Traveling West on US12 in Idaho through the Clearwater National Forest, it was officially evening on Friday April 5th and the CB had been silent, the smokies were leaving well enough alone and Tucker had a load of pipes that were destined for Kooskia Municipal Airport. If the roads didn't have all the little turns and bends he'd have been able to drop the petal and make it in just over an hour, but it had rained the entire week before, the roads were wet, and even though it was a clear evening, it was still a little dangerous.

Tucker would have to call in at some point to get the next job. The home office said something about Northern California, possibly or Salt Lake City Utah, which would be a little easier to travel to. The radio played softly in the background as a new tower interrupted the old, Neil Young's Heart of Gold, a live version, filled the cab.

The CB crackled to life briefly, "alligators" is all it said before someone switched channels.

Tucker grunted. The vagaries of radio transmissions were such that figuring out a caller's 20, or location, wasn't a sure thing. He remembered one time driving through Georgia when he heard what he had to assume was chatter from some guy in Mexico, at least from what he was saying.

The message's warning of "alligators", or stripped pieces of tire on the road, didn't necessarily apply to his route, but he'd have to be extra watchful for them. Debris like that could damage his own tires, and he was in no mood to deal with one of them getting stripped, or worse, go flat.

He opened his mouth in a jaw-cracking yawn. His body was reacting to the arrival of night and he began crooning along to the song as an effort to keep him from dozing off.

"That keeps me searching
for a heart of gold
And I'm getting old.
Keeps me searching
for a heart of gold
And I'm getting old."

The lyrics did not fail to register in his weary mind. Tucker was still a good number of years from the fateful forties, but as an old buddy used to cackle during their rare get-togethers at a roadside diner, "It ain't the years, Tuck. It's the mileage."

The trucker sighed in counterpoint to the hiss of his truck's tires on the wet asphalt. His oldest daughter's birthday was coming up and, although he wasn't going to be able to be there for it, he wanted to make sure he sent something as a present, if he could only figure out what.

Tucker loved his kids. His fault lay in not loving his wife enough to stay with them.

He snorted. S**t, he thought in disgust, next thing I'll be bawling out some damn country song. Gotta make some time so I can drop this load off and find a stop to crash for the night. He focused on the view out his windshield, trying to shorten the distance by thought alone if possible.

The hour raced by with various songs coming up on the now stronger signal and some straighter sections of road to gain a little speed here and there.  Old country tunes seem to be the specialty but they played some more upbeat ones into the mix.  The river stayed to his left and the trees to his right with little else.  He passed one truck on the way who let a hand hang out the window in salutations.  Another crackle of alligator warnings and this time Tucker could guess who was giving the warning.

Before he reached the small community of Syringa he saw the alligators, busted up strips of tire in the middle of the road.  Simple enough to avoid, but with weariness and twilight both setting in, Tucker could be glad of the warnings.  Syringa signaled another 20 minutes of road before reaching Kooskia.  One never knew what kind of wait there would be when dropping off a load or if there was going to be hospitality.  The Kooskia airport was a small one, he might get coffee and a seat but not much more.  Tucker would have to decide whether or not to make a pit stop in Syringa or continue on.  It would wind up being dark either way in the end.

Tucker expertly tapped on the GPS navigator attached to the dash, searching for any food and rest stops along the way. His truck had all the modern amenities: GPS, CB radio, hands-free cellphone, even a sat-broadband connection for his battered laptop. The extended cab in the back provided space for a small fridge and a bunk, for those times when a cheap place to eat and sleep wasn't to be found.

So far from the main roads, he didn't expect the device to give him a wide selection but knowing where the nearest choke 'n' puke was could help make the decision to stop now or later easier.  The small icons popping up on the device was a clear indication that all of Tuck's hope lay in Kooskia.  He continued on past Syringa and kept the river to the left.

The sun fell and the lights of the truck came alive casting their glare upon the road in front.  The night sky was visible and the moon was a target overhead.  Slowing down to navigate a particularly sharp turn the truck ground its way from an angle to a straight-line again.  In the middle of the road ahead of the truck, before Tucker was able to accelerate onto what the GPS showed as a good straight shot, a large wolf stood unmoving, staring into the lights of the truck.

The trucker cursed as he took his foot off the gas pedal and let the truck slow down. Had he been traveling at a normal clip, he'd have plowed right through the animal; in the end, it was safer than trying to swerve around it and risk losing control. At his current speed, though, he had plenty of space to brake, and he had enough respect for life to avoid crushing the wolf, despite its apparent suicidal impulse.

