QUOTE : Where is he?” “Gabby. Before you do anything else, I’d like two minutes of your time. You need to hear what I have to say.” My anger at Sam still lay in a dark, dormant pool inside me. I didn’t want to listen to anything he had to say. Some of my anger and frustration collapsed in on itself as I acknowledged the truth. Sam’s dishonesty bothered me, but my brush with freedom, to have it so close and then ripped away in the last few seconds, hurt more. Besides, if I didn’t hear him out, I’d wonder what he had wanted to tell me. Defeated, I agreed. “Fine, but please hurry.” Sam turned and walked back to his bed. I followed. “His name is Clay,” Sam said, sitting on the lumpy mattress. “Clayton Michael Lawe.” He looked up at me as I moved closer and eyed me from head to toe. In the brighter light of the living area, I really did look like I’d been dragged, or at least rolled, in mud. How had I slept through someone carrying me for miles? “He’s twenty-five and completely alone. His mother died when he was young. An accident. Shot by a hunter while she was in her fur. His dad took him to the woods.” That meant he’d been raised more wolf than boy. Sam had explained much of the recent pack history to me when we’d first started coming to the Compound. They’d only maintained enough of the original buildings to keep up appearances and used the 360 acres that came with it to live as wolves. Charlene’s arrival had brought about huge changes, mostly in the social aspect of the pack. Afterward, most pack members started acclimating to their skin. Only a few of the old school werewolves still preferred their fur. “His father died a few years back,” Sam continued, pulling me from my own thoughts. “Clay’s been on his own ever since, still choosing to live in his fur more than his skin. He’s quiet and has never been trouble. He comes when an Elder calls for him but still claims no pack as his own. So, by pack law, he’s considered Forlorn.” Forlorn.