Free Boundary Lines by Melissa F. Olson Page A

donate the lot of them as the wolves’ next meal. The kids sobered up fast after that—they’d seen the two wolves at the entrance too.
    Our guide was a college-aged kid named Phil, tall and lanky, with a habit of speaking very, very fast. He didn’t waste a lot of time with introductions, just picked up a bucket of frozen meat chunks and led our group outside to the first enclosure, which housed the two wolves we’d seen at the entrance. Phil introduced them as Nina and Shikoba, a mated pair who’d been rescued together from a “photo farm,” where animals are raised to be models and discarded as soon as their looks begin to fray.
    His wolf activism speech was just getting started, but after a moment I tuned him out, fascinated by the wolves themselves. Shikoba in particular was enormous, over a hundred pounds, with inky black fur and playful amber eyes that danced as they followed Phil’s every move. Nina, a classic gray wolf, seemed more somber, but she focused just as attentively on Phil’s arm as it threw chunks of frozen meat over the fence.
    The group moved on, and I had to scramble to keep up. We vis ited two more paddocks that were similar to the first, each containing two wolves that stood eagerly at attention, ready for their supper. At each enclosure, Phil gave us background on the specific animals, plus more information about the species and a few ways we could help protect them in the wild. I learned that wolves’ life spans are similar to many dogs, at least in captivity, and that they prefer meat but will eat just about anything when they’re hungry. I also learned that captive wolves were kept in twos because it meant there could only be an alpha and a beta, first and second command. If a third wolf were enclosed with them, one of the three would become the omega—a term used to describe the wolf that is bullied and picked on in every pack.
    That sounded awfully familiar. I had been sent here to find a wolf who had once been the weakest member of the Colorado pack, according to Maven. In werewolf packs, this position was usually referred to as the sigma for some reason. Maven had explained that while werewolves tended to be very protective of their sigma, Trask had preferred to treat his more like wild wolves treat their omegas: lots of bullying, physical torture, mind games. Eventually Trask had broken his sigma’s mind.
    I found the werewolf in question when we reached the fourth and largest pen. Like the others, this one had a sign attached to the chain-link fence with a name burned into the wood, but this sign only had one name instead of two: “Tobias.” The wolf in this pen peered at us from behind a tree, revealing a coat of sandy-brown hair skimming the top of a white undercoat, like several of the other wolves. Then he stepped all the way out, toward the fence, and most of the teenagers gasped.
    I’d gotten used to the size of the six previous wolves, but even compared to them, Tobias was monstrously large. But it was his attention that was the most unsettling: Unlike the other wolves, who were only interested in Phil and the meat, Tobias eyed every single one of us with a wary intensity that said he saw us, not as background noise or distractions, but as real and present threats. He had a sharp intelligence that was so unnatural, I wondered how anyone, even humans, could miss it. I would have known exactly who this was, even if Maven hadn’t given me his name.
    “Our next wolf’s arrival is something of a mystery,” Phil said, with exaggerated wide eyes and a professional smile. “Tobias was found tied to a tree at the front gate more than ten years ago, with his name written on the leash with a marker. Our staff has never been able to determine where he came from, though we did make inquiries.”
    I could have solved the mystery for him right then and there. After the war, Tobias Leine was so traumatized that he wou l dn’t even shift out of his wolf form without hours of