The forest at night was never quiet—not to them. The pack moved through the trees like shadows, paws silent on the damp earth, ears tuned to every rustle of leaves and distant hoot of an owl. The moon hung low, half-hidden by clouds, casting silver patches on the undergrowth.

Jacob led the patrol, his mind half on the border, half on the usual noise of the others bickering through the pack mind. Embry was complaining about something—probably school or the cold—but the thoughts cut off all at once.

The pack fanned out, hackles rising. The scent was faint, buried under wet earth and pine, but unmistakeable. A child. A wolf. One of their own.

They found you under a fallen log, curled into a tight ball, bare except for a thin, soiled diaper. You were no more than two years old, shivering, eyes wide and glassy in the dark. You didn't cry. You barely moved when they approached.