“When one photographer edged too close to the wolves, tirelessly dogging McIntyre for the best place to perch his bazooka-size lens I could see daggers in the eyes of the vvolunteers. But McIntyre was welcoming. Some individuals, her told me, could move freely about the valley; others were ruthlessly punished, chased off, or worse. He was talking about wolves.”

“All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.All of them?Sure, he says. Think about it. There's escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.”

“McIntyre hesitated, and for a moment the tall, gray-haired man looked almost boyish. "After all this time...don't you think you could call me William?"Amy and Dan exchanged glances. As fond as they were of him, they couldn't imagine calling their lawyer by his first name.He saw the hesitation on their faces. "Will?"Amy cleared her throat. Dan fiddled with the new GPS."How about 'Mac'?""Mac," Dan said, trying out the name.Mr. McIntyre looked wistful. "I always wanted to be a Mac.”

“I almost told her everything right then. I wanted to tell her about the Wolves, and how I was supposed to hate them, but when you spend your days with evil, some of it is bound to soak into your clothes, like cigar smoke in a closed room.”

“She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.”

“But there were some who went with her willingly, for there are other women who dream of lying with wolves.”