Page 59 of Fat Sold Mate
The man smiles, apparently oblivious to my suspicion. “Sure is. You folks be careful heading that way, though. There's been some trouble.”
James approaches, his stance casual in a way that doesn't fool me for a second. He's ready to shift at the first sign of threat.
“What kind of trouble?” he asks, positioning himself slightly in front of me.
“Some kind of animal attacks,” the hiker says, shaking his head. “And those anti-shifter nuts are using it as an excuse to stir up trouble again. Demonstrations outside the town hall, pamphlets about 'the shifter menace.'“ His disgust is evident. “Load of garbage, if you ask me. My sister's neighbors are shifters. Nicest people you'd ever meet.”
I exchange a glance with James, surprise and wariness mingling through our bond.
“Thought that League for Humanity group disbanded after their leader was arrested,” James says carefully.
“Edward Wright?” The hiker snorts. “He's in prison, sure, but his ideas didn't die with him. Some local politicians have picked up the banner. Registration requirements, surveillance. Real dystopian stuff.” He adjusts his pack straps. “Anyway, just thought I'd mention it. You might want to avoid displaying that plate frame for a while.”
With a final nod, he continues down the trail, whistling tunelessly as he disappears around the bend.
“Coincidence?” I ask quietly.
James shakes his head. “I don't believe in those anymore.”
We return to the truck in silence, both processing this new information. The Cheslem threat is immediate and deadly, but human prejudice could prove more insidious in the long run. Silvercreek faces enemies on multiple fronts, it seems.
“We'll need to warn Nic,” James says as we pull back onto the highway. “If anti-shifter sentiment is rising again...”
“One crisis at a time,” I suggest, though anxiety twists in my stomach at the thought of what might await us at home.
By evening, we're both too exhausted to continue safely. James finds a secluded camping spot off a forest service road, far enough from the highway to avoid casual discovery but accessible enough for a quick departure if needed.
We build a small fire, more for light than warmth, in the mild spring evening. Dinner is whatever snacks remain from our last gas station stop—beef jerky, granola bars, lukewarm bottled water. It should be miserable, but there's something almost comfortable about the routine we've established over the days of flight.
“Tomorrow,” James says, poking at the fire with a stick. “We should reach Silvercreek by mid-morning if we leave at first light.”
I nod, watching the flames dance rather than meeting his eyes. “Everything will change.”
“Some things already have,” he replies quietly.
The bond between us pulses with a shared understanding of how different we are from the people who left Silvercreek weeks ago. Of how what began as a forced connection has evolved into something neither of us anticipated.
“What happens after?” I ask the question that's been hovering unspoken between us. “When this is over, if we survive...”
James looks up, firelight casting shadows across his face. “After is a luxury we haven't earned yet.”
He's right, of course. Tomorrow brings a reckoning—with the Cheslem pack, with our own people, with the fate of Silvercreek itself. Personal concerns must wait.
But as we settle on opposite sides of the fire for the night, the bond between us hums with possibilities neither of us is brave enough to name. With questions that might never be answered if tomorrow goes badly.
With hope, fragile but persistent, that there might be an after for us to figure out.
Chapter 22 - James
Dawn breaks over Silvercreek's southern border in watercolor washes of pink and gold, the familiar mountains silhouetted against the brightening sky. After weeks of running through unfamiliar territory and constant danger, the sight of home should bring relief. Instead, my stomach knots with dread as I survey what awaits us.
“Something's wrong,” Ruby whispers beside me, crouched low in the underbrush where we've hidden the truck a quarter-mile back.
She's right. The border that should be open, protected only by Luna's magical wards, as Nic suggested—the southernmost point, apparently not overtaken—is now physically guarded. Dark figures patrol in carefully coordinated patterns, their movements too precise for random wildlife. And they’re not ours.
I inhale deeply, filtering through scents carried on the morning breeze.
“Cheslem wolves,” I confirm grimly. “They've established a perimeter.”
