Delgado Writes

by Carlos Luis Delgado

[Before I took time off the podcast to fly out and visit you in Jersey, you asked me a question that I couldn’t answer over the phone. Wolves and Woodsmen aside, I still can’t say what I need to say. So, per Article II, Sub-clause 13 of Alex and Tony’s Sibling Re-connection Agreement, I wrote it out for you to read. Suck it, loser.]

I’m with my sister Alex and her new boyfriend Ron, chilling around a backyard bonfire behind his South Jersey starter home. Alex and I grew up in Northern Jersey—a PATH ride away from Manhattan and the rest of the modern world. Down here in Bon Jovi-ville, there’s green lawns everywhere, hardly any sidewalks, and random security trucks patrol the neighborhood like an old hound walking its territory. It’s everything we ever dreamed of affording as two broke city kids.

Alex declared her boyfriend Ron a “real-deal grill master” so tonight he’s manning the fire. It’s the perfect chance to load up on some backyard burgers before catching a red-eye flight back to L.A. Meat sweats be damned!

The steaks don’t even make it out of the fridge before it all goes sideways. Alex flicks her chin toward Ron who’s staring at the propane tank on the grill instead of turning it on—you know, like you do when you’re getting ready to cook meat. He and my sister are a study in contrasts, which is a polite way of saying she’s Jennifer Lopez-level attractive and he’s wearing white tube socks with sandals. No judgment, purely objective. Alex used to model athletic wear. Ron has a short ponytail with a receding hairline, like a high school physics teacher that actually cares about the job.

And now—shit—I stared at him too long. He comes over, fists on hips.

“I tell ya, I can’t remember if it’s click safety twice or thrice before hitting the ignition. The guy at Lowe’s said it was ‘easier than charcoal.’ Bah!”

I catch myself tuning out and immediately over-correct by plastering what must have looked like a maniacal grin across my face, and say, “Lowe’s can kiss my ass. It’s Home Depot or go fuck yourself.”

“What the hell are you saying, Tony?” asks Alex, carrying an aluminum tray packed with marinated steaks. “Ron doesn’t talk like that. Jesus, the mouth on you!”

“Sorry, Ron,” I add with a bigger, cheesier grin. The Gorgonzola of grins. “Can’t say I’ve worked a propane grill in recent memory.”

“Right,” he says, visibly confused. He isn’t meek, exactly. Gentle is a better word. “Maybe we can find a YouTube tutorial—tag team this problem? What do you think?”

I throw my hands up, black nail polish matching my sister’s, and say, “I defer to the grill master.”

“Hold on, babe,” says Alex, who’s wiping her hands on her “KILL THE COOK” apron. “Don’t let him weasel his way out.” She turns to me, eyes hurling daggers. “You can record and edit and advertise a podcast, but you can’t help figure out how to start a grill? Tony, you said you’d try.”

She was right. “Fine. Fine.” I suck my teeth at the grill. “Alright, you gassy bitch. Let’s light this candle.”

***

A few Heineken Zeros and a blistered thumb from repeatedly jamming the wrong ‘ignite’ button later, and the propane grill was breathing blue flames—ready to cook some meat. As I reach for the tongs on the table next to the grill, Ron hustles up to me with the enthusiasm of a kid holding his first sparkler.

“No, no, no,” he says. “You are a guest in our home. Allow me to serve you.” Ron’s one of those touchy-feely guys who have to let you know he’s comfortable with himself, so you can be comfortable with yourself. How nice.

“Don’t mind him,” Alex says to Ron. “He’s not used to real-life heroes.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

“Lexie.” Ron blushes. “Please, I’m not—”

“Nope!” Alex cuts him off, eyes hard but smiling. “You are owning this, mister.” She turns to me and her eyes beam. “Ron is a real-deal Forester.”

Alex had told me Ron worked with at-risk youths when first giving me the rundown about her new beau. Back in L.A., we’ve got Hybrid Services operating in broad daylight—it’s been twenty years since the Pine Barrens Incident forced the government to acknowledge the existence of wolves capable of human transformation. The morning news casually reports wolf-human integration statistics alongside traffic updates. But even with all that normalization, most folks would rather pretend the wolves among us are just eccentric neighbors with unusual dietary preferences.

So I say as much: “Recent studies show that most newly-transformed wolves struggle with integration, not aggression. The Pine Barrens transformations are still the most dangerous, and Alex says you’re a state-sponsored transformation guide… Is that right, Ron?”

