She spotted a torn canvas tarp among the trash, yanked a cleaner strip free, and wrapped the limp bundle tight against her chest. Sticky oil soaked her shirt, but she didn’t care. She felt for a heartbeat against her palm—there, but weak, like a moth beating against glass. The wolf whined behind her. Noemi looked up; cottage lights shimmered in the distance.
“I’ll take care of it,” she promised, voice shaking. Whether the wolf understood or not, she had to try. She turned toward the tunnel. The wolf followed but stopped at the far mouth, sitting in the shadows. A low whimper drifted after her—part warning, part plea. She nodded once, a silent oath, then started to run. The path to the cottages felt twice as long now.