Firstborn by Tor Seidler

though she tended to his wounds, I noticed she would keep her eyes averted. He was a sorry sight. The fur on his face and shoulders eventually came back as good as new, but his backside was permanently furless. And as the burns scabbed over, they looked worse than the raw wounds. All that was left of his once-proud tail was a stub. What’s more, his hind legs had lost their spring. None of the medicinal herbs he was so skilled at finding did any good. There was no way he could hunt. So while the rest of us went after prey he was relegated to babysitting the runt.
    With no bigger siblings to compete with for food, the runt gained weight and looked as if she would actually survive. Alberta named her: Hope. Hope was a modest little thing who didn’t yap much. On mornings when my help wasn’t needed to find prey, I stayed behind with her and Frick. I tried to draw Frick out, and Hope would sit listening to him with a rapt expression on her face, her smoky-blue eyes wide. I think she dispelled some of his gloom over his condition.
    But the coming of another winter was really hard on him. What fur he had thickened up, but his rear end had no protection against the cold. Even worse, Hope no longer kept him company while the others hunted. The forest fire had ravaged a vast territory, making game scarcer than usual, and though Hope was delicate by wolf standards, she joined the hunt. I know she didn’t like deserting Frick, but although Blue Boy never spoke of it, losing his firstborn son had hit him hard. I think Hope was trying to fill Prince’s place.
    When the hunters managed to make a kill, Blue Boy always brought a portion back for Frick, but Frick only picked at it. Not even needed to pup-sit, he fell into a deep depression. He perked up a bit in late February—the beginning of the wolves’ mating season—but Lupa ignored his meaningful looks, and the light in his eyes soon guttered out.
    Blue Boy and Alberta, on the other hand, were inseparable. But every ounce of their energy was devoted to keeping the small pack from perishing, and when spring came, they didn’t produce a litter either. There were still blizzards in May. Even in June north-facing slopes were blanketed in snow.
    One morning in mid-June I spied an antelope on the next mountain over. As soon as I gave Blue Boy the news, he bellowed out the call of the chase. Alberta, Lupa, and Hope answered with excited barks.
    They felled the antelope in a clearing. While we were feasting, another wolf appeared, peering out of the shadows of the firs. Blue Boy narrowed his eyes and let out a menacing snarl. The stranger bowed his head and lowered his tail. He was only average-size, and his ribs were showing, but he had a sleek, charcoal coat. He had no collar, which made me wonder if it had gotten shot off like Blue Boy’s or if he’d never been in the compound.
    â€œYou must be starving,” Alberta said.
    The wolf lowered his head farther and put his tail between his legs. Blue Boy sniffed and went back to his meal. The stranger crept up to the other end of the carcass and gingerly worked off a bit of meat. Blue Boy let it go.
    After gorging himself, Blue Boy tore off a shank and dragged it away for Frick. The rest of us followed, leaving the stranger to pick the bones. Frick was lying listlessly under a rocky overhang on the next mountain over, but not even he could resist fresh antelope.
    Their bellies full for the first time in months, the wolves were dozing off when the stranger reappeared just beyond the overhang, his dark coat agleam in the sun. Though clearly surprised at his audacity, Blue Boy must have decided the pack could use another hunter, for instead of attacking he rose to his feet and struck a lordly pose. The stranger came forward and did obeisance, touching his snout to the bottom of Blue Boy’s chin.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Lupa said as the new wolf sat down.
    â€œRaze,” he said,