“Quit being a prick,” snaps Alex.

“Language,” I fire back.

“No, he’s right, Lexie,” says Ron, looking downright thoughtful. For a moment, his posture shifts—shoulders squaring, head tilting slightly as he studies me. He reminds me of my neighbor’s German Shepard after spotting a squirrel. Then it’s gone. “The New Jersey Forestry Service does oversee transformations. I specialize in first-timers.”

“The Internet—” says Alex; you can hear the capital I in her voice. “—isn’t the end-all-be-all of facts, Tony. You don’t know what Ron does, what it’s like for him out there. Especially on a New Moon.”

An awkward silence joins the party and takes a nice hot dump on the moment. We sit there quietly, marinating in the aroma, until—

“I don’t feel comfortable with the direction of this conversation,” says Ron. He doesn’t shout, but Alex and I grow eerily still. His face softens and he continues, “I mean, I don’t mind talking about my work. But I don’t think it’s fair to take that stance with your brother just because he’s got a healthy sense of curiosity.” He leans to Alex and adds, “Your brother’s podcast is top ten on iTunes’s paranormal chart. That ‘Lunar Prohibition’ episode about the Chicago pack was excellent journalism, Lexie. Honestly. I was impressed.”

Alex looks down at me like I’m not a good foot taller than her. “I’m just tired of good people getting treated like crap. That’s all.” Her voice gets weirdly sincere.

I lean toward her and say, “Me too.” Her granite grimace cracks a hair and I feel the corners of my mouth start tugging into a smile when—

“Look at that! Just a little bit of communication goes so far,” says Ron.

I clap him on the back and say, “Couldn’t agree more. That’s why journalists like me are out here doing the important, unseen work. Effective communication, I believe, requires shared context; understanding; information. Don’t you think so?”

“Absolutely,” says Ron, eyes shining. There’s something in his gaze—an intensity that doesn’t match his tube socks.

Alex hurls a hunk of meat onto the grill but never takes her eyes off me. Ron, bless his heart, doesn’t seem any the wiser as he leaps to douse the minor grease fire sparking up from Alex’s meat assault. My sister, however, knows me better than anyone else. 

It’s not that I came here specifically for a chance at an exclusive interview with a licensed Forester. There was always a chance it could happen. So why is she getting so worked up? Can’t blame a dog for barking, just like you can’t blame a journalist for sniffing. It’s in our nature!

After we eat, Ron sets down his glass of sparkling cider and says the words I’d been itching to hear: “Anthony. I’m allowed one media guest per operation. I’ve never asked—ah, heck. I’m overseeing a New Moon transformation out in the Pine Barrens tomorrow night. Strictly observational. Though in case things get too dangerous for the young wolf, I am authorized to intervene. But there shouldn’t be any issues. It’s just a routine assignment. Anywho, I’d be honored if you’d join me as an official media representative. What do you say?”

Before Alex can put the kibosh on the whole thing, I shoot out a hand and Ron takes it into a surprisingly firm shake.

“Let’s get to work,” I say.

Alex sighs and I don’t even bother hiding my cheesy/maniacal grin the rest of the night. What did she have to be upset about? Last I checked, she was the one who wanted me to “get a feel” for her new boyfriend.

I’m just doing my part.

***

I thought this would be a walk-in-the-park episode for Espooky P.D., my podcast. Werewolves, as represented in media and entertainment, are still a mystery. No one’s ever found an actual cursed human who turns into a wolf-like monster under the light of a full moon. As far as I’m concerned, they’re just a myth. But giant wolves that can turn into humans? That’s pretty old hat at this point in the supernatural community. No, the story was about something else, something bigger. But “what” was yet to be determined.

What I have determined so far is that Ron has absolutely no problem standing back and watching me stumble through the largest Atlantic coastal pine barren ecosystem. The name pine barren refers to the area’s sandy, acidic, nutrient-poor soil. Though that doesn’t mean it’s not capable of sustaining life. Only specific types of life, including orchids; carrion feeders; and carnivorous plants. And, apparently, dire wolves.

“So tell me about these transformations,” I say between labored breaths as we hike deeper into the preserve. “I thought they were pack rituals. Why are we looking for just one wolf?”

