Contact

Alfred
	
	“Wow, that’s kind of...strange, actually.” My tone was inquisitive, almost disbelieving. 
	“Isn’t it?” Naomi, who was leaning over the back of my couch, replied. She was staring at her phone while holding a conversation, which won her a little bit of respect from me. She seemed to be paying equal attention to both, which is a feat of cognitive ability in my books. 
	“Yeah." I agreed. "It’s like there’s all kinds of human diversity, but next to no anthro diversity in this town. I mean, look at you and me. You’re Japanese and I’m Irish.” I paused, and started over. “Come to think of it, it’s more like there are next to no anthros period. In Lodeville they were everywhere. That’s not too far from here, so what’s the deal?” Naomi huffed dramatically, but not at me. 
	“If the damn FBAR would chill out on the regulations, this wouldn’t be such a problem!” She exclaimed, irritated. I sighed inwardly. Naomi had a hate-on for the Federal Bureau of Anthro Relations. She tended to get heated whenever anthro politics came up in conversation, and she spat curses like a printing press from hell whenever the FBAR passed a new regulation, when normally she wouldn't say ‘shit’ if she had a mouthful of it. That's Naomi, for you. If nothing else, she was filled with passion for anthros.
	I could tell this rant wouldn't take long, though. I'd experienced enough of them. She started again. 
	“There’s a reason the whole name is only one letter away from FUBAR, Connor. Know what that means?” I nodded, because of course I knew what that meant, but she pretended to be too absorbed in her phone to notice. “Fucked up beyond all recognition.” A grin sullied by melancholy dawned on her face. “Dad taught me that.” I grinned at her in return, a real grin, and affected a caring tone. 
	“Good. God forbid you ever learn such a naughty word from me!” She attempted to look stern for a good half-second, then broke. 
	“Damn it, Connor.” She said. Her smile was all genuine mirth this time around. “I’m trying to be depressive, can’t you respect that?” Her eyes had lost their watery edge. 
	“Of course I can’t! I’m trying to be responsible. How am I gonna do that with you being such a downer?” I huffed. Naomi rolled over the back of the couch and plopped down beside me, slouched sideways with her feet in my lap. 
	“Mmm, no." She replied, tinged with attitude. "I rate you a 0/10.” 
	“Aww, come on. At least give me a 2.” 
	“Nope.” She shook her head emphatically. “But don’t worry; you can submit for reevaluation in six months.” Naomi returned to playing with her phone, still smiling. My grin grew wider yet, and I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, resplendent in the ease with which we could joke with each other.
	I drifted into innocuous thought, not focusing on any particular idea, but generally thinking about the girl sitting next to me, Naomi Nakamura. Naomi was like a sister to me, in most ways, just without the torturous sibling rivalry thing. She was a small girl at about 5’2”, with adorable Asiatic features and silky black hair. I call her adorable, but I mean that in a completely platonic way. The same way that a cute kid is adorable. Besides, it’s not like I’d ever been able to reserve anything but brotherly love for her. She had a talent for begging with her eyes, which always made me feel like an admonishing sibling. We had enough in common to BE siblings, were it not for the fact that we were of completely different ethnic descent.
	Naomi’s parents were native Japanese who’d immigrated to America. Naomi had been born here, so she hadn’t been exposed to Japan in general, but she got her own little slice of it with the way her parents lived. They enforced some family rules around the house that I and some other friends of ours found odd, but what’s there to do? Can’t judge, since I’m only two generations removed from immigrants, myself. My family didn't practice our heritage, though. Not like Naomi’s.
	We were Irish. Two generations removed from the folk who’d traveled to America speaking broken English and perfect Gaelic. My parents spoke it, too, but I’d never been able to get the hang of the language. It was so guttural. Where English was all smooth consonants and soft vowels, Gaelic was rough on the tongue. The closest thing I can think to compare it to is Finnish, which can in turn be compared to German. Nonetheless, I spoke at least a little. Enough to be competent in a conversation. But holding a conversation in only Gaelic? Ha, nope.
	Naomi made a small noise, and I looked down. Her face was flushed, and I realized belatedly that I’d been idly stroking her feet. Shame flooded through me. I muttered a piteous “Sorry”, and put my hands behind my head where they could do no further harm. 
	“No, it’s okay. It just…tickled.” Her voice was unsteady, off balance. Despite her reassurances she still avoided my eyes. A vague memory of an article I’d read about the stigma of personal contact among the Japanese floated around in the back of my head. A louder thought regarding erogenous zones crowded it out, which I quickly shut down. I sighed. I had to break the awkwardness somehow, so I stood up. 
	“You want anything from the store?” I said. Naomi looked up, surprised. 
	“Uh, yeah. Some chips.” She replied, slowly, as if she didn't quite believe I was actually going. I grabbed my tan canvas jacket and retrieved my keys and wallet from the pocket. 
	“What kind?” I asked. I looked back and there was an unreadable look in Naomi’s eyes. 
	“I don’t know, surprise me.” 
	“Cool.” I said. “Be back.” 
