New Synagogue.

The Old-New Synagogue was about six hundred years old or so, which made it the oldest operating synagogue in Europe. I only remembered all of that because I thought the name was funny. I’d wondered about the Old-Old Synagogue, but I guess the name was a translation error and there wasn’t one. Still, it was an awesome name—and the building was interesting-looking.

Six hundred years old. I stared at it and tried to imagine how it would feel to be Bran or the Moor and look at such things and remember before they were built. To look around the city and realize that the oldest thing in this old city was probably you.