Ron pauses, scanning the horizon. “Transformations are rare. Maybe one wolf in a thousand has the ability. Our monitoring stations picked up Singer’s biosignature yesterday—the hormone and pheromone changes that precede transformation.”

“And he’s out here alone? That seems dangerous.”

“It’s how it’s always been done,” Ron explains. “Wolves approaching their first transformation leave their pack temporarily. They seek isolation, searching out ancestral transformation grounds like the Barrens. It’s instinctual.”

“Like salmon swimming upstream?”

“Similar, yeah. The pack will be nearby though—just outside scent range. They’ll approach after it’s complete.” Ron’s expression grows thoughtful. “Xeno-anthropologists have dozens of theories. Some think it’s to protect the pack in case the transformation goes wrong. Others believe it’s ceremonial—a symbolic journey from one state of being to another.”

“And what do you think?” I ask.

Ron looks at me, something wild flickering behind his eyes. “I think that becoming human is overwhelming. New senses, new thoughts, new emotions all flooding in at once. The isolation is a kindness—it gives the new human space to find themselves before rejoining society.”

I’ve covered dozens of transformation stories, everything from jellyfish-human hybrids to werecapybaras, but something about the Pine Barrens transformations always seemed different. The government studies claim it’s climate change-induced evolutionary adaptation, but that doesn’t explain why it happened specifically out in the middle of New Jersey or why the dire wolves developed luminescent fur patterns or why it only happens under a new moon. Maybe tonight I’ll finally get some answers?

This is what I am thinking when we come across a thick, almost unbroken trail of blood.

“Poachers,” Ron says. And when he sees I’m not following: “Wolf poachers. This is bad.”

He calls it in on a satellite phone. HQ won’t have a response unit ready for at least an hour. They tell him to send me home and to follow the trail with extreme caution. “Do not attempt to apprehend if hostages are present,” says a gruff voice coming from the sat-phone, sounding like a tight-ass sergeant from an 80’s cop movie.

“Copy.”

“Damn it. I mean it, Ron. Don’t go all Batman on me,” says HQ. You know they wouldn’t be out here without permits. I don’t want an incident. You understand me?”

“Copy. Over and out.” He stows his phone and mutters: “I’m more of a Green Lantern fan.” And then to me, he says, “I won’t insult your intelligence, Anthony. You heard my boss. Armed yahoos. Possible hostages. HQ says I have to send you home.”

“And why do I get the feeling you don’t agree with HQ so much?” I ask.

“Because I don’t,” he says. “Some things need to be made public. Stories that need to be told. But I’m no journalist.”

“I am,” I say. 

“Yes. You are.”

We high-five.

And then we’re stalking through the woods, following a grim trail of blood, snapped branches, paw prints bigger than my head, and ATV tracks. Ron sprints ahead while I do my best to keep up. He’s a totally different person out here, absolutely in tune with the forest. He moves with a fluid grace that seems impossible for someone in chunky hiking boots, effortlessly bobbing and weaving through shrubbery, always finding sure footing despite countless roots and shoots hazarding the way. He stops suddenly to cock his head, sniffing the air like a god-damned bloodhound. I start asking him what he’s doing but Ron drops into a crouch. I do too. His entire demeanor shifts—shoulders hunched, fingers splayed against the ground, nostrils flaring.

“They’re close,” he whispers, voice deeper than I’ve ever heard it. “Two humans. One wolf. The wolf is young, probably on the verge of his first transformation. I can smell the change beginning.”

“You can smell that?” I whisper back.

Ron freezes, realizing what he’s said. Then replies, “Yes,” and keeps moving forward.

“Alrighty, then.”

He leads me through a short but winding path to the edge of a small clearing. The sun has already sunk behind the tree line, bruising the horizon purple-gold. Low in the sky, a black disc—the new moon—is barely visible against the darkening sky, a shadow within shadows.

And then we see them: the poachers, two of them. Crew Cut, the shorter one, has bulging arms stretching his camouflage jumpsuit and a military bearing. A Dixie-flag bandana covers the bottom half of his face. Beside him, Ponytail is taller and lankier, with greasy hair escaping from his balaclava. Both wear the kind of tactical gear wanna-be mercenaries prefer—you know, amateur shit.