	I stepped outside into the biting January weather and hustled to my car, hoping the cold would numb my hyperactive brain. Maybe that was too much to wish for. Don’t get me wrong, it was plenty cold out. Wearing a light jacket had been okay on the way here, but going elsewhere? It’d been a solid 4 hours since my ‘03 Cavalier had last been warmed, and the temperature was currently sitting at a comfortable 3 degrees Fahrenheit. That wasn’t too bad, actually, since Dawson, Wyoming was right at the top north edge of the state. Cruel winter days could get down to -20 during the day, and to -40 when the air had time to really cool off at night. Gas bills often outpaced electricity bills in the winter, and no surprise. It was bloody COLD.
	Despite the frightful cold, my Cav started easily. The gearshift moved smoothly into reverse, and I backed out of my driveway. I'd bought the car myself with money I'd earned from working part-time at various jobs, saving up enough for the car and gas and insurance for about 4 months. I wasn't working now, but I really kind of needed to. I had a PC, serviceable Internet, a comfortable amount of cash to survive on, and the opportunity to relax in my own home, or with friends. No way was I taking that for granted, but not having some sort of steady income made me feel on edge. Shame that my last job had ended up such a disaster, because the pool of places to work at was about as deep as a puddle of water on a hot summer day. Not that I could remember what that felt like, given the current temperature.
	Winter in Dawson was constituted of all the worst months of the year. Seasonal depression set in early, just like the cold, and there was nothing to do in town. Jobs were sparse, since Dawson pulled most of its income from travelers passing through, but work could be found. It was just the work that no one else wanted. Janitorial jobs, and so forth. Low effort, but at the same time low pay. Enough to survive on, but not much else. A job like that wouldn’t leave much room for fun, and fun was an important thing to have when you were facing at least 3 months stuck indoors.
	The lack of entertainment in town was grating, since it iced often enough to make driving dangerous at least 2 weeks out of the month most winters. Any kind of outing for entertainment generally required traveling to Port Smith, the only semi-large town in a vicinity of about 50 miles, and rumor had it that the team that oversaw the highway was made up entirely of anthro bears. I doubted the truth of it, but if it really was that way then it didn’t bode too well for the road’s upkeep, what with the hibernation and all. 
	If one could make it to Portsmith, however, then they’d have their pick of what to do. The town boasted a few fast food places, a bowling alley, and a club with an anemic headcount, but that was a big cut above the scene in Dawson. My favorite place was this little restaurant, almost hidden among the blocky mega-stores in the mall plaza. It was on the outer edge of the square, where there wasn’t so much noise. When you walked in there was a dark mahogany bar lined with stools, and booth seating on all the walls. The atmosphere was dark and intimate and it almost felt like you could pull the air in close like a familiar blanket. Dave manned the bar most days, and he didn’t mind topping off a glass every now and then. Suffice it to say, Crow’s was my place to go to take the edge off of a rough week.
	The Wal-Mart parking lot was practically empty when I pulled in. It was past the noonday prime time, the dead zone between 1 and 3 PM. I picked out a spot near the front of the store, pulled in, hopped out, and headed quickly inside. The warm air blasting from the ceiling vents over the doors was a godsend, and I almost groaned out loud at the sensation of warmth creeping through my jacket, seeping into my skin. On my way in, I passed up the carts and picked up a basket instead, since all I needed was a Monster and a bag of chips. The greeter nodded at me as I passed, and muttered a faint “Good day.” I nodded back and walked on. The selection of goods wasn’t too bad, here. All the basics from the produce department, like onions and bell peppers, and a decent selection of meat, but almost no seafood to speak of. 
	It was a shame, really. My dad had taught me how to make this tuna alfredo on one of the few occasions when he was around, and I’d since become something of a journeyman chef. My dad had a penchant for only buying top-shelf ingredients, or whatever passed for top-shelf in small towns, and I’d seemed to inherit it. He insisted that the only way to make tuna alfredo was using fresh Mahi tuna, and the last time I’d seen any of that had been 6 years ago, on the short stint that my family had lived in Chicago. 
	It was becoming harder and harder to come by any fresh seafood, actually. Recently, an AAR demonstration had infected all the national news stations. The keystone image of the ordeal was a shot of a couple hundred Advocates for Anthro Rights scattered among a crowd of concerned citizens, waving signs that variously read “Stop Big Fishing!” and “Corporate Fishing Kills Aquas!”. Apparently, since the relatively recent upswell in the anthro population, more and more aquatic anthros were being dredged up in fishing nets, either seriously injured or dead. The corporations were in a heap of trouble, but then they went and stepped in it even worse by trying to cover the whole thing up. When the scandal finally broke loose, the AAR saw a massive influx of new members, and the market for seafood plummeted overnight. It kind of warmed my heart, the way that so many could come together to help defend the needful. At the same time, though, I mourned the loss of fresh fish. Not to sound like a heartless bastard, but safe fishing was definitely possible for businesses to do, it just seemed like they didn’t want to invest in the equipment to do it. The whole thing made me want to march down to wherever the big men in suits resided and give ‘em all a solid whack on the forehead, in the name of anthros and seafood lovers both.
	I resisted the temptation to pick up a few potatoes and mushrooms for the pantry and walked back toward the snack aisle, which was past the frozen food. Dawson’s inhabitants seemed to prefer microwavable meals over home cooking by a large margin, since the frozen foods section was pretty much the largest in the store. It was right in front, behind the produce, that is, within easy access of the too busy (or the too lazy) to cook. I slowed and looked down the aisle anyway. I tried my best to avoid it on general principle, but sometimes I couldn’t resist the allure of a box or three of Pizza Rolls. This time, though, I had an objective, and wasn’t swayed by my lust for those volcanic pockets of flavor. 