Tucker frowned and leaned on the air horn, trying to scare the furred interloper off the road. Goddammit, he groused silently, Damn thing's probably half-starved or rabid. He stuck his head out the window and called out in an angry voice, "Go on! Git, you mangy furball!"

Tucker let the truck idle forward as he yelled, hoping the approach of several tons of metal on its furry butt would convince the wolf to vacate the premises.  The wolf seemed unconcerned as it walked calmly to the side and let the truck idle along side of it.  Tucker could look down at the beast, a beautiful creature with a light furry coat and dark fur around its eyes and chin.  It looked into Tucker's eyes with the bright white rings that a wolf has and it bared its fangs a little, there was a signal of recognition there, and suddenly took off running towards the river and the smattering of trees that edged that side of the road.

Tucker's eyes followed the wolf's run until he lost sight of it. He'd been on the road less than a decade but he'd still seen his share of odd things during the years. As he leaned back into the truck and shifted gears to get back up to speed, he filed this incident among the others in his mind.

The road ahead was clear and Tucker would be able to pick up speed and make the distance to Kooskia and the airport without a problem, any tiredness that was in him at that moment seemed to dissipate with that experience.  The path into Kooskia was clear and the GPS unit helped him find the small municipal airport with ease.

He dropped off the load, unhooking the trailer and signing it off to the tired attendant at the dock. Sure enough, the only thing they had in the lounge was day-old coffee sitting at the bottom of a cold pot. With a sigh, Tucker returned to his rig and turned back on the road, tapping on the GPS to plan where he would stop for some dinner and a bed.  Kooskia fortunately had planned for this kind of thing and offered a local stop with a selection of fast food joints to crash at, the GPS displayed the options.

Several vacancies at the Kooskia Western Motor Inn was promising and just down the street within walking distance was the Silver Dollar Bar and Grill.  The room was a mixture of mothball and antiseptic and stale air, but the bed looked flat and clean.  The Silver Dollar wasn't much to look at on the outside but inside where were a few locals and the television was on EPSN showing a baseball game, White Sox versus the A's.

Tucker found himself a seat and placed his order. He watched the game for a bit, then fished out his cell phone.  He dialed the number for the office, knowing that, despite the hour and time zones, there'd be a dispatcher on the line. Once the call connected, he identified himself, reported the delivery, and waited for an assignment.

If there was a gig ready for him, he'd make sure to get a good night's sleep before getting back on the road tomorrow. Otherwise, investigating exactly what kind of night life Kooskia had to offer sounded appealing to him.

Tucker' drink was set before him while he dialed the number.  Marge was on the other end, "Hey, Tuck.  Got the details down, I'll let Roger know when he gets in in the mornin'.  He's workin' on the schedule before he left.  Kid had a doctor's appointment.  Something to do with a broken arm on the playground.  At any rate.  I'm sure he'll give you a call when he figures out which direction you need to go.  Have a good evening, Tuck." 

Tucker's meal came after the phone call.  It was a little greasier than one might expect but it tasted good, probably because of the grease.  The Sox were up, the evening was his and Kooskia had little to offer.  The little podunk town was sparse of people.  The population and welcome sign had read 641 on the way in.  Tucker was probably the most night life they'd seen in a long long time.

"Can I get you anything else?" the man behind the counter said as he topped off the glass.

Tucker caught his reflection in the glass behind the clerk and stared at it.

His face showed the scars and lines accumulated through his thirty-odd years on this earth. It reminded him of his dad, now retired from a career as a police officer. The same look as if life had pressed down on him, squashing his face, squeezing his dreams and desires until nothing was left but a tired old body just going through its paces.

It was an old familiar feeling, one that hit him at moments like these, when he was alone with nothing to do. Strangely, it never struck when he was on the road, as if being behind the wheel kept the specter of loneliness and despair at bay. He missed Sarah and the kids, and realizing once again they weren't his to come home to didn't help.

He had a routine for handling this pothole on the road, a way to roll over the darkness roiling in the back of his head and move on. He focused on the counter guy, still waiting for an answer, and managed a wry grin as he lifted his glass.

"Yeah, seems I'm staying over in this here lovely little town. Any suggestions for a fellow looking for a good time?"