Between them walks a dire wolf—the thing was as big as a clydesdale. Its coat has already begun to shimmer with faint bioluminescent patterns, swirls of blue-white light rippling beneath the fur. A dire wolf on the verge of transformation. The wolf walks on a long steel-cable lead, though the cartoonishly large assault rifles each man carried served as a stronger deterrent against running than any leash could ever hope to match.

“What the actual fuck?” I ask. “What are they doing with that wolf?”

Ron, slowly and evenly, says, “The pelt of a transforming dire wolf is unique to each wolf, like fingerprints. They’re the most vibrant right before the transformation begins—when the fur starts to fall away. They want to kill the wolf at precisely that moment to preserve the patterns.”

“But that’s—that’s a person in there. Or about to be one.”

“Yes.” Ron’s jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. “They’re ending a life that’s only just beginning.”

“That’s murder. That’s actual murder.”

Ron looks me in the eyes and—with the same certainty as if announcing that the sun will rise tomorrow—says, “Attempted murder.”

As he says it, his posture grows more rigid, more predatory. I realize with startling clarity that I’m looking at the real Ron for the first time—not the gentle boyfriend in tube socks, but something wilder. Something that understands exactly what that captive wolf is going through.

***

In the supernatural community, wolves capable of transforming into humans (also known as werehumes) come from all backgrounds. Most are born in the wild, but some grow up in sanctuaries or research facilities. For whatever reason, dire wolves capable of transformation are often drawn to those in need—lonely hikers, lost children, people in crisis. They form bonds with both humans and other dire wolves. They form packs that transcend species. Under the new moon, these special wolves can shed their fur and walk as humans for as long as they choose, returning to wolf form only when they wish. Mind you, their first transformation is the most dangerous—a time when the wolf mind and emerging human consciousness battle for control. I’ve documented dozens of transformations for my podcast, but never a first-time. In theory, it’s supposed to be beautiful. In practice, it looks like I’m about to witness a kidnapped, terrified wolf forced into a traumatic situation.

So, all that being said, I can’t begin to fathom the rage that dire wolf must be experiencing. To be rendered powerless by these poachers. Turned to sport on such an important night—your first transformation!

Ron gives my wrist a reinforcing squeeze. Then he takes out his phone, and, as quietly as he can, reports what he’s seen to HQ. The dire wolf’s fur is pulsing with stronger light now, illuminating the clearing with an eerie blue glow. The patterns form constellations unique to this wolf alone—swirls and angles that remind me of tribal markings. The poachers are moving forward cautiously. The massive wolf walks with head low, defeated.

Ron finishes his conversation with the dispatcher and pockets the phone. When he looks at me, his eyes catch the starlight and reflect it back like twin lanterns. For the briefest of moments, I wonder how I could have ever thought of this man as meek.

“You need to know this, Anthony. I know what that kid is going through,” Ron says, nodding toward the captured wolf. “I was captured too, though not by poachers. Wildlife researchers caught me, planning to tag and track my migration patterns. They didn’t know what I was.”

I stare at him, processing what he’s saying. “You were a wolf? A Dire Wolf?”

“I was born a wolf,” he says simply. “My first transformation happened when I was about his age. I was alone, confused, terrified. The researchers who’d captured me panicked when my fur began to glow. One ran away. The other stayed and tried to help me through it. I…Uh. I hurt him. During the transformation.”

“I didn’t know,” I say. “I’m so sorry, Ron.”

Ron’s eyes remain fixed on the captive wolf. “I’m not telling you for sympathy. I’m telling you because you need to understand what’s about to happen. Once I transform, things are going to escalate fast. I’m going to need your help, but you have to understand the risks. That young wolf is operating on pure instinct right now. When I attack the poachers, the chaos might trigger his transformation prematurely. A wolf’s first transformation to human form is unpredictable—sometimes violent. You could get hurt.”

“I need you to document everything with this.” He hands me a small recording device. “It’ll gather evidence for prosecution. But I also need you to watch my back.”

I smile. “You mean watch your bare ass while you streak through the forest?”

“Anthony, this is serious.” His voice drops lower, almost a growl. “Singer is in serious trouble.”

“Sorry. How do you know his name?”

“I can tell from his scent. Look, time is not on our side. We have to commit all the way. Understand?”

I don’t like Hunter S. Thompson, but a larger-than-I’m-comfortable-with part of me wants nothing more than to knock back half a bottle of Jameson, smash said bottle, and insert myself into the middle of this story. I want to start shit so there will be shit. I want to hurt the people who made that wolf hurt. That’s why it’s very, very good that I’m not the one about to transform. I say to Ron, “I’m in. So what’s the play?”