	As I was turning, something caught my eye. A dark shape, right in the corner of my vision, perusing the meat section. I almost ignored it, and then I noticed the tail. My eyes snapped on to the figure, independent of my will. It was...a wolf. A wolf wearing a black band Tee and dark jean shorts, yeah, but a wolf. Her fur was the color of smoky quartz, primarily black, itself, but with shadowy white tendrils woven in as if by a master sartor. It was thick, thick enough to make me wish I could run my hands through it. She was holding a leather wallet, fingers curled around it protectively. Around her throat, her fur was even thicker; like a mane. There’s almost no way to describe it, except with a word that most anthros seem to hate. It was...floofy. There, that’s it. Fuck me, okay, but it was the floofiest damn fur I’ve ever seen, and all I wanted to do was bury my face right in her neck. A chill ran through my body, ending at my fingertips, strengthening the compulsion into a downright desire. 
	Suddenly, I was struck from behind. The basket flew from my hand, soaring across the aisle and striking a row of boxed spaghetti noodles, knocking them off the shelves. Something hard and cold ran up the back of my ankles, scoring my tendons and knocking my knees out from under me. 
	“Watch where you’re going, Potato Man!” I groaned in exasperation from my spot on the ground. 
	“Fuck off, Allen.” 
	“Yeah, I’ll fuck off when your girlfriend stops fucking anthros. That shit’s disgusting, dude.” Allen Jensen, who is absolutely the biggest dickbag I’ve ever met, ran the cart he'd run me down with over my hand as he passed. Luckily, shopping carts are light, and so is the space where Allen’s brain should’ve been. Had he pushed down more he might’ve actually hurt me. 
	I snatched my hand back and ambled to my feet, ready to reach for the hood of Allen’s coat and deliver a knuckle sandwich straight to his front door. 
	“Say that again, pal. Maybe you’ll get a good reaction.” I growled.
	“Ha, I’ll say it a thousand times, potato boy. Anthros are dis-gus-ting, and your girlfriend can’t help but sink to her knees every time one’s around. Hell, maybe you’ll even join her next-”
	A resonant vibration filled the air, causing a hair-raising echo to run through my chest cavity. I think Allen and I realized what it was at about the same time, as he stopped pushing the cart when I looked up, back toward the meat section. The anthro wolf with the smoky fur was plodding in my direction, purposefully adding a predatory slink to her step. Her ears were flattened back to her skull, and her lips were pulled back ever so slightly. 
	“What was that?” She half-growled, voice tinged with an edge of danger and a familiar accent that I somehow couldn’t even begin to place. Allen stepped back, bourgeois confidence sloughing off. 
	“Just joking around, y’know...didn’t mean no harm.” He couldn’t seem to look her in the eye. The octave of her growl dropped a shade deeper. 
	“Aye, so you were.” Allen looked relieved, despite the obvious threat. 
	“Yeah, all just a joke. Never meant nothing by it.” 
	“Oh, I see.” Allen looked about ready to just shuffle off, but my heart wouldn’t stop pounding. I tensed my legs, ready to bolt. The anthro stepped past me, only a couple of arm lengths away from Allen. “A joke.” She intoned, deadpan. 
	“Yeah,” Allen began, “a - UCK!” In the span of a heartbeat the wolf had traveled the distance between her and Allen and taken him by the throat. She lifted him off the ground as easily as a sack of laundry and leaned close. 
	“Wanna hear a joke?” Allen didn’t respond, occupied with the effort of keeping himself in a position that would allow him to keep breathing. The anthro leaned in and separated her knife-sharp jaws a fraction of an inch. “I know a real good one.” Allen was shaking with strain now, biceps corded, while the wolf stood still as stone. She relaxed, just a little, and Allen took a deep breath.
	Without warning she snapped her jaws together with a crack that reverberated like a gunshot and squeezed. Allen emitted a pitiful choke, and a dark stain spread on his jeans. The wolf started to laugh and dropped him on his ass, a constant growl hidden beneath the jovial sound. Allen scrambled backwards on his hands and fell on his back, smacking his head, only to jump up and run. He almost cleared the produce section, then slipped on boots wet from his own piss. He wasn’t hurt, though, just scrambled back up and kept going. I’d never seen a man run like that in my life, and I was in cross country in high school.
	“Oh, wow, that never gets old.” The she-wolf proclaimed, shoulders shaking with mirth. Not gonna lie, even that was a little intimidating. I stepped forward and tried to stop shaking.
	“That was...uh...wow. Hi. I’m Connor.” I said, struggling to gain some semblance of acuity. "Connor McWhelan." She turned. 
	“Ah, sorry. Almost forgot. I’m Alva.” I took a second, finally realizing why her accent was familiar. 
	“Is that...by any chance would that actually be spelled-” 
	“A-i-l-b-e?” She interrupted. “Yeah. It is. I just spell it A-l-v-a, though. Makes things simpler. Most people don't know their way around Irish names too well.” She grinned, in a way that was completely and ironically deserving of the descriptor ‘wolfish’. I grinned in response. 
	“Go raibh maith agat, Ailbe. You really gave him the what-for.” Her grin increased in magnitude. 