"You're lookin' at it.  Not much to do in Kooskia.  Some folks head up 12 into Lewiston, but it's a little better than an hour and half drive.  Not the drive to make at this hour.  Kind of a day trip around here.  Go up, hit super wal-mart and head back.  Good place to retire, but kids get in trouble around here with nothing to do. "  The bartender shrugs.  Life it seemed had all but failed in Kooskia.

The familiar crack of pool balls snapped through the air and a couple of young studs circled a table while a pair of ladies sat nearby talking and watching.  The excitement of Kooskia at its best on a Friday night.  The children that were stuck in the town, thanked God for satellite.

"S**t," Tucker muttered in resigned disgust. He lifted his glass in a mute salute to the bartender and sauntered over to the pool table, where he stood watching the game and sipping his beer. Once he saw the chance to break in, he asked, "Mind if I join in?"

"Sure thing, man.  Wanna put a five spot down just so we're not standing around playing with our balls?"  One of the men says as he rubs the scraggly vestiges of a mustache and goatee that refused to come in.   In the distance a wolf howls and the second guy sits down with the girls and gets a beer to watch.  What looks like a regular at the bar stops focusing on the game to glance over his shoulder at the pool table.

"You're on." Tucker flashed his teeth in a grin as he fished out his wallet and extracted a fin. Even if the punk was out to hustle him, it beat sitting on the ratty mattress in his motel room, staring at crappy wallpaper and drinking himself to sleep. Ponying up the ante, he grabbed a cue stick from the wall and chalked the tip as he said, "Set 'em up for eight ball. I'll break."

The pool player racks the balls and shifts them around in small circles until he is satisfied with the placement then flicks the cue ball down the table to Tucker.  "Call em if you can, old man," he says and leans back against a rafter support waiting for his turn.  One of the girls gets up and gets a couple of fresh beers for the boys and sways as she walks hoping to distract Tucker with a slight show of ass.

Tucker's grin stretched wider in satisfaction. Things were looking up. A challenge had been made and, win or lose, he'd enjoy the contest. With a nod to the young lady in appreciation, he picked up the cue ball and carefully chose his spot. He leaned over and took the shot, the thunk of cue stick striking ball followed by the crack of the cue ball disassembling its ranked brethren sounding nice and clean.

Tucker saw the eleven ball sink into a corner pocket and chuckled. "I got stripes," he called unnecessarily. He studied the table layout and announced, "Fourteen in the corner." The bank shot was sweet, the cue ball bouncing off the cushion and striking its target true, sending it to its destined fate.

His next shot didn't make the grade, though, and he ceded the table to his opponent with good grace.  As he leaned back to watch, Tucker said the girl who'd tried to catch his eye before, "I s'pose you wouldn't mind getting me a brew, hon?"

With a kind of cruel laugh, the girl dismisses Tucker, "I don't think so."

Tucker shrugged good-naturedly. "Suit yourself." He snagged a nearby stool and settled down with a grunt.

The pool player carefully sinks four balls before backing himself into a corner and attempting to make a shot he is unqualified to make he Englishes the cue ball and one of Tucker's own balls into a pocket.  "Shit," he says and steps back from the table taking a drink from the mug of beer.  The table is good for Tucker.

The man at the bar now fully ignores the television and watches the game.  The bartender sips at ice water as he too watches on.

Tucker rose from his perch and eyed the lay of the table. He plucked the cue ball from the pocket and placed it for a clean shot to one of the four remaining striped balls. He sunk it with ease and set himself up for another sweet bank shot. Once again, though, he failed to maintain the streak and barely avoided scratching.

Smacking his lips in slight annoyance, he called out to the bartender, "Hey, could I get a beer over here?"

"Sure," the bartender says and carries a mug over.  A downgrade compared to the girls but Tucker gets his beer nonetheless.  The pool player walks halfway around the table and puts the cue behind his back and carefully taps the cue ball to soft bank one of his own balls into a pocket. 

"What'd I tell you about showin' off, Joe?"  The bartender says as he walks to his position behind the bar.

"Shut up, Mike," the pool player Joe says.  Joe lines up another shot and calls a ball and a pocket and makes the shot but leaves himself a bad position.  He reluctantly hits the cue and taps his own ball but it is ineffective.  "Bad angles, is all.  I'm still ahead unless you are hustling me, stranger."  Joe sips the beer to just get a taste.

For some reason, the implied accusation rankled Tucker. He carefully placed his beer on a nearby table and made a production out of chalking his cue stick. "Son, as far as I'm concerned, this is a friendly game to pass the time."