Ron hands me a carved bone whistle. “This emits a frequency only wolves can hear. It might help with Singer.”

“You think I can use this with little to no training?”

He removes his jacket and begins unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s not rocket science, Anthony. One short blast will definitely draw his attention. Just don’t keep blowing on it or he’ll probably charge you.” Ron is down to his underwear now, folding his clothes neatly despite the urgency. “I’ll take down the poachers, then I’ll need to subdue Singer before his transformation completes.”

I nod in agreement at first, before I realize what I’d just heard: “Hold up. Subdue Singer? What do you mean ‘subdue’ him? I thought we were rescuing him.”

Ron’s face goes green and guilty. “We are. But remember we were out here as part of an outreach assignment. We don’t have an existing relationship with him. When he transforms, he’ll be disoriented, operating on pure instinct. I can’t risk him running off into the Barrens half-transformed or attacking someone. Standard procedure is to restrain newly-transformed wolves until they acclimate to human form. I’d just be pinning him down until he regains control. I’ve done this plenty of times.”

“Okay, okay. I hear what you’re saying. But hear me out, what if we don’t assault the terrified wolf-kid?”

“This is standard operating procedure.”

“And this procedure is standardly stupid, Ron.”

“Anthony, that wolf has undergone a severely traumatic sequence of experiences. I’m not sure a team of highly-trained animal handlers could handle him without having to use a tranquilizer gun.”

“He’ll be even more traumatized if you attack him! Look, I’m no expert. I know that. But when Alex and I were kids, we were the only ones who could calm each other down after bad stuff happened. You know what didn’t help? More bad stuff! I’m not saying that makes me a trauma-informed specialist, but fuck—why am I the one saying we NOT assault the victim!”

His face turned to stone. “And what if he transforms violently? What if he hurts himself? What if he hurts you?”

“Then turn back into a human and do your job, dude. I don’t know. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

He’s about to argue but decides against it. “No time,” he sighs. “We do it your way. I take the poachers and you draw Singer’s attention. Use the whistle only if you absolutely have to, but no more than that. Don’t be a hero.”

“You first,” I say.

The poachers stop moving. Crew Cut takes a knee, examining Singer’s fur, which has begun to glow more intensely. Ponytail pops open a beer and offers one to his partner. They high five. “Is this a bachelor party or something?” I ask Ron.

“The pelt of a transforming dire wolf can fetch millions on the black market,” he says, his voice growing harsher with every word. “Every fool with a trust fund and a pea-shooter thinks they’ve got the stones to hunt one of us.”

“Good luck,” I whisper as a very-naked Ron steps into a shaft of moonlight. “You boys are gonna need it.”

Ron doesn’t howl or writhe in pain. His skin simply shimmers, like heat waves off hot asphalt. His body contorts, stretching and reforming until a massive silver dire wolf stands before me—easily twice the size of Singer. When he opens his mouth in a silent snarl, teeth gleam like polished kitchen knives.

By the time I stop gawking, Ron is already loping for the poachers. I run to catch up, keeping to the shadows. From my vantage point, I can see Singer clearly now—his fur glowing so brightly it’s like he’s made of blue fire. Ponytail reaches for something that looks disturbingly like a skinning knife.

Within the space of two breaths, Ron pounces on Ponytail and pins him flat against the forest floor under a massive paw. The lanky man goes limp immediately. Crew Cut raises his rifle, but Ron is too fast, knocking the weapon away with a swipe of his snout before tackling him too.

Singer, still leashed, trembles violently. His luminescent fur patterns are pulsing now, growing brighter with each beat. Patches of fur begin to fall away like autumn leaves, revealing glimpses of human skin beneath. I move carefully toward him, bone whistle clutched in my sweaty palm.

Ron circles back, approaching Singer cautiously. He presses his massive muzzle against Singer’s flank, a gesture that seems almost gentle. Singer responds with a soft whine, his body still glowing, still changing.

But something shifts in the air. Ponytail isn’t as unconscious as he appeared. His hand inches toward a concealed pistol at his ankle. I shout a warning, but it’s lost in the sound of gunfire.

Ron yelps—a sound so human it makes me flinch.

