The square smelled of warm bread, pine smoke, and fear.

I kept my head low, gray ears pinned flat beneath the hood I always wore in town. My tail stayed tucked tight against the back of my legs so no one would trip over it—or have an excuse to scream. Most days I hunted far beyond the cedar ridges, where the only eyes on me belonged to owls who didn’t care what I was. But the hunger had grown claws of its own, and the forest had been picked clean by leaner, crueler packs. So here I was, threading between stalls like a shadow no one wanted to name.

Prey folk parted around me the way water parts around a jagged rock. Mice clutched their kits closer. A pair of young deer actually backed into a cart of cabbages rather than brush my sleeve. I tried not to hear the whispers.

There goes the half-tame wolf.

They say she still kills.

They say she cries while she does it.

I almost turned back. Almost. Then a small voice—bright, impossible—cut through the murmur.

“Sample, miss? They’re sweet today.”

I looked down. A bunny girl, no taller than my chest, stood on tiptoe to hold up a little woven pouch. White fur dusted with faint cinnamon spots, ears folded in curiosity rather than alarm. Her dress was soft green, the color of new moss, and her eyes were the light blue of a river when the sun hits it just right.

No one had spoken to me without trembling in years.

I couldn’t move. Around us the crowd slowed, waiting for the moment I’d growl, or she’d bolt. Instead she just waited, smile small but steady, until I reached out—slow, careful—and took the pouch.

Inside: three fat strawberries, a handful of blueberries, two baby carrots still wearing their delicate green hats.

“Thank you,” I managed. My voice cracked like thin ice.

She gave a tiny nod and wandered back to her stall, ears bouncing. I stood there long after she’d gone, afraid to eat the berries in front of everyone, afraid I’d drop them, afraid I’d weep. When I finally ducked behind the cooper’s shed to eat in private, the first strawberry burst across my tongue like sunrise. Too sweet. Too bright. I gagged once, then devoured the rest, licking red juice from my claws while tears ran hot down my cheeks.

I did not deserve this kindness. I knew that even then.

Days later I proved it.

The beaver had been alone, hauling a branch along the frozen stream. I told myself he was old, that his dam was failing anyway, that the hunger would kill me faster than guilt. Lies taste metallic; his blood tasted worse. When it was over I sat in the snow and shook until my bones rattled.

Now the lake water is black under the moon, steaming faintly where my body heat meets winter. I strip out of clothes that will never be clean again and wade in up to my shoulders. The blood swirls away in rust-colored ribbons. I scrub until my skin burns, until fur comes out in clumps between my fingers.*

It is never enough.

A twig snaps.

My ears snap up; water sloshes as I spin. There, on the little path that skirts the lake—barely ten strides away—stands the bunny. Moonlight on snow turns her almost silver. She’s clutching a basket against her chest like a shield, but she doesn’t run. Her nose twitches once, scenting blood and shame and wolf, yet her feet stay planted.

I sink until the water laps at my chin, tail curling around my legs in mortification. Heat floods my face despite the cold.

“S-Sorry,” I stammer, voice small and cracked. “I didn’t know anyone… I thought the path was farther…”