Skywing had six weeks before the passes closed, and a wolf who still tried to bite anyone who came near her. She sat on a bench at the edge of a town park because the town was on her route home, and her mother was waiting, and she could not fly the whole way with a half-wild animal clamped to her leg. The wolf pressed against her boot now, ears flat, watching a boy chase a ball across the grass. She had cut him out of a trap a year ago. He had saved her life twice since, once from a bear, once from a rockslide he heard before she did. He would not let a stranger within ten paces without lunging. Skywing folded her wings tight so they would not draw stares. Her horns already drew enough. She had picked this park because it was open ground, no low branches, easy sightlines, and full of the exact thing the wolf needed to learn: people who meant him no harm. A small bird landed on the bench arm between them, red-headed, blue-winged, white at the breast. The wolf's ears came up. He did not lunge. He watched the bird tilt its head, hop once, and pick at a crumb. Skywing held still. A child ran past chasing the ball, close enough that the wolf's shoulders bunched, but the bird stayed, and the wolf's eyes kept flicking back to it. The child passed. The wolf did not move. Skywing let out the breath she had been holding for a minute. She reached slowly into her satchel, tore a strip of dried meat, and set it on the bench. The wolf took it without looking away from the bird. When the bird finally flew, the wolf's gaze followed it up and did not drop to the running children again. Skywing stood. The wolf stood with her, close at her leg, but his head was up now, not lowered to strike. She walked him once around the path. A woman with a stroller passed at four paces. The wolf's lip did not curl. It was not tame. It was a start, and a start was all she had time for. She turned toward the road that led out of town and counted the days again in her head. Five weeks and six days. She would have to teach him on the move.

By the third day on the road, Skywing knew she was walking too slow. The wolf kept pace at her boot, ears up, calmer than yesterday but still flinching at carts. She counted the days again. Five weeks and three. On foot she would not make the passes. She needed to fly ahead, read the ridgelines, and pick the fastest line home. She could not fly with the wolf, and she could not tie him to a tree in country she did not know. He would chew through rope, or worse, someone would find him first. She stopped at a cedar lodge set back from the road, lanterns burning at the posts even in daylight. Rose was on the porch, green hair heavy over her shoulders, boots planted like she had grown there. Skywing had not seen her in a month. Rose came down the steps and took Skywing's face in both hands for a moment, then looked at the wolf. "He's bigger," Rose said. "Still bites?" Skywing nodded. "I need to fly the route. Two hours. Maybe three. I can't take him up, and I can't leave him alone." Rose looked at the wolf again. The wolf's lip pulled back. Rose did not move. "He'll try me," she said. "I know." "Leave your bag," Rose said. "He'll settle faster if he smells you on the porch." Skywing set her satchel on the boards by Rose's boot. She knelt and pressed her forehead to the wolf's. His breath was hot on her jaw. She stood, walked to the open ground beyond the lantern posts, and opened her wings. The wolf lunged once against Rose's hand and snapped. Rose did not pull back. She said something short Skywing could not hear. The wolf sat. Skywing held one more second, then pushed off. She climbed hard until the lodge was a square of yellow light below. She turned north and flew the ridgeline she had guessed at from the ground. She marked a saddle pass, a river ford, a burn scar she could use as a landmark. Two hours out, two hours back. She had her route. She came down in the yard at dusk. The porch was empty. The satchel was gone from the boards. Skywing folded her wings and ran up the steps. Inside the lodge, Rose sat on the floor by the hearth. The wolf lay across her legs, eyes half shut. He had bitten her forearm. The bark of her skin was split in a clean line and something pale was weeping from it. Rose looked up. "He's yours," she said. "He was never going to be mine." The wolf lifted his head at Skywing's step and thumped his tail once against Rose's thigh. Skywing had her route. She also had a girlfriend bleeding sap on the floor, and a wolf who had chosen, for one afternoon, to stay.

Skywing knelt by the hearth and pressed cloth to the split in Rose's forearm. The wolf did not move off Rose's legs. He watched Skywing's hands. Rose said the bleeding had slowed an hour ago. Then boots hit the porch boards, hard and fast, and a man's voice called through the door. His daughter had gone up the ridge trail at noon and had not come back. Sixteen. Dog with her. He had walked the low loop twice and found nothing. The sun was already low behind the cedars. Skywing stood. Rose pushed the wolf off her legs and reached for her boots. "You fly," Rose said. "I'll take the low trail with him." Skywing looked at the wolf. The wolf looked at Rose. He stayed at Rose's knee. Outside, Skywing climbed hard above the lantern posts. The ridgeline she had scouted two days ago spread below her in gold and black. She flew the trail's line first, then swept wider. Dense pine choked the slope on the north side. She could not drop into it. Her horns would catch on the low branches and hold her there. She stayed above the canopy and looked for color, movement, smoke, anything. She found the dog first. A golden retriever sat on a bare shelf of rock above the tree line, ears flat, refusing to move. Skywing banked and came down on the shelf. The dog did not growl. He looked once at her wings, then back down the slope into the pines. She followed his line of sight and called. A voice answered from below the rocks. Skywing worked down the shelf on foot, wings folded tight. A girl sat wedged between two boulders, one boot off, ankle already dark and swollen. Elf-pointed ears. A walking stick beside her with a glass ball fixed to the top, the light inside it faint now. "I'm Alice," the girl said. "I stepped wrong. Biscuit wouldn't leave." She did not cry. She looked at Skywing's horns and said, "You can't carry me through those trees." "No," Skywing said. "But I can carry you straight up." Alice nodded once. "Do it before dark." Skywing braced under the girl's arms and lifted her clear of the rocks. The dog scrambled up the shelf on his own. Skywing whistled twice, sharp, the signal she and Rose had used as children on the mountain. Far below, an answering whistle came off the low trail. Skywing carried Alice above the pines and set her down at the trailhead where Rose stood waiting with the wolf at her heel. The father took his daughter's weight and wept into her hair. Alice met Skywing's eyes over his shoulder. "Thank you," she said. Then, quieter, "Your horns would have killed you in there." Skywing looked at Rose. Rose was already looking at the wolf, who had not left her side once.