Singer’s head snaps up, eyes wild with fear and rage. And then it happens—his transformation accelerates violently, fur falling away in luminescent clumps as his form begins to reshape itself. His muzzle shortens, limbs elongating.

And through it all, a deep, furious howl pierces the night air.

“Well, shit.”

***

I want to make it very clear that not every nerd is some out-of-shape pillow lord. I happen to pride myself on my perfectly-average athleticism. But running a ten-minute mile does not make sprinting through moderately dense woods a good idea. Especially while trying to keep up with a wounded dire wolf and an actively transforming one. After my fourth stumble, I take a knee and listen. The forest has gone eerily quiet. I make out a distant, pulsing glow that pierces through the trees like a blue heartbeat.

It’s my only lead. I follow the glow, recorder gripped in one hand, bone whistle in the other. The light grows stronger as I approach, casting long shadows that dance and twist with each pulse. I creep up to the edge of another clearing, focusing on not snapping even the smallest of twigs beneath my shoes.

What I see is straight out of a nature documentary directed by Guillermo del Toro. Singer lies in the center of the clearing, his body contorting in ways that would be impossible for either wolf or human. The transformation process, which Ron had explained should take hours, is happening in minutes. Singer’s fur continues to fall away in luminous patches, but instead of revealing smooth human skin, the exposed areas show raw, unformed tissue struggling to reshape itself.

This is why an accelerated transformation is so dangerous. The body needs time to properly restructure—bones to lengthen, joints to realign, organs to shift and adapt. When rushed, the process becomes excruciating, potentially fatal. Singer’s pained whimpers cut through me like lightsabers.

Across the clearing stands Ron, blood matting his glowing silver fur where the bullet struck him. Despite his injury, he approaches Singer cautiously, attempting to calm the panicked wolf. But Singer’s fear and pain have overwhelmed any rational thought. His half-transformed body rises on unsteady legs—part wolf muzzle, part human face, contorted in a grimace of agony and rage.

Ron spoke about “guided transformations” on the drive here. How the first change needs to be slow, controlled, with an experienced former wolf present to help navigate the bewildering shift from one consciousness to another. What’s happening before me is the opposite—a transformation accelerated by stress and trauma, with no guide to help Singer’s wolf mind understand what’s happening as human thoughts begin flooding in.

Ron circles Singer slowly, trying to establish a calming presence, but the younger wolf’s panic is too far gone. With a snarl that shifts halfway through into something terribly close to a human scream, Singer lunges at Ron.

Two massive bodies collide in the center of the clearing, a blur of silver and blue light. The impact sends shockwaves through the ground beneath my feet. Ron’s silver form twists in mid-air with impossible grace, while Singer’s half-transformed body moves with frenzied desperation. Where Ron is calculated power, Singer is chaotic rage.

They separate and circle each other, leaving deep gouges in the forest floor. Singer’s body is horrifying to look at—patches of luminescent fur clinging to increasingly human skin, limbs caught between forms, his face a grotesque blend of wolf and human. His eyes, though—they’re fully human now, wide with terror and confusion.

Ron feints left, then lunges right, trying to pin Singer without causing harm. Singer counters with raw instinct, jaws snapping with enough force to shatter bone. A sound emerges from Singer’s throat—not quite a howl, not quite a scream—as another wave of transformation ripples through him. More fur falls away, revealing raw, pink skin underneath.

“Stop! The transformation is too much for you!” Ron’s wolf voice somehow resonates directly in my mind rather than my ears. The silver wolf moves with purpose now, trying to subdue rather than dominate.

Singer responds with a wild charge, his movements jerky and uncoordinated as his body struggles to reconcile wolf muscles with an increasingly human skeletal structure. Blue light pulses from his body with each heartbeat, casting eerie shadows that dance across the trees. I realize I’m not breathing; the sight is beautiful and horrifying and I can’t look away.

They clash again—a symphony of snarls, snapping jaws, and raking claws. Ron twists away from a bite that would have torn out his throat, retaliating with a powerful shoulder check that sends Singer tumbling across the clearing. Singer rises on unsteady legs, his transformation accelerating—front paws now halfway to hands, spine straightening, yet still moving with predatory intent.

The battle looks like something primeval, something that belongs in humanity’s oldest nightmares—not just wolves fighting, but nature itself in conflict, the boundary between human and beast made violently visible.

