I’D FORGOTTEN MY French project.

The end-of-year presentation, worth a third of my grade. Due today, I’d done nothing. So I stood before the class, panicked, faking a speech I hadn’t prepared.

But I couldn’t think of a single word. It was as though I’d never heard the language. I fidgeted, miserable, searching for something, anything to say.

Je m’appelle Tory. Parlez-vous français?

How could I have been so careless? I’d never pass now. My entire transcript would be ruined. College. Grad school. Everything down the drain.

Giggles rippled through the audience. Smirks. Points. Muffled laughter. Confused, I glanced down.

I wore Mom’s old bathing suit, a ratty one-piece with a flimsy skirt stitched to the waist. It couldn’t have been more out of style. Or place.

Mortified, I tried to cover myself. With my hands, my book. My cheeks flamed.

Where are my clothes!?!

Classmates howled, pounded desks. Hiram. Shelton. Jason. Even Ben. In the back, Chance Claybourne stood beside Dr. Karsten, glaring with angry eyes.

Too much, I couldn’t take it. The door. The hall. Escape. I ran.

I rounded a corner into a dark, narrow corridor. A strange odor stopped me. It was musky, like wood chips and freshly turned earth. Confused, I scanned for the source.

Lockers lining the hall began to rattle. Doors bulged, gave way. Hundreds of chickens burst forth. Squawking and flapping, they milled at my feet. The noise was thunderous.

Where to run? What to do?

The mass of poultry pressed tightly. Beady eyes zeroed in on my throat.

Adrenaline arrived in buckets. And with it, something else.

A crimson streak split my vision. My brain expanded, then contracted to a point. I trembled uncontrollably.

Fur sprouted on my arms, my legs. My hands melted into paws.

Oh no! No no no no no!

Claws sprang from my fingers. A low growl spilled from deep in my throat.

The wolf was emerging.

This time, all the way.

A hand closed on my shoulder. Terrified, I spun, shoved blindly. The figure crashed to the floor.

Kit looked up at me with startled eyes. He wore a tuxedo, now a ruin of grease and feathers.

“Tory, I made breakfast!” he shouted.

I shook my head, uncomprehending, starting to hyperventilate.

He can see me! Kit sees what I really am!

I howled in dismay.

“Tory! Breakfast!”

I sat upright in bed. Kit’s voice echoed on my eardrums. I heard bacon frying, smelled burned toast.

Ah.

A dream. A terrible, f’ed up dream. I don’t even take French. Hablo español.

I rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to wipe away the nightmare. Covered in sweat, lower back aching from tension, I felt more tired than when I’d gone to sleep.

“Tory! Get down here now!”

“Blargh.”

Slinging aside covers, I trudged to the bathroom. Brush. Swish. Spit. Comb. Morning ablutions completed, I plodded downstairs.

Shocker.

Kit had set the table. Placemats. Silverware. Napkins. Glasses of ice water and OJ. Plates heaped with eggs, bacon, sausage patties, and grits. He’d even filled a pitcher with milk and set it on ice.

Someone was clearly overcompensating.

“Well, well,” I said. “Is there a birthday I don’t know about?”

“Nope. Just time I started feeding my daughter properly. Toast will be ready in a minute. The first batch didn’t cooperate.”

Cooper was following Kit’s every move. Hopeful. He glanced over when I entered the kitchen and yapped once, but stayed rooted in place. The prospect of human food trumped my appearance.

“Sellout,” I muttered.

Coop kept his eyes on the prize.

“The mutt can spot a master chef when he sees one.” Kit dropped a piece of bacon to the floor. Tail wagging, Cooper devoured the offering.

I shook my head. No chance this would become routine. But hey, you know what they say about gift horses. I tucked in with gusto.

Thirty minutes later my stomach was full, and I barely remembered the nightmare.

“I’ll be at work all day,” Kit said, “but call me if you want to talk. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious.” Kit forced eye contact. “I got an email this morning about another position, and this one’s in the U.S.”

“Progress.”

“It’s a bit farther away, but a much better job. Science adviser to a major fishery. Great pay.”

My eyebrows rose. “Farther? Where?”

“Dutch Harbor, Alaska. The online pictures are beautiful. Scenic. Rustic.”

My forehead hit the table. Struck a beat.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“They’ve got wolves there,” he added lamely.

“Alaska?” I sat back. “Now it’s Alaska?”

“Think of the adventure!” Kit smiled, but his eyes betrayed anxiety. “The Last Frontier!”

“Are you messing with me? Say yes.”

“Nothing’s settled yet, obviously. All I know is they liked my résumé.”

“How much would it take to keep LIRI operating?”

I’d given the problem some thought. Fundraisers? Donors? Surely something could be done.

Kit frowned. “Ten million, annually. Minimum.”

Ugh.

“There’s nothing we can do? No trustees to beg? Letters to write?”

Kit shook his head. “It’s just too much money. CU can solve its fiscal crisis and fix a PR disaster with one pen stroke. To them, it’s a no-brainer.”

Silence. Not much to say.

Kit grabbed his keys and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, he turned.

“Chin up, kiddo. We’ll land on our feet. You’ll see.”

With that, he was gone.

“Chin up, my ass.”

Coop padded over and nudged my palm. I scratched his ears, but even the wolfdog failed to brighten my mood.

Loggerhead Island was home to so many animals. Whisper, Polo, and Buster. The rhesus monkey troops. A centuries-old sea turtle colony. Hundreds of other species. Lives would be uprooted, possibly destroyed. All so the university could save a few bucks.

I thought of the LIRI scientists and staff. Everyone would get the ax. My friends and I would be scattered across the country. Our pack destroyed.

Enough.

We had to preserve LIRI. Had to save Loggerhead Island.

There was simply no other option.

Kit said it would take millions?

So what.

Time to find them.

Somewhere.