	“Ná habair é, Connor. I really enjoyed it, anyway. It was the least I could do after he insulted both you and your mate. Ní leor teanga amháin, eh?” I was too preoccupied with the last part of what she’d said to focus on the first part. 
	“Nope. When is one language ever enough? Not that I can really speak Gaelic, though. I just know a few token phrases and words, from my parents.” I almost skipped right over it. And then it clicked. “Oh, and Naomi’s not - I mean, we’re not...mates. We’re just good friends. Allen’s idea of a good time is poking fun at how often we hang out. Sorry for the misunderstanding.” 
	“No need to apologize. I was the one who misunderstood, after all.” She looked down. “Not used to the way human relationships work. I’m sorta new to this.” She half-muttered.
	When she raised her head our eyes met. I blinked in confusion, then again in astonishment. Her eyes were arctic blue, and well described in that color, for her irises were shot through in places with bolts of white, like new ice floes. Her irises were ringed in midnight black, thin slivers that belied the depth behind her gaze. Alva noticed my stare and looked away, embarrassed. 
	“Sorry.” She said. “I’ve, uh, got somewhere to be. I should go.” 
	“Yeah,” I said, still rudely amazed. It never occurred to me that I might be making her uncomfortable. “Yeah, no problem.” 
	Alva turned and hurried off, and I watched her go. I noted with amusement that her tail was tucked through a hole in her shorts, artfully embroidered in black stitching. She walked through the doors without any groceries and my amazement diminished into sheepish guilt. 
	I let out a nervous breath. I didn’t doubt that she could smell the sweat pouring off my body, and then there was the whole thing with staring her in the eyes. Even if modern anthros were less sensitive about it, canine species still had that ancient dominance-subservience gene floating around somewhere. It was considered taboo to make eye contact for too long, and I’d been staring right into hers the entire time we were talking. She was just so...beautiful, I guess. Not beautiful in the way that a Victoria’s Secret model is beautiful, (although now that I think about it, she is) but beautiful like a work of art. A lovely sculpture, painstakingly crafted and molded by the hand of Nature. And her eyes. I’m not into anthros, at least, I don’t think I am, but her eyes were captivating. Even now I couldn’t stop thinking of the way that the white and the blue contrasted.
	I was jolted out of my reverie when I started to walk forward, to leave, and tripped over something. A tan leather wallet. Shit. Alva’s. She’d had it in her hand when she was walking towards me and Allen, but must have dropped it when she’d lifted him by the neck like so many pillows. I looked back toward the doors but it was already much too late to catch her. I walked towards them anyway, to see if I could get to her before she drove off. 
	In the parking lot, which was still sparsely populated, there was no sign of Alva. Damn. The likelihood of anyone returning the wallet to her if I left it to them was slim, so I decided to take it with me in case I saw her again. A freezing wind had kicked up while I’d been in the store, and the light jacket I was wearing was rendered all the more useless. On the way to my car I had the grand idea to open up Alva’s wallet and see if there was any contact information inside. I shifted the wallet to my left hand, grabbed my keys, unlocked my car, and got in, pumping up the heat as soon as possible.
	There was no driver's license in the wallet, and, oddly enough, it was also devoid of cash. There was a credit card, under the name Alva. No last name. Strange. The wallet wasn't otherwise empty, though. Most of the card slots were taken up by small stacks of 3 or 4 business cards. I took one out and held it in the light. Mac Tíre was printed in flowing script at the top, underlined with looped Celtic knots and the words ‘Traditional Pub’. There was a phone number with a local area code at the bottom. I may not know much Gaelic, but this I understood perfectly. Wolf. The implications were crystal clear. 
	I pulled out my smartphone and dialed the number. Either it was Alva’s cell, a landline at the pub, or I was entirely wrong about what I thought was going on. Regardless, I steeled myself. Turned out to be the right thing to do. 
									
								I didn’t know it yet, but I was in for one hell of a ride.
												
												Too bad it was so damn cold.

														
															Chapter 2

	Snow had begun to fall not long after I’d started my car. It was showering downy puffs, coating everything in a thin white veneer of softness. “Shit.” I muttered, looking down at the business card again. The heater was still struggling to catch up with the cold, but at least there was no wind now that I was in the car. I was still holding my phone, number for Mac Tíre still dialled. 
    I hit call and held the phone up to my ear. It rang until it hit message, at which point a pre-recorded voice began to speak. It was inflected with the slightest Irish tang. Alva.
    “Hello, you’ve reached Mac Tíre. We’re a little busy right now so we can’t take your call. If it’s between the hours of 12 AM and 8 AM, we’re closed, and you’ll need to call back later. Leave a message and we’ll do our best to get back to you.” The line beeped and I said, “Hi, Alva. It’s Connor, the guy from the store. You dropped your wallet and I found it. Just letting you know I have it. Get back to me, my number is…” I paused, trying to remember. It came to me after a moment, and I repeated it into the phone and hung up.
	So, she definitely worked there. 
    I had a choice. Go to the restaurant and find Alva, or get home and circumvent the risk of getting trapped on the road. At the rate the snow was falling now, it was likely that the roads would be completely coated by the time I could make it to Mac Tíre, provided it was even in town. I hoped it was, because when I looked up I noticed swollen black clouds staining the sky, rapidly approaching. If I didn’t get back I’d likely get stuck wherever I ended up. At the same time, if I didn’t get this wallet back to Alva she’d probably be without it for a couple of days while road crews worked to clear off the packed snow and ice. More than that, I wanted to repay her for what she’d done for me in the store. That had been incredible to watch.
