Free Still Life with Shape-shifter by Sharon Shinn

they would a dog, or incite him to attack. But I spoke them anyway, a meaningless stream of nonsense uttered in my most soothing voice.
Hey there, my name’s Janet, I want to be your friend . . . brought you something to eat . . . you know I would never hurt you . . .
    The first thing I set down was the container holding the water, and he limped over to lap it up in an eager, noisy way. He kept drinking even as I unwrapped the beef and laid it in the grass beside the Tupperware bowl, but his eyes cut over to verify what his nose must have told him had appeared.
Dinner, and no effort spent catching it, either.
A few more licks at the bowl, which was almost empty, and his head swung over to investigate the meat. Almost immediately, he tore into the soft red mass and consumed the whole package in a few efficient gulps.
    Close-up, I could see that his fur was dingy and matted. There were brambles in the long hair and probably ticks, too, buried under the layers. He looked lean and exhausted, and I wondered how far he had wandered from his home territory. I didn’t think wolves roamed far enough south to visit central Illinois—but I only based that opinion on the times my mother had begged my father to move the whole family to Minnesota, where she might spot a wolf in the wild.
    At any rate, his torso was pitiably thin under the rough coat, and his forelegs looked downright stringy. Summer seemed like the time a wild animal would fatten up, not slim down. Maybe he just wasn’t very good at hunting. Maybe his back leg had been permanently damaged some months ago, and he was on the very knife-edge of starvation.
    Maybe he was rabid and as soon as he finished his meal he would bite me and infect me and I would die an agonized and writhing death.
    In those days, I saw death around every corner.
    But if the leg was the problem, maybe I could do something about it. I switched on the flashlight, which caused the wolf to flinch away as if I had swung at him with a golf club, but then he steadied. He lowered himself to his haunches and regarded me in the reflected light. I pointed the beam down toward his chest, then between his back legs. As I suspected, male.
    “I’d like to look at your leg,” I said, still in that soft voice. “So don’t snap at me when I touch you, okay? Maybe I can help you heal. Okay?”
    He didn’t answer, of course, and his gaze never wavered from my face. I muttered, “It would be easier if you would lie down and turn on your side.”
    Practically on the words, he dropped his forepaws to the ground and rolled to his left, his injured back leg now fully exposed to my view.
    I felt my nerves twitch to life again; my whole body cooled with spooked surprise. He could not possibly have understood me. He was just tired—and now, replete with a meal, sleepy. And he lay on his left side because he knew from experience that lying on his right side would cause more pain. That was all.
    “Good,” I murmured, still in that reassuring tone, and dropped to my knees. “Just stay like that. And don’t move—don’t pull away—and don’t bite me. I’ll try not to hurt you. And maybe I can do you some good.”
    I played the flashlight over the back leg, finding the foot a mess of clotted blood and strips of skin. I couldn’t tell if it had been chewed or caught in a trap or even torn by a rifle shot, but it didn’t surprise me at all that he couldn’t walk on it.
    I found a fallen branch and propped up the flashlight so the beam illuminated the injury. “Don’t bite me,” I said again as I soaked an old washcloth with alcohol. “But this will probably hurt.”
    The minute the wet cloth touched the ripped flesh, his leg drew away, and his whole body shuddered. But he didn’t scramble to his feet, either to attack me or to flee. He did lift his head a couple of inches off the ground to give me one long, fierce look. For a moment, I froze and stared back at him. What message was he trying to