Had the wolf heard? He paused, briefly, cocking his head, but did not stop his play: He tossed and gnawed his stick—in his game, it seemed to become a rabbit, a squirrel, a pheasant—while Rae looked on from above. Only when he started to tire and his leg began to drag did he creep away into his den again.

From then on, each time Rae returned, she saw more of the wolf. Rae knew he saw her. He watched her just as she watched him, his eyes steady and gray. She began to leave the food and water outside the cave, to call “Wolf!” after she’d climbed the tree. “Wolf!” He came to her voice, gobbling up whatever she left, lapping great mouthfuls of water. His leg grew stronger; he began straying farther. Once when Rae arrived, he was gone altogether, but when she called “Wolf!” he came trotting, still tender on his stride, out of the shadows.

She experimented. She climbed trees in different parts of the forest. “Wolf!” He followed her voice. She hid from him, burying herself deep in the green of a hemlock, clinging to its tender, swaying boughs. “Wolf!” He found her. When she was in the woods, he found her whether she called for him or remained hushed and still; he bounded after her the way he bounded after the stick he had tossed—lamblike, frolicsome. And as her own wound and bruise healed, fading from purple to palest green, she grew bolder, letting herself get closer and closer, choosing lower and lower branches in the trees, until she found herself not in the trees at all but beside him on the ground.

Rae surprised herself. It wasn’t a decision. Not really. She called and, without thinking, as she saw the wolf leaping gracefully, almost fully healed, through the ferns, she simply jumped out of the tree to meet him—as naturally as she would to greet Mop or Ness. He was beside her—his great heavy body, fur and strength and teeth and slaver—before she had a chance to reflect.

Rae froze, heart stopped in her chest. The wolf’s nose whuffled, his breath hot on her belly, her arms, her hands. He sniffed her all over, dark wet nose nudging her, smelling where she’d carried eggs, held sheep, picked wool, scrubbed carrots, pressed cheese. Youyouyou, his dark-nose nudging seemed to say, but not, Rae felt, in a way that spoke of hunger or fear or teeth. She trembled as he sniffed—youyouyouyou—shivering first with fear then burgeoning relief. They knew each other.

She wanted to lay her palm on his head; instead, hardly breathing, she held herself still. So close, she could see all the redness was gone from his wound; the skin was smooth and gray and scarring. “You’re better,” she said softly. Still nosing—youyouyou—the wolf turned his ears at her voice. Satisfied finally with all he could smell, he bounded away, but stood waiting, ears pricked, ready to come to her call.

All afternoon, Rae clambered through the trees. She hid in the green depths of bracken, in the shadowy boughs of firs. “Wolf!” Wherever she hid, he followed. Each time she caught sight of him bounding toward her, she beamed. “Meant to,” she whispered, feeling it to be true. She had been meant to find him, meant to tend to his wound. It was right she had done so. Each time he reached her, his whuffling nose greeted her with a relieved youyouyouyou.