    What a dilemma. Images of Alva with her teeth inches from Allen’s throat flitted across the surface of my thoughts. I still hadn’t been able to make up my mind about that. Was it awesome? Terrifying? A mixture of both, I guess. Whatever it was, watching Allen piss his pants and run away was definitely the best thing I’d seen in a while. 
    I realized with a wash of embarrassment that I’d wasted a solid five minutes ruminating over the whole situation. I sighed and said, “Screw it.”
    I put the Cav in drive and pulled forward out of the parking space. I stopped at the stop sign and did a quick search on my phone for Mac Tíre, which pulled up a translation for the term into English and just about nothing else. I decided to switch tactics and opened my contact list instead. Right near the top was the listing ‘Brendan Osborn’. I hit call.
    Brendan answered on the third ring, tinny background noise filtering through the speaker. 
	“Connor? Yo, what’s up, dude?”
    I laughed. “Not much, man. Just chilling in the WalMart parking lot.”
    He snorted. “The hell are you doing there? Isn’t it, like, a blizzard outside right now? You’ll freeze to death.” He admonished.
    “Yeah, I’m aware. Hey, you heard of a joint called ‘Mac Tíre’ around here? It’s like this Irish pub place.”
    Brendan hummed. “Mmm, no. Can’t say I have. Why? Planning on getting drunk?”
    I chuckled, and said, “Yeah, no. When I am, I promise I’ll call. Listen, I’m looking for this...woman.” I suddenly realized that I didn’t want Brendan to know that Alva was an anthro, to my shame. I’d had a sneaking suspicion for a while that he didn’t like them much. “She dropped her wallet in the store and I’m trying to get it back to her. I found a business card for this place inside it, and I’m thinking she works there. If I can get there, maybe I can find her and return the thing.” On the last word I hit the accelerator and pulled onto the highway, careful not to slide on the quickly mounting snow.
    “Well…” Brendan started. “Haven’t heard the name, but my dad was just talking about working on a pub a couple of weeks ago. He said the place was one of the best projects he’d ever finished, even though it was just a renovation. Said it was downtown, on...Maybell Street? Can’t really remember the name of the road, but it was something like that. Kept talking about how genius it was that there wasn’t even a sign, just this metal wolf head plaque over the door.” Suddenly, he hollered explosively. “YEEHAWWW!” I held the phone away from my ear, startled. “Hey, sorry dude, the game’s on. Dallas just scored. That was fucking sweet, bro, lemme tell you. Anyway, what were you saying?”
    I put the phone back to my ear. “It’s nothing. Tell me later, right?” 
    “Hell yeah, dude. That was SICK.” He sounded as if he’d just made the touchdown himself.
    I shook my head, perplexed. I’d never really been into sports. Didn’t get what was so exciting about them. I shifted the phone to my left ear. “Thanks, man. That’s exactly what I needed. I’m driving, but I’ll catch you around, alright?”
    Brendan let out a boorish ‘pshaaw’. “It’s nothing bro, any time. Catch you around.” He hung up before I could hit the end call button.
    I hit a right, towards the center of town, and put the phone back in my pocket. Brendan was easily distracted, especially on game days. He tried his level best to never miss a Cowboys game, and managed it pretty well. He wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but he had a great sense of humor. I hadn’t really expected to get any useful information out of him, but when it came to conversations his memory ran clearer than a Polish stream. His dad was a contractor, one of the only ones in town, and from what Brendan had said it sounded like he’d worked on Mac Tíre. Brendan went out on the town pretty often and it just made sense to call him when I had a question about something booze-related. The impulse to hit his number had been pretty strong.
	Turned out to be a lucky break. He’d given me something to go on, anyway. A wolf head and the approximate name of a street. No way was that a coincidence. 
    The snow was coming down in driving bouts, making it incredibly hard to see. I could hardly stay on the road. Were it not for the reflective yellow strips just barely poking out of the snowpack I’d have been off it minutes ago. I knew I had to be close to downtown, since the street had shrunk to a two lane and I could catch the sides of buildings in between sheets of snow. It wasn’t long until the Cav started to slip on the snow coated road, and I pulled over to where I thought the curb was. I turned the car off and pulled the keys from the ignition. I reckoned that I had to be close to the town square, because I recognized the stoplight swinging over the intersection in front of me.
    I stepped out of the Cav and walked over to the sidewalk, tripping on the curb. Luckily, I managed to regain my balance and catch myself before I could fall. Visibility was almost a nonexistent factor. I could barely see 2 feet in front of me, and that was a shrinking number. The sidewalk was slick, even slicker than the road. Getting out of the car hadn’t been the best idea, but I was determined to find that pub. I’d come too far to quit, especially since I could no longer go anywhere. The way I saw it I had two options: stay in my car until it ran out of gas, or find a place to get warm and wait out the storm.
    My fingers were numb and the wind pierced my jacket all too easily. I was shivering violently, and I hadn’t even gone 10 feet from the Cav. Or, I think I hadn’t. I take it back. Getting out of the car hadn’t just been a bad idea, it had been a terrible idea. I had no idea where I was. 
