“You stand at door,” the carer said.
But Amy didn’t move.
She stared at Volchitsa, at the way she blinked slowly, no expression, but tears ran along the edges of her thin face. She was staring back at Amy. She kept on staring back. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into the soft fur of the stuffed dog.
That’s when the moment got too big.
Amy hooked her bag over her shoulder, where it had fallen across her arm, and turned to look at the carer. Then she walked back towards the door. She wanted to turn around, to see Volchitsa one last time, to see her holding onto the stuffed animal, seeking comfort in the artificiality of it all. Jesus she wanted to take a photo and show the world. But what she did was walk away and what she heard was the pit-i-ful whimper of a wolf cub. It was the sound that followed her into the corridor where her footsteps clanked like a pulse against shiny floors, faster, louder, hands pressed to ears until she had smothered it. But it was there. Still there. Always there.
Amy didn’t need to speak wolf to know what Volchitsa was saying:
If she could have she would have taken her, right then she would have bundled her into her arms and taken her with her. She would have set her free along the edge of the forest, and she would have watched her walk away, on her hands and knees, back to who she was...
Copyright Debz Hobbs-Wyatt Gentle Footprint, Bridge House Publishing
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