Page 61 of Fat Arranged Mate
I work carefully, removing the field dressing. The wounds reveal themselves—four parallel lacerations across his shoulder, a deeper puncture near his collarbone. Clean edges, minimal tearing.
These aren't wolf bites. Not even close.
Wolf attacks create crushing injuries, deep punctures from canines, massive tissue trauma. These are... dog scratches. Maybe a medium-sized breed, agitated but not trying to kill.
I continue my assessment, noting the spacing between wounds. "This wolf—was it very big?"
Sam's eyes flick to Diane again before answering. "Huge. Bigger than any dog."
But I've seen actual wolf attacks. Treated victims of actual shifters losing control. This isn't it.
"It must have been scary," I say, maintaining professional detachment while my mind races. "These wounds are fairly clean, though—that's good news."
Diane steps closer. "Classic predator pattern, wouldn't you say, Sera? Consistent with the other attacks we've seen?"
The question is a test. I feel it like a scalpel against skin.
"I'd need to see the documentation on those other cases to make a comparison," I hedge. "But we'll definitely clean these thoroughly to prevent infection."
When Diane moves to fetch supplies, I lean closer to Sam.
"It's okay to tell me what really happened," I whisper, hands busy with cleaning the wounds. "I just want to make sure we're treating you properly."
His eyes widen, tears suddenly threatening. "It was Mr. Carlson's dog," he breathes, barely audible. "Rex. He got out of the yard and jumped me. Dad says I have to say it was a wolf or people will think I'm lying."
"Why would they think—"
"Because everyone knows there are monsters in the woods," he whispers. "Dad says the town needs to know how dangerous they are."
The implications hit me like a physical blow. They're manufacturing evidence. Creating fake attack stories to support their paranoia.
"Sam, you don't have to—"
The trauma bay doors swing open again. A man with Sam's red hair strides in, followed by a thin blonde woman and—my stomach drops—Sheriff Donovan.
"Sammy!" The woman rushes to the bedside, gathering his good hand in hers.
"He's going to be fine," I assure her, professional mask sliding back into place. "The wounds are clean, no major tissue damage."
The father steps forward, eyes hard beneath his concern. "He tell you what happened?"
"He mentioned a wolf attack," I say carefully. "But the injury pattern actually suggests—"
"Damn beasts," he interrupts, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Getting bolder every day."
Donovan approaches, notepad in hand. "Going to need a statement for the incident report. Another confirmation of shifter activity so close to town."
I can't stop myself. "Sheriff, these wounds aren't consistent with a wolf attack. The spacing and depth suggest a smaller animal, possibly a—"
"With all due respect, Mrs. Winters," Donovan cuts in, voice silky with warning, "we've handled plenty of these cases. The boy says it was a wolf, and we have no reason to doubt him."
"But medically speaking—"
"We appreciate your care," Sam's father interrupts, suddenly eager to leave. "Can we take him home now?"
Diane appears at my side. "I'll handle the discharge paperwork. You should check on Mrs. Geller in room three."
The dismissal is unmistakable. I stand rooted as they bundle Sam toward the exit, his eyes meeting mine briefly over his mother's shoulder—frightened, confused, apologetic.
