Page 45 of Found by the Pack
I’m still scared. But a little less alone.
Just a little.
Shepard’s voice floats through the haze of my thoughts. “We should watch something. Keep it light.”
My head feels stuffed with cotton, but I manage to open my eyes again. The soft hum of the room comforts me. The rain’s eased into a gentle drizzle now, and for once, I’m not tense at the thought of what comes next.
“What time is it?” I ask, voice scratchy.
“Almost five,” Gabe answers from somewhere near the window, grabbing the remote like he owns the place. “And just so we’re clear, Shepard is not allowed to put on one of his painfully boring documentaries about obscure architectural ruins.”
I glance toward Shepard, who just shrugs in good-natured defeat. “They’re informative.”
“They’re sleep aids,” Boone grunts from the kitchen, where he’s still nursing a mug of coffee like it’s the only thing holding him together.
“I like documentaries,” I say softly.
“Don’t encourage him,” Gabe mutters, tossing the remote onto the couch. “What do you want to watch? And please don’t say true crime. Boone will spiral.”
“Valid,” Boone says. “I already have anxiety dreams about cold cases.”
I chuckle—barely. It’s more of a huff of breath, but still, it counts. I shift on the couch, still cocooned in Shepard’s sweatshirt and thick socks. My body aches in unfamiliar ways, but it’s manageable. My head’s no longer splitting in two, just cracked down the middle.
“My sketchbook,” I murmur.
Shepard looks up. “You want it?”
I nod.
He moves to grab it from the grocery bag they brought in earlier, tucked beneath his coat. He passes it to me with the reverence of someone handling something sacred.
I whisper a quiet thank-you, open to the last page, and let my pencil find its home in my hand.
The familiar drag of graphite against paper is grounding. Safe. Like breathing underwater and finally breaking the surface. I don’t even think about what I’m drawing. I trace the shape again—the one that’s already marked my ribs in ink.
A phoenix, wings arched, flames curling into the edges of its feathers. Rebirth in motion.
This one never stays dead.
It’s a little comforting.
It’s terrifying how safe I feel here. How the couch holds me like it knows what I’ve been through. How these three men orbit quietly in my space, not asking too much, not pushing too hard.
Strangers. But I’m soothed anyway.
How?
Why?
“You always draw that?” Boone asks gently, glancing at my page as he sits beside me with a second mug, this one green and chipped.
“Since I was a kid,” I murmur, not looking up. “I used to imagine it could fly me away from anywhere.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Just lets the silence bloom around us.
I don’t know how long I sketch. Minutes, maybe longer. I barely notice when the TV comes to life, filling the room with that familiar hum of sitcom laughter.
When I finally lift my head, I find a comedy rolling. Something old-school and ridiculous. Bright lighting, canned laughs, someone in a chicken costume chasing a man in a suit.