But as Singer falls again, the blue light illuminates his face. It’s changing rapidly now—his muzzle receding, eyes widening, becoming more human with each passing second. And suddenly I don’t see a dangerous wolf. I see a kid. A terrified kid getting beaten down.

[Alex, remember Danny Oliveira from high school? That time you found me behind the gym, split lip and black eye because I’d mouthed off to the wrong senior? You didn’t hesitate. Five-foot-nothing against a linebacker, and you just stepped between us. “Not my brother,” you’d said to that goon-in-training. Some things stick with you.]

I can’t watch this. Ron is doing his job, but this kid is scared out of his mind, caught between two worlds and understanding neither. Violence isn’t the answer. It never is when someone’s scared.

I’m running toward them before I can think better of it. No thoughts, just vibes. The bone whistle bounces against my chest on its cord. Ron positions himself between me and Singer, trying to keep us separated.

It doesn’t occur to me just how bad of an idea this is until Singer—now a horrifying hybrid of wolf and human—turns on me.

You’ve gotta understand something about primal fears. They’re not about logic or sense or reason. My sister and I grew up in a part of Jersey where if you didn’t keep your head on a swivel or stick to the safe streets, you were liable to get robbed, jumped, or worse. Sure, that makes for a generally jumpy and paranoid adult, but back then, as a teen, I wasn’t ever scared of being out on the streets. Because there were rules. And if you followed the rules, you were pretty much safe.

There’s no rules for transforming dire wolves. The only rule, if that, is: stay the fuck away from transforming dire wolves.

The moment those massive, golden eyes focused on me—the fear I felt was beyond anything my prefrontal cortex could ever hope to process. As far as my body was concerned, I was facing death itself.

Singer lunges toward me. Ron moves to intercept, but he’s slowed by his wound.

In pure panic, I grab the bone whistle and blow—not a short blast like Ron instructed, but a long, desperate wail that echoes through the Barrens.

The effect is immediate and catastrophic. Singer freezes mid-leap, his partially transformed body convulsing. But the sound doesn’t just affect him. Ron howls and ducks his head, pawing at his ears. Everything goes still for a moment.

For several heartbeats, the forest is eerily silent. Then—rustling. Distant padding of paws. A low growl from somewhere deep in the darkness.

Crew Cut—the stocky poacher Ron had only stunned rather than knocked unconscious—had regained consciousness and used our distraction to creep to the edge of the clearing. Now he steps into the open, rifle drawn. Singer notices him and snarls, his partial transformation making the sound unnervingly human.

“What was that noise?” Crew Cut mutters, then his eyes widen as he sees Singer’s glowing, half-transformed body. A slow, greedy smile spreads across his face as he raises the rifle to his shoulder. “Two for the price of one,” he shouts, his stocky frame silhouetted against the starlight. “I’m rich!”

Then, from the darkness of the surrounding woods, yellow eyes appear. First a single pair, then three, then seven, then too many to count. Singer’s pack. The wolves Ron mentioned would be waiting just beyond scent range, now drawn by my distress call—a sound that, to them, must signal that their transforming packmate is in danger.

“Tony, what have you done?” Ron’s voice echoes in my head, though his wolf mouth doesn’t move.

The first wolf doesn’t hesitate. It emerges from the shadows like a missile, launching directly at Crew Cut’s legs. Teeth sink into his hamstring with a quick snap and rip. He drops and screams in pain, rolling over to point the rifle into the woods, but he never gets off a shot. More wolves fly out from the darkness, piling atop him like a mountain of fur. I hear a final shriek then nothing but growling and tearing.

The rest of the wild wolves begin to emerge from the trees, circling us deliberately, their movements calculated and synchronized. This isn’t random—they’re hunting. And we’re in the middle of their formation.

Singer, driven by pain and instinct, charges toward the mound of wolves. Ron, despite his wound, leaps between them. 

I’ve watched a lot of Discovery Channel growing up. You could say it was my primary babysitter. Year later, when the Planet Earth series came out, I ate it all up too. Half of my present day YouTube search history is about animals. I’ve watched bull elephants slam their tusks together like battering rams, silverback gorillas beat their chests and charge through underbrush, and leopards drag gazelles twice their weight up trees and lions roar challenges across the savanna that silence every creature for miles.

