The Werewolf Who Took My Side of the Bed

How it begins

Mara Cole knew she had lost the argument about the bed when the wolf put its head on her pillow.

It was a very large wolf. It also looked embarrassed.

From the chair beside the window, Mara examined the note she'd found tucked into the borrowed cardigan.

Full moon. Back by morning. Please don't open the window unless you want three hours of howling at distant livestock.

At the bottom, in smaller writing: I am sorry about the duvet.

Mara looked at the animal again.

"Jo?"

The wolf closed its eyes.

"Right. That's considerably more informative than the inn's website."

Rain moved over the roof. The walking holiday had already included a washed-out bridge, a lost boot, and a man who believed navigation apps were a personal insult. Mara had come upstairs hoping for one uncomplicated night.

Instead her roommate had acquired paws.

She stood slowly. The wolf lifted its head, watching her with the same pale eyes Jo Rowe had used at dinner when Mara insisted she didn't need help carrying an injured walker's bag.

That recognition was stranger than the teeth.

"I'm going to use the other room," Mara said. "The one with the broken radiator. You can object in the morning."

The wolf slid off the bed and nudged the folded blanket toward her with its nose.

Mara picked it up. Warm wool, carefully mended at one corner.

She had spent years training guides to distinguish offering help from taking over. In her own life, she'd found the distinction much less convenient.

"Thank you," she said.

The wolf settled on the rug, leaving the mattress empty.

Mara looked at the bed, then at the closed door. Downstairs, someone began playing an old piano very badly.

"We should probably discuss this when you're capable of arguing."

One furry ear lifted.

It was unmistakably an agreement.