Dana stood over the carcass, breathing hard. Around her, the orchard had gone silent.
The other wolves had retreated, but they'd be back. Hunger was a patient enemy.
She dragged the body away from the house, leaving it near the tree line. Let the pack have their leader.
Maybe it would satisfy them, buy her time to reinforce the perimeter.
Inside, Dana checked the cellar door. Still secure.
If Luca had heard the shots, he was keeping quiet.
She made fresh coffee and sat at the kitchen table, waiting for dawn. The rifle lay across her lap, chamber loaded.
Outside, she could hear the soft sounds of feeding—the pack claiming their alpha's body.
Dana had done what was necessary. Protected her territory, eliminated a threat.
But the victory felt hollow. The wolves were just the beginning. Somewhere in the darkness, human predators waited with patience the wolves lacked.
The blood trail on the logging road was proof enough. Someone had been watching. Someone knew she was here.
The coffee grew cold again as Dana stared out the window. In the eastern sky, the first hint of gray touched the horizon.
Another night survived.
But survival was becoming more expensive. Each choice narrowed her options, each victory came at a higher cost.
Dana gathered the spent shells from the floor—brass casings that caught the lamplight like golden teeth. She'd collected them out of habit, a medic's instinct for conservation.
But looking at them now, they seemed different.
Five shells. Five moments when she'd chosen violence over alternatives that no longer existed.
She walked outside into the pre-dawn cold. The pack had abandoned the alpha's remains, leaving only bones and blood-stained snow.
Dana knelt beside the carcass and began digging with her hands, scraping through frozen earth until she'd made a shallow depression.
She placed the shells in the makeshift grave, one by one. Each brass casing caught and held the morning light for a moment before disappearing into darkness.
The last shell felt heavier than the others. Dana held it up to her eye, peering through its hollow interior.
Inside, she could see her own reflection—distorted, fragmented, but recognizable.
She dropped it into the hole and covered it with earth.
The sun broke the horizon as Dana walked back to the house. Behind her, the small grave was already disappearing under wind-blown snow.
By afternoon, no trace would remain.
But she would remember. Each shell, each choice, each step down a path that led further from the person she'd once been.
The farmhouse door closed behind her with a solid click. Inside, the cellar door remained secure.
Luca slept on, unaware of the night's violence.
Dana poured fresh coffee and returned to her vigil. The rifle lay across her lap, familiar weight.
Outside, the orchard waited in its winter shroud, patient and dangerous.
Somewhere beyond the fence line, human predators planned their approach. They'd tested her defenses, mapped her responses.
Soon they would come in earnest.
But not today. Today, she had coffee and ammunition, tripwires and determination.
Today, the orchard was still hers.
Tomorrow would demand its own choices, its own shells to bury.
Dana settled deeper into her chair and watched the sun climb toward its distant, cold apex. The day stretched ahead like an empty threat, full of possibilities she didn't want to consider.
The boy stirred in the cellar below, making small sounds of distress. Another nightmare, another conversation with ghosts.
Dana listened to his muffled words and sipped her coffee. Outside, the wind picked up, setting the tripwires singing their metallic warning.
The morning grew older. The threats remained patient.
And in the shallow grave behind the house, five brass shells caught what little warmth the winter sun could provide.