The Path Through Fog: What She Brought Home - by Diana Piner

Fog clung to the hem of her dress and the bark pressed hard between her shoulder blades while the wolf’s chest settled against her thighs, heat bleeding through the damp fabric, one paw braced beside her hip. Elena kept her hands on the tree because moving would have cost more than standing still. She had left the sink full and the boys with the cartoon so she could stand in the quiet for five minutes; the animal had simply been there when she opened her eyes. Each time she returned the weight grew heavier, the tear in the dress longer, the version she carried home smaller and more ordinary. At the kitchen island the husband mentioned the car on the shoulder. She kept her wrists under the running water and gave him the engine-noise answer while the lunch boxes waited in the rack. The boys still asked if she had seen any deer. She said no. The path stayed open behind her. The house kept its shape.