But that is nothing compared to the sight before me. What follows is the most primal display of dominance I’ve ever witnessed. Ron doesn’t just stop Singer—he stands his ground against both Singer and the approaching wolf pack. His silver fur bristles, making him appear twice his already impressive size. His tail arches high, his ears flatten against his skull, and the ruff around his neck expands like a lion’s mane. His growl is so deep I feel it in my chest more than hear it—a rumbling that seems to vibrate the very air between us.

The wild wolves hesitate. Singer doesn’t. He attacks Ron with monstrous ferocity.

Ron meets him with calculated force—not cruelty, but the undeniable establishment of dominance. Each movement precise, each blow measured. Singer fights back wildly, but is clearly outmatched. With a final decisive move, Ron pins Singer to the ground, jaws around his throat, not biting down but making his point unmistakably clear.

The wild wolves back away, melting into the darkness.

Ponytail enters the clearing, his lanky frame moving tentatively. He raises his rifle, aiming at the wolves. Without thinking, I charge him, tackling him to the ground. The gun fires. We struggle, his greasy ponytail whipping across my face, but before he can overpower me, something hard connects with my temple.

Everything goes black.

***

The Forester response team is not the TV SWAT team I’d hoped for. Instead, it’s a white van with two very nice med-techs who offer me tea and a blanket before turning their attention to Singer. Across the clearing, Ponytail sits handcuffed to the bumper of a Forestry Service Jeep, looking utterly defeated. Nearby, two rangers are checking Crew Cut’s vitals as he lies unconscious on a stretcher. Apparently, the wolves had only pinned him down and knocked him out—quite the mercy, all things considered.

I take a moment to call my producer and explain how I blew what may have been our greatest episode ever by forgetting to turn on the recorder.

“We’ll get an interview with your future brother-in-law. Let’s leave the kid alone,” they say. Moss is good people. Period.

The support team appears to be specially trained in newly-transformed care. They set up a comfortable area with thermal blankets and prepackaged high-protein meals that Singer devours ravenously. They approach him with careful, measured movements—giving him space to acclimate to human sensations. One med-tech explains to Singer how clothes work with the patience of a kindergarten teacher. If I didn’t know better, it almost seems like they’re wildlife rehabilitators helping a wild animal adjust to captivity.

Before I can delve deeper into the possibly messed up implications of that line of thought, Singer surprises everyone by speaking—his voice still rough but increasingly confident. He asks about his pack. The med-techs assure him they’ve been located and will be escorted to meet him once he’s stabilized.

Ron steps up beside me and clears his throat. “So how would you want to handle explaining all of this to Alex? For my part, I intend to be as transparent as necessary. I haven’t held back anything about myself or my work from her, except for whatever I don’t share with anyone but my therapist. I know I put you in danger, Anthony. I’m truly sorry for that, but when it comes to my work, I just—I don’t know. My instincts take over.”

“No thoughts. Just vibes.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Exactly.” He glances over at the poachers—one cuffed, one unconscious. “Guess the pack showed more restraint than I expected. Usually, they’re not so… gentle.”

“They had a good example,” I say. “Let me do the talking—about what went down tonight. Alex and I don’t hold back from each other either, except for the stuff we do. But there’s nothing about tonight that I’d want to hold back. In fact, I think there’s a lot she’d be proud of.”

“Like what?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Like how you risked your life to save Singer. How you stood between those poachers and a whole pack of wolves. How you knew exactly when to show force and when to show restraint.” I pause, meeting his eyes. “How you’re the kind of person who protects others.”

At this point, Ron specifically requested that I not edit out his reaction to my comment which included bursting into tears, tackling me to the ground in a hug, and asking me for permission to propose to my sister.

So why am I not telling you all of this in person, sis?

Because part of our agreement when we first started talking again was that if I felt it necessary, I could write something instead of telling you to your face because sometimes I get overwhelmed. And instead of not saying anything then letting months go by without talking, I am writing to you instead.

I judged Ron from the moment I saw him. The tube socks, the ponytail, the inability to work a propane grill—I saw weakness. It took work to see Ron has a different kind of strength. The kind of strength that knows when to be gentle. The kind that doesn’t need to prove itself, to anyone.

I’ve spent my career documenting the supernatural, but I’ve never understood it on such a personal level. Ron isn’t just someone who used to be a wolf—he’s someone who brought the best parts of both worlds together. Loyalty and adaptability. Instinct and reason. Protection without domination. A true hero.

P.S. I like him. You two should get married or whatever.