Page 27 of Raised By Wolves

The PE teacher, Mr. Chive, blows his whistle at us. “Timed eight-hundreds today,” he says. “Everybody out to the track!”

I don’t know what this means. But everyone in the class groans, so it must suck. A girl in a bright-purple sweatshirt sinks to the floor. She looks like she’s about to cry.

“Outside, everyone!” Mr. Chive roars. “Get up, please, Lucy.”

Lucy rolls her eyes.

“What’s a timed eight-hundred?” I ask when she’s gotten to her feet.

She rolls her eyes again.

“Okay, cool, thanks,” I say. Maybeshe’sthe mute one.

I follow Lucy and the rest of the class out to the red oval track behind the school. Mr. Chive starts leading warm-up stretches “to get the blood flowing.” I’m doing arm circles when Mac starts scratching himself all over.

“I think I’ve got fleas,” he calls to his friends. “The wolf girl must’ve given them to me.”

I ignore him. A basic rule of the forest: whenever possible, don’t piss off an animal that’s bigger and stronger than you are.

Mr. Chive says, “All right, everybody stretch your hamstrings!”

I copy what everyone else is doing. I grab my ankle and lift my foot until the back of my heel touches my butt. I’ve never really stretched anything before. It feels kind of good.

Mac hops closer to me on one leg. He’s panting now, and his tongue’s lolling out. “Yip, yip, yip,” he whispers. His eyes linger on my chest. I hunch my shoulders and turn away.

“Bend down slowly and touch your toes,” Mr. Chive calls. “Then roll up to standing, one vertebra at a time.”

I follow his directions. By the time I stand up, Mac’s moved even closer. He’s right behind me. I can feel his hot, humid breath on my neck.

“You’d better watch yourback, freak,” he mutters.

I stay rigid. Silent.

Don’t engage the larger animal.

Then we’re done with stretching, and Mr. Chive counts us off into running groups. Mac’s in the first one. He struts to the starting line, bragging about how fast he is. How he’s going to make everyone eat his dust. He looks too big to be quick, but then again, an eight-hundred-pound grizzly can run at twice the speed of a man.

When Mr. Chive blows the whistle, group one takes off running. They start at a sprint, the guys jostling one another, each of them wanting to get out in front and stay there. When they round the first curve, Mac’s already got a ten-foot lead.

Chive calls, “Group two!” and the next crew of kids goes. After that bunch turns the corner, Chive yells for group three to go.

That’s my group, and I don’t hesitate. I shoot forward, arms and legs pumping. Ahead of me, the red track’s smooth and flat.

Running in the woods, I have to dodge branches. Swerve around rocks. Jump over streams. A misstep could mean broken bones. Death. But this—this is like flying. I don’t have to do anything but find my speed and settle into it.

In a hunt, it’s the lighter, faster female wolves who drive the prey. The bigger, stronger males who bring it down.

The wind whistles in my ears, and the trees rush by me in a blur of green. I’m not even breathing heavily. I catch up with group two. Pass them.

Group one’s a couple hundred feet in front of me when I finish my first circuit of the track. Mac’s still way out ahead of them, running gracefully for how big he is. His feet fly over the ground.

Overtaking him isn’t going to be easy. His legs are twice as long as mine.

I lean forward. Lift my knees a little higher to drive power from my hips. Push my foot strikes faster. Breathe hard but steady. Wish for four legs instead of two. A wolf can run atthirty-five miles an hour around this track without breaking a sweat. And that’s not because wolvescan’tsweat.

I’m catching up to Mac Hardy. My legs burn, but I don’t care. I could run like this forever. There’s nothing to think about but the speed and the breath. The body knows what to do.

I’m right behind him.

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