Just north of the I Street Bridge, there’s this spot where you can pull off the bike path, sit on the cracked retaining wall, legs dangling, and watch the Sacramento river do its mysterious, unstoppable thing. Just there, it’s far enough away from the highway to dampen the roar of traffic. And, if you’re posted up on a Thursday, about 2 o’clock in the afternoon, when the city’s locked firmly into the 9-to-5 grind, there’s even a little bit of privacy.

Witness Kid, doing just that.

He’d found this place a few days before the present moment, on one of his scouting expeditions, getting to know the city and looking for his People. A search that’s yet to bear any fruit, though sure enough he’s getting a feel for Sacramento. He even likes it. Especially spots like this.

Luxuriating as he is now, the sun beating down, the sounds of birds and water much closer than the sounds of cars, the Cahalith can almost forget his frustration. Almost. He’d chosen to stop his wandering, to find a place to call home, and here he is sniffing around town, unable to find even a stale whiff of Wolf. How many times during his travels had he stumbled on some of the People without even meaning to? But here, now, when it counts?

Nothing.

Kid unzips his backpack and pulls out a High Life tall boy, cracking it open for a long swig before wedging the can between his legs and leaning back to let the sunlight hit him full in the face. Eyes closed, he inhales deeply through his nose, holding it for a beat before exhaling. It’s not really a sigh, though, when you’re scenting the air like he can. Smells of hot pavement, water, something dead—definitely a fish—down on the bank, that ever-present taint of exhaust that comes with cities. His own wild sweat.

Sure this could be home. Why the hell not? Just give him some of the People and he’d settle right in. The longing, deep in his bones, for a Pack to run with is something like an ache. To take his mind off it, Kid thinks back to the night before. Riding his bike out on Old River Road to the Wildlife bypass. Wandering off into the brush. Running on all fours. Hunting. Like always, the wolf-memories seem too vivid, too intense, to really make sense as a conceptual thing. It’s more an extended now, everything at once, stretching and stretching. Like salt-water taffy in one of them salt-water taffy stretching machines.

As always, it’d been good. But this here, he thinks. This here’s good too. Don’t you go forgetting that.

Straightening again, eyes open, Kid takes another quick swig of beer. The water pushes itself along in front of him, a self-motivating force. Not for the first time, he’s amazed that there’s nothing in there that could maim him or eat him. No gators. Hell, no snakes either. Not that he’s afraid of no gators or snakes. It’s just different is all.

Wonder if there’s catfish? And with that, his thoughts go skating back to his old Pack and their Totem. A longer sip of beer this time, and a measure poured over the edge of the retaining wall, down toward the water. For the dead.

Gotta find some goddamn company, Kid.

Suddenly, it’s like he can hear his Grandfather, clear as day: If wishes were fishes, boy, we’d all have nets. Kid can’t help but smile at that. Old man had a saying for every occasion. Ok Pop, I’ll just have to keep casting mine then, I guess.

He reaches into his bag for another beer and, finding one, laughs.