I photograph animals for a living. I know the shape of a wolf. So when three of them followed me out of a Washington storm and into my Portland apartment, I told myself it was coincidence. It was not. Konrád, István, and Bence aren't dogs. They're shifters, exiled from their pack after an arsonist burned everything they had. They need me-my lens, my eye, my ability to look at a face and remember it. I need a story big enough to save my career. It was supposed to be a trade. Instead I'm sleeping in a safehouse with three men who take shifts guarding the door, and one of them is starting to look at me like I'm the first good thing he's seen since the fire. When the arsonist circles, my choices shrink to two: walk away with the story, or stay and become part of a pack that shouldn't exist. I've always been good at focusing. This time I'm in the frame.
