I wandered the high plains for several days in a feverish delirium, and at times I thought Medicine Dog rode beside me, his blind eyes undaunted by the snow. Other times I fancied I saw Sundown standing on the horizon, waving me on, Whatisit’s moronic laughter echoing from the darkness. On the third day after Pilate’s Basin, poor, faithful Erebus literally dropped dead underneath me, spilling me back into reality. There was little I could do but eat the horse, which strengthened me enough to press on. I continued on in my true skin, preying on antelope, the occasional buffalo calf, and any other four-legged creatures that crossed my path. It was easier to survive the winter as a werewolf than it was a man. At the end of each day, I would find an outcropping of rock, or dig out an abandoned prairie dog burrow in order to shelter myself from the unceasing winds. I listened to the true wolves howling from the distant hilltops like lost souls mourning their expulsion from Hell. Sometimes I would take up the howl, only to hear confusion and mistrust in their reply.
