Wild is the Witch (7)

“Hi, Dan,” I say, walking to the bed of the truck.

“What have you got for us?” Mom asks.

“Male. Four or five years old. Struck by a vehicle in eastern Washington.”

I release the back of the truck, and pale yellow eyes lock on mine. The gray wolf is lying on his side, his head tilted toward me, and he takes a shuddering breath. Mom keeps Dan busy so I can focus on the wolf. I feel the connection form between us, an invisible string tying us together, and I let the wolf see my intentions.

He knows he isn’t in danger.

He knows I want to help him.

He knows I’ll do everything I can to save him.

His eyes close, and I quickly survey the damage. His right side is covered in blood, caked in his fur, making it impossible to see the wound. I close my eyes and listen to his breathing, feel the way the air doesn’t fill up his lungs. The rhythm of his heart echoes in my mind, and it’s too fast.

Whatever internal bleeding he’s sustained has slowed, and if Mom and I work fast, we can save him.

“We need to get him inside,” I say. “I’ll grab the cart.”

I rush to the side of the shop, where a small cart with a cargo bed waits. The forest-green paint is faded and dirty, and the Foggy Mountain logo is covered in mud, making the words difficult to read. I start the engine and drive back to where Mom and Dan are waiting.

We carefully transfer the wolf to the cart and drive him into the shed, where a long metal table is prepped and waiting. Mom interned for a veterinarian years ago, long enough for her to learn the basics of surgery. Everyone in town assumes Mom is a vet, and she’s never done anything to correct the assumption.

Her connection with the animals tells her what needs fixing, and she does it.

We get the wolf situated on the table, and after making sure he isn’t a risk to us, Dan leaves.

Mom closes her eyes and strengthens her connection to the wolf, sounding off his injuries as her magic scours his body.

“Three broken ribs.” Pause. “Moderate internal bleeding.” Pause. “Major organs are okay.” Pause. “No sign of infection.”

She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Let’s get started.”

I pull up a chair and sit at the end of the table where the wolf’s head is. He whines, and I slowly move my hand to his snout. He sniffs a few times and lets me pet his fur. Mom turns on the electric razor to shave the wolf’s side, and he tenses when he hears the noise. I send more magic into his system, and he relaxes into my hand.

Contrary to popular belief, we can’t create more magic than what’s already in the world. Nothing is created or destroyed. It all simply exists, and we direct it in the best way we can. Much of what we do is a combination of magic and science, magic and medicine, magic and research. It all works together in perfect harmony, keeping things in balance. That’s why Mom can’t simply look at the wolf and heal him; magic is a tool, but it’s only one of many.

Most importantly, we can’t exert control over animals or plants or people. Magic works with the natural world, never against it. I can’t make an animal do something it isn’t willing to do, but I can show it my intentions, let it know it’s safe, and let my magic flow through it in a way that’s reassuring. I can try to direct it, use magic to coax it in one way or another, but what to do is ultimately always up to the animal.

They’re wild, after all, just as they should be.

Once Mom is done shaving, she starts cleaning up the gash in the wolf’s side, and I keep him as calm as I can. It’s a two-person job: Mom can’t use her magic to calm him and address his injuries at the same time, and having a scared wolf trying to escape is a disaster waiting to happen. So I sit with him and pet his fur, letting my magic wrap around his instincts until every part of him tells him he’s safe.

Mom works quickly, and once she has stopped the internal bleeding, she stitches up his side. When she’s done, I hear the wolf’s heartbeat slow, feel the relief in his lungs when they’re able to take a full breath.

He’s going to be okay.

We take him to a private enclosure at the edge of the refuge, where he’ll be able to heal without interference from the other animals. Winter runs over and shoves her snout through the metal fence, trying to get as close to the new wolf as possible.

“He’s not a threat,” I tell her. “He’s hurt and needs to heal. Keep an eye on him.”

I could live a thousand lives and never be loved by anyone as much as I’m loved by Winter. I scratch her head, then turn toward the office for a clean set of clothes.

Pike is in the office when I get there, eating a sandwich and reading a book.

“You look like you’re working hard,” I say. I walk around him and into the back room, where I keep an extra sweatshirt. The one I’m wearing has dried blood smeared on it, and I pull it up and over my head, and my T-shirt goes up with it, revealing my stomach.

Pike is watching me, and I catch his glance before he quickly looks away. I pull down my shirt and put on the clean sweatshirt, and when I look back at Pike, a blush has spread across his fair skin. He clears his throat before taking another bite of his sandwich.

“It’s my lunch break,” he says, returning to whatever book he was reading. It’s large, with a detailed drawing of an owl on the left page and a close-up of a wing on the right.