“The meadows now all wait for us.…”

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

Deep, deep in the earth, deep behind the stones that lined the chamber, roots and grubs and creeping things stirred. Death. They smelled it—to them, the sweetness of clover. They sensed it—the eagerness of earth.

They crept through the soil; they crept past the stones. They swarmed into the open, over the walls and floor. Little legs, little feeling mouths, they found the bodies—a girl, a wolf. No, not this one. Not the girl with smooth, hairless shape; she was not ready. But here—this one: the one with the fur-jutting bones and clover-sweet breath. Yes, this one. The wolf. How ready it was.

Sticky-footed, open-mouthed, roots and grubs and creeping things traced the form, feeling for where the body was letting go, feeling where it might be unlaced.

How astonished they were, all these soft mouths, when they discovered—oh, the handiwork! Yes, the body was loosening, but look! Look how it had been stitched up before! They had never seen such a thing. They swarmed and swarmed. They peeked beneath. Gentle mandibles, they mouthed what they found.

Wolf.

And boy sleeping beneath.

They buzzed and trilled with excitement and awe. The artistry—as fine as decay. Stitching so intricate, they could hardly sense where one form ended and the other began—boy and wolf were so laced together.

The creeping things wondered and wondered. Could the two not be unstitched? Could the form not be unmade? For death was arriving… and the two beings could not live together.

Carefully, carefully, their fragile feet tapped at the souls. Boy. Wolf. One so wide and wild, one so wild and generous, but no, they could not stay together.

The intricate lacework—the beautiful stitching—was a difficult unraveling. In the dark, feeling their way, the creeping things tugged and pulled. They unpicked and unstitched. They searched out what was wolf and what was boy. Skin and fur, maw and mouth, tooth and fang, thumb and claw and tail—they uncovered the parts—a delicate dismantling. Soft grub mouths and tender insect antennae, they delighted in uncovering life in what had already begun to decay.

In the end, after all their unthreading, two forms curled on the floor: one all fur, the other all skin. One breathing the deep and steady breaths of a dream, the other not breathing at all. In the end, had any asked, Did the wolf survive? the answer would be no. But the boy uncovered beneath… oh, oh yes.

The roots and grubs and creeping things patted the third body beside the two they had unpicked—no, not this one. This girl is not yet ready. But soon.

Rae turned in her sleep. She dreamed of an empty hand, of a babe on a mountain, of a bird with a nectar-filled beak. She dreamed of a gentle wolf mouth and eager pups wriggling and warmth curled in a den. She dreamed of wordlessness. Still sleeping, she searched through the dark until, with her fingers, she found a hand to hold. Dreaming, she clasped it. She held it tight. She would not let it go.