The Hunt

The trail cut through the Colorado Rockies like a scar left by something that hadn't healed right.

Lyra crouched at the edge of a frozen stream, her breath curling in the thin air, and pressed two fingers to the mud at the waterline. The print was fresh. Hours old at most. Deep heel, wide toe spread, the faint drag of claws against silt. A wolf moving fast, carrying weight. A wolf carrying something, or someone.