    I kept walking all the same, trudging forward through the blinding swirl of downpour. The snow was filling up my prints almost as soon as I made them, and I didn’t really have any other way of retracing my steps. I felt like I had a close idea of the direction I’d come from, but I wasn’t too sure. My shivering had turned into jerking spasms, my limbs flinching and jumping of their own accord. My eyelashes were frosted over with snowflakes, reducing my already nearly nonexistent field of view to a sliver of about 10 degrees. I’d been walking for a while, about 15 minutes.  I took another step forward.
    My head hit a solid surface and I bounced off, falling on my ass. My ears were ringing even though I could no longer feel them. I looked up, to see what I’d hit, and laughed. It was a signpost. The sign on the bottom, pointing right, read ‘W. Maple St.’. If the strong hunch that suddenly overtook me was correct, then Brendan had been pretty close with ‘Maybell’, I just hadn’t caught on. All the streets in downtown were named after trees. The one I’d pulled over on had been Ash, three blocks over. It was hard to believe I’d only gone that far. 
    I stood up, trying not to slip, and stumbled to the right. My face was as numb as my hands, and it was still nearly impossible to see. A brick wall loomed close and I put a steadying hand against it, almost missing and taking another spill. I passed a couple of glass fronted stores, neither of which were Mac Tíre. I was starting to get really worried. If I didn’t find it there was a good chance I wouldn’t make it back to my car, and on a day like today, especially since it was Sunday, none of the other stores were open. That thought brought up another problem: what if Mac Tíre wasn’t open, either? What if Alva wasn’t there? I cast it from my mind, determined not to panic. 
    I tripped again, and almost didn’t get back up. Were it not for the pull bar on the storefront I was passing I’d probably not have made it at all. Somehow, the thought wasn’t very worrisome. I kept going, even slower than before. I lost track of time, minutes passing in steps and seconds in breaths of icy air. 
	My jacket was soaked with snow melted by my body heat, and the melt was refreezing into a shell of ice. My panic was dulled to a low whine in the back of my head, like a far-away shop fan. It wasn’t that I was cold, just...numb. I couldn’t think of another word to describe how I felt. After all, how do you describe the feeling of not feeling? The hand supporting me against the wall was devoid of all sensation, and I couldn’t tell what the wall I was leaning on felt like. Or anything else, for that matter. I was still walking, one step at a time, operating on the memory of muscles that I could no longer feel. 
    I wouldn’t have noticed the door handle if I hadn’t struck it with my hip, which spun me about. Inexplicably, I stayed on my feet. It was polished bronze metal, curved like the handle of a tea pitcher. It was attached to a stylized door made out of a wood stained almost black. I looked up, and there it was. A metal plaque, almost covered in snow. I could just make out a vaguely lupine form, jaws parted. Understanding broke in, and my panic with it. If I didn’t get in there, I’d die. No way around it. The temperature had to be below -10 degrees, too cold to survive in for more than an hour or two. I’d been a fucking idiot. 
    I stumbled forward, arms raised. I beat on the door and could only feel the vibrations it was making in my chest and neck. I let out a garbled “Hey!”, but it sounded muted against the pillowy white down still pouring from the sky. 
    I was on my knees, but couldn’t remember getting there. I was still hitting the door, but it was thick. Maybe too thick. Maybe no one could hear me, if there was anyone there. My arms were starting to slow, tired. That word described me perfectly: I was tired. Tired as hell. Too tired to stay up. 
    I was laying on my back. It was warm. I couldn’t feel anything, but it was warm, like being swaddled in a feather comforter. I just wanted to sleep for a little bit, get some energy back. The words of my Scoutmaster came back to me, about what to do if you got trapped in the cold. He’d said “Don’t go to sleep. You might want to, but you can’t. If you do, you’ll never wake up.” I think I smiled, but I couldn’t really tell. Scoutmaster Dan had obviously never felt like this, so warm. 
    I opened my eyes. They’d been closed despite the fact that I hadn’t consciously closed them. The door was right there. I’d been so close. All I’d had to do was pull open the-

	…

	The door.

	All I’d had to do was PULL OPEN THE DOOR.

	My legs spasmed, and I started to get up, thoughts of sleep almost gone. I slipped, fell, started up once more. I almost fell again, but somehow, without noticing, I’d threaded my fingers through the door handle. I pulled myself up and then pulled on the door. It didn’t budge. I panicked harder, and pulled again. Still no dice. Another thought was slung forward from the depths of my mind: the door was locked. I shook my head, hard, and scolded myself. The door couldn't be locked. My life depended on it NOT BEING LOCKED. I gathered myself for one last pull, one last effort. I was thinking the words, "Don't be locked!" as hard as I possibly could, as if I could cause the door to open with psychic suggestion. A force of will I didn’t know I possessed took over, and I PULLED. 
	The door opened with a resounding crack of ice breaking, a crunch of snow being pushed back. I stumbled, caught myself. It was open. Just enough for me to squeeze through, but no farther. I fell through and the door shut behind me. 
	I was confronted with a sight that I hadn’t expected. A set of wooden stairs, going down. There was a handrail on the right side of the staircase, and another door at the bottom. There was another plaque above this door, also wooden, engraved with the name of the establishment. It was written in the same flowing script as the words on the business card. Mac Tíre. I almost cried with relief. 
