*I think something's wrong,* she'd said. *But I don't have time to be wrong about anything right now. There's too much building left to do.*
She had died three weeks later.
---
Corva sat on the bench with sixty years of that memory finally having somewhere real to go.
*Tell Neva,* her wolf said. *All of it. Not just the parts that fit the record.*
I will, Corva said. When she's ready to hear it as more than testimony. As the whole woman.
*She'll want that,* her wolf said. *She's the kind who wants the whole woman.*
Yes, Corva thought. She is.
---
She was still on the bench, letter in her lap, when she realized she was crying — not the surface kind, the deep kind, the release of something that had been held so carefully for so long that the muscles required to hold it had nearly fo
