Lone Wolves Read Online Free

a stupid word,” he said. “Why you waste your time with that old-fashioned crap?”
    â€œYeah,” agreed Norman. “That stuff is lame. I can’t wait to get outta this stupid village and move to a city.”
    â€œI don’t know. Just seems important somehow,” said Denny as she watched Mary take a swig from the flask. “You know that’s bad for the baby?”
    â€œHell, everything’s bad for this baby. Life’s gonna be bad for it. Might as well start gettin’ use to it now.” Mary gave a little snicker before taking another swig.
    And there was a kind of sad truth in her words. Only Deneena and the other students standing in the cold behind the school knew what had happened to Mary. She had told them in confidence. Her own cousin, Willy Paniaq, seven years older, had raped her when they were both drunk and got her pregnant. In small, remote villages, where there were few unrelated girls or women, men often raped their own relatives. And no one did anything about it. The victims had no recourse, no one to talk to. Their own mothers, many having endured the same thing, warned them not to tell anyone.
    â€œThat’s your cousin,” mothers scolded their daughters. “What’s wrong with you? You want your cousin to go to jail?”
    Whether from shame or from a strong sense of community or from something else, something deep and hard and as frozen as a dead animal, villages protected the rapist, not the victim. The way her stomach was growing, Mary wouldn’t be able to hide her secret for much longer. Everyone in the village would know soon enough.
    â€˜Hell, it’s time to go back in,” said Norman, looking at his watch. “Damn, it’s cold out here!”
    As they shuffled around the building, Denny stopped for a moment and marveled at the wide, frozen river, beckoning to her, a friendly highway leading into the mountains. Silas Charley stopped and waited for her, rubbing his hands together to warm them.
    â€œI think the word for squirrel is pretty cool,” he said, in his quiet way.

    Less than an hour later, during math, Ms. Stevens, who taught English and history, staggered into the classroom and stood in the doorway, her eyes red and swollen from crying, a wad of tis sue clutched in one hand.
    â€œI . . . I have some bad news,” she half whispered.
    The nine students stopped what they were doing.
    â€œElie Holbert died yesterday.”
    Everyone gasped. Ms. Holbert taught English and social studies at the village thirty miles upriver. The two small schools often partnered on projects and sports, especially basketball and volleyball. Everyone liked her.
    â€œWhat happened?” two students asked at the same time.
    â€œShe was . . .” Ms. Stevens tried to choke back her emotions. She had been close friends with Elie, who was about her age. “She was out jogging alone when a pack of wolves attacked her about two miles from the village.”
    Denny put a hand to her mouth.
    Several students burst into tears.
    Everyone knew that Ms. Holbert was a runner. She was barely five feet tall and as skinny as an icicle. She had an endearing Southern accent that was strange to hear in a village so far north.
    â€œThey say the wolves were still on her when someone came along on a snowmobile and frightened them away. I just got a phone call from the school.”
    No one wanted to believe the news. Elie Holbert was a good person. But everyone in the grieving classroom knew that wolves could be dangerous, contrary to the popular opinion by city folks who have never seen one in the wild. An empty belly on a vast and frozen land can be a dangerous thing.
    Denny stood up and hugged Ms. Stevens, her favorite teacher, who always challenged students to think for themselves. Mary joined the embrace while the rest looked down at the floor or out the window, trying to hide their grief.

    When school was over, Denny practically