	I started down the stairs, but I was still so tired, so clumsy. It took me a while to get to the bottom, but I did. I pushed open the door and stopped short. For a second, I thought I was walking into Crow’s. My chest swelled with an emotion I couldn’t decipher, a shining beacon in my frozen nerves. A bar adorned the center of the floor, stained as dark as rich molasses. High backed bar seats were set up along the counter, the same wood as the bar itself. Glasses were stacked on shelves along with bottles of expensive liquor, and there were oaken caskets with taps. Booths lined the walls, close and comfortable. The lighting was low, enough to see clearly by but easy on the eyes. Smooth Jazz oozed from hidden speakers. I gave a rusty laugh. I wasn’t just in an Irish pub, I was in a fucking speakeasy. 
	The closest booth was a few feet away, and I sank into it. Mac Tíre was heated, but I was still shivering violently. I stripped off my jacket, peeling it from my skin. My shoes and pants were next, and these I threw on the booth seat across from me. I was just in my skivvies now, still colder than the 9th circle of Hell. I pulled my knees into my chest and vigorously rubbed my arms against my legs, trying to regain some semblance of feeling. I was still dead tired, like I’d missed out on a couple hundred hours of sleep. My eyes would barely stay open, but I managed to keep them partially slitted through sheer willpower. 
	Eventually I started to recover some feeling. It started in my throat, which was incredibly raw. I felt as if I’d swallowed a handful of gravel and then went back for seconds. My mouth was completely devoid of saliva. Sleep beckoned like an old friend, tempting. It was too much, but I was awake. Barely. At some point, though, it became a herculean effort just to keep my eyes open. I raised a hand to slap myself awake, and found that I was holding a wallet. Alva’s wallet. I stopped, and just stared at it. How had such a small thing brought me here? My eyes began to droop again, and then closed. My hand dropped.
	I fell asleep not long after that. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    I woke up in a dim room. I was laying down, a fleece blanket covering my body. I grabbed for my phone to check the time and found that I wasn’t wearing any pants. My head ached like I’d made a habit of headbutting walls. I struggled into a sitting position, blanket covering my lap, and looked around. 
    The room was lit by a shaded lamp, situated on a wooden end table near the foot of the couch I was laying on. There was a shin-height coffee table in front of me, and another couch just beyond it. The furniture was cast in dark colors. Smooth jazz seeped in from an outer wall. I was sensing a theme. 
    There was a door set into the wall on my right, past a chocolate leather loveseat. It opened just as I was about to attempt to gain my feet, and a familiar figure strode in. 
    “Dia dhuit, Connor.” She said, brogue even more pronounced than when I’d first met her. She was a darkened silhouette to my unadjusted eyes. Her fur fit in perfectly with the rich color of the furniture. 
    “Alva?” I blinked. “How are - what’s -” I shook my head to clear it. “Where am I?”
    She crossed to the couch across from me and took a seat, tucking her tail against her leg. “You’re in Mac Tíre. My pub. Imagine my surprise when I came back to find you passed out in one of my booths, naked down to your underwear and clutching my wallet. I just about called the police, and then I saw the way you were shivering. I realized what must’ve happened and brought you in here.” She shook her head slowly. “You’re lucky to be alive, you know that?” 
    I nodded. “Yeah, I think so. My head’s all fuzzy, and I don’t really remember getting here. To Mac Tíre, I mean.” I remembered finding Alva’s wallet and calling Brendan, and stepping out of my Cavalier and into the storm, but not much after that. “I know what must’ve brought me here, at least. Your wallet. You dropped it in the store, and I was coming to bring it back to you.” 
    Alva smirked. “Charming. You know that there’s only a credit card in there, right? I could’ve just cancelled it.” 
    I nodded, sheepish. “Yeah. I just...I guess I wanted to thank you for the way you helped me out with Allen, in the store. That was really awesome of you.”
    “Thank you. It was really nothing, though.” She looked away, quiet. 
    I broke the silence first. “So. How come I haven’t heard of this place? If I had, I’d have shown up a lot sooner. And probably under better circumstances, at that.”
    Alva began to play with her fingers, winding and unwinding them. “Well, you wouldn’t have. Mac Tíre's doors aren't open to the public.” 
    I was taken aback. “What? Why not? You’ve got something special, here. The aesthetic, the atmosphere. This is honestly the most genuine pub I’ve ever set foot in. You’d make a killing, and you wouldn’t even have to advertise. Word gets around about places like this. Hell, I’d be the chief word-spreader. I’ve been here a total of...well, I really have no idea, but probably not that long, and I’m in love with it already. What gives?”
    Alva didn’t say anything, just kept staring at her hands. Then, without warning, she threw her head back, fell into the well-cushioned couch, and groaned, a plaintive note underlining the noise. For a second I thought something was wrong, before I realized she was just expressing frustration. Her shirt had ridden up above her midriff, and I looked away politely. After a quick glance. 
    “I can’t get a license to sell alcohol.” She said quickly. I paused, trying to think of how one would even go about doing that in the first place. Embarrassed, I realized that I actually had no clue. 
    “Why is that?” Something clicked in my head. “It’s not because you’re a wolf, right? If it is, then feel free to show me to the nearest licensor and I’ll give ‘em a lesson on sensitivity.”
    Alva sighed, head still thrown back with an arm over her eyes. “No, it’s not that. It’s this guy, the man who owns the hardware store across the street. The last time I tried to get a license he objected, saying that my selling alcohol would diminish the safety around here and thus hurt his sales. If it’d been anyone else, say some guy across town, I’d still be able to get my license. But, since his interest goes beyond general concern his objection is valid. He showed up in court, too, and got the whole room behind him. He’s a good talker. A real son of a bitch, though.”
    I sat in silence for a moment, thinking through it. “Have you reapplied yet?” I asked.
    Alva nodded from behind her arm. “Yeah. It’s a long process. It’ll take a while to go through.”
    “Oh. That’s a real bummer. Kind of kills my dream of nursing a fifth at your bar, awash in jazz and good vibes, y'know?”
    Alva chuckled. “Mine, too.” She sighed again. “It really wouldn’t be such a problem, except that I’m not making any money right now. If I can’t make enough to keep Mac Tíre up and running, I won’t have any place to stay. I live in the back lounge, you know, and…” Her voice broke and she sat up, shoulders falling. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m dumping all of this on you. I just met you, after all.” She gave a nervous laugh, ears drooping, hands pressed into her lap, tail fluttering weakly. It was kind of cute, actually. 
    I cleared my throat, and my eyes met hers again. “Maybe you could do something else with the place in the meantime, make some cash to keep you afloat until you can do what you really want to do. Maybe…” I hummed under my breath, deep in thought. “Why not re-brand Mac Tíre as a restaurant? There’s nowhere to eat around here, and in the winter nobody can leave town. You’ve got a perfect captive audience.”
    Alva lifted her head a little, shooting me a quizzical glance. “Right.” She said. “That’s...actually not a half-bad idea.” She leaned forward again, resting her forearms on her legs and leveling her gaze on me. “I know the man who owns the local Walmart, and he knows some wholesalers. I could see to getting the food without much trouble at all, and…” She trailed off. 
    “And?” I prompted. 
    “I just realized that I can’t cook. At all. In fact, I’m used to eating frozen dinners and...raw meat. It’s not that Mac Tíre doesn’t have a kitchen, because it does. A very nice one. I just have no idea how to use it.” Her voice had been steadily dropping as she spoke, until her last few words were almost inaudible. “I’d have to hire a full-time chef, and I just don’t have the money for that. I spent almost all of my savings on the renovations, and now I’m almost flat broke. If I could cook I might be able to hire a waitress, but I can’t.” Alva’s ears drooped again and solemn silence filled the air. Her eyes shifted away again, which made me want to take her by the chin and turn her head back in my direction.
    I thought for a second. It didn’t take long to come to a decision. “I can.” I said simply. 
    “What?” Alva said, head cocked to the side. 
    “I can cook. I’m pretty good at it, actually. If you can supply the food and the people to eat it, I can make it.” Alva’s ears had been steadily perking up while I’d been talking, as if they were shy, unsure. 
    “You mean...really? But..I can’t pay you. I have no money. I’m not even sure I have enough money to buy the food, so how…?”
    I nodded sagely. “Well, that’s simple. Don’t pay me. Consider it a courtesy, for what you did. You saved my life, Alva. I’m not likely to forget that any time soon.” She was fidgeting, her fingers curling in her tail fur. 
    “I didn’t really...you know.” She met my eyes again, holding my gaze for longer this time. “You really don’t have to do this.”
    I shook my head. “You misunderstand. I want to.” I really did. Mac Tíre was Crow’s turned up to 11. Everything about it drew me with an almost palpable magnetic force. I didn’t remember much of getting here, but I did remember one thing. The feeling when I’d stumbled in the door. Like coming home. And then there was the job itself. A chef. The thought made my fingertips tingle with excitement. I’d wanted to be a real chef since I was a little kid, watching my dad make some dish or other. It was a hidden-away dream of mine, one I never thought I’d realize.
    Alva let out a breath and stood, skirting the coffee table and walking in my direction. She’d cleared the table by the time I realized what was happening and thrown her arms around my neck, pressing me back into the couch. 
    She let out a breath. “Thank you, Connor. I don’t know how I can thank you enough.” 
    I laughed, taken by surprise. She felt so soft on my skin. I resisted the urge to bury my face in her neck fur like I’d wanted to do the first time I’d laid eyes on her. “It’s nothing, Alva. Any time.”
    She pulled back,  keeping her hands on my shoulders and looking me square in the eye. I had to fight off a sudden bout of disappointment that left my head spinning. She smelled really, really good. The white flecks in her irises shone like diamonds, even in the darkened room. “Anything you need, just say it. I’ll do my best.” She said. I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. Her tail was wagging back and forth behind her.
    I chuckled. “Actually, there is one thing.”
    Her eyes widened. “What is it?”
    I raised my eyebrows. “Well…” I took a breath and paused dramatically. “Do you happen to know where my clothes are?”
    She shot me an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I’ll be right back.”
    She left the room quickly, striding with purpose. There was a stupid grin stuck on my face and I could feel the corners of my eyes crinkling. I’d met a beautiful wolf, almost frozen to death, and made a dream come true in less than 12 hours. What a night. I leaned back and closed my eyes, waiting for Alva to return. 
	One thought, one niggling feeling floated up most prominently above the maelstrom in my head in order to describe how I felt in that moment. It was the feeling of just getting started.