Without another word, Tucker leaned over and smacked the cue ball, sending it caroming into one of his last two balls which then slammed into a pocket with a thunk loud enough to be heard over the TV.

Silently, he lined up the next shot. It was a tough one, the striped ball almost kissing the eight-ball. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly and sent the cue ball spinning with some English in the hopes of avoiding a scratch or foul. He managed to avoid both, but not in sinking the ball.

Still silent, Tucker went back to his beer.

Joe eyed tucker and called his next two shots.  They were simple and Joe had obviously placed more than his fair share of pool.  He called the eight ball but missed.  He smiled with a little confidence.  "Alright, one more round and this friendly game is over.  And that friendly five you put down will by me a friendly beer."  He laughs a little and steps back from the table finishing his beer in anticipation.

The wolf howls again, closer.  "Damn dogs," Joe's friend says.  "Should've let them die off."

Tucker stared at the table, studying the lay. The last stripe sat close to the center of the table, inviting a scratch. This one will need some English, Tucker thought calmly. The flare of annoyance had burnt out, leaving cool stillness. He felt detached, as if he'd already done the shot and it didn't matter what the result had been.

"That's not a dog," he murmured to no one, not even sure how he knew. He lined up the cue stick, and without even spending time to aim knocked the cue ball down the table.

It struck the stripe, which rolled right into the pocket as if drawn by a magnet. The cue ball bounced off the cushion alarmingly close to the opposite corner, and Tucker held his breath as it rolled teasingly past the opening to rest against the cushion on the other side.

Tucker let go of his breath with a pleased grunt, "Huh." His mouth quirked in a wry grin and he looked at Joe with a "what can I say?" expression on his lined face.

Joe did not look happy, despite the smile he wore.  The smugness had worn away and Tucker could tell that just based on his experience in other bars of similar quality, Joe was the local boy who didn't like to lose, even if just a friendly game of pool.  Tucker's choice was to take the consequences of beating the punk or gracefully loosing.  The man at the bar gave a little chuckle at Tucker's loud clack of a shot and tossed out, "Put em away, stranger."

The serenity gave way to fatigue and melancholy. Tucker felt tired. Tired of this stupid game, tired of this stupid podunk town, tired of spending his life traveling from no place to no place. He once again felt the desire to see Sarah and the kids, and the truth of his loss made his chest ache. The thought of showing this small-town tough up gave him no satisfaction. It just wasn't worth it. He decided to fumble the shot, let the boy have his day, buy a bottle of Johnny Walker from the bartender, and drink it dry back in the hotel room.

Joe's friend had heard Tucker mumble his certainty over the source of the howl, "Dogs, wolves, whatever.  Shouldn't have been resurrected from the dead.  Weaker creatures need to die off.  Shoot a couple and you get charged fines.  But those beasts make off with the family pet or a head of cattle and you're supposed to roll over and hope they gut you too."  His bitterness is mixed with only a small bit of beer and tiredness.

The boy's peevish complaint ignited Tucker's annoyance anew. The trucker was no tree-hugging animal-rights fanatic, but he had no grief with the idea of "live and let live." He knew wolves had a tendency to avoid populated areas, and normally only attacked when threatened. His mind flashed back on his encounter earlier that day on the road. There'd been something noble, appealing about the wolf sitting there and acknowledging him before running off. In that second, Tucker felt a strange pull of kinship with the animal and his annoyance grew into dull anger.

His hand gripped the cue stick tighter. Fine, you little s**ts, his mind burned, let's see who the weaker ones really are.

He looked down at the table, measuring. Having the cue ball nestling against the cushion made lining up the shot tricky, but he saw a likely path. With a measured pace, he walked over and bent down. He struck true and made sure to make eye contact with Joe just as the stick made contact with the ball.

The cue ball rolled lazily down to hit the eight ball, which in turn made its own casual way to the center pocket, pausing dramatically before dropping in.

Tucker stood up, the cue stick hanging seemingly forgotten from his hand. There was no rush of pleasure at his victory, no flood of joy. He felt fulfilled, like he'd proved some sort of point, yet strangely empty.

"Good game," he said to Joe in a level voice. He looked directly at the young man's face, idly waiting for the boy's response. It was weird; he felt relaxed and tense at the same time. His stomach muscles tightened slightly in anticipation and his breathing deepened to draw more oxygen into his body. Whatever happened next, he was ready to deal with it.

"Yeah, good game," Joe said and looked to the side.  It was a move from the movies.  Tucker knew that he would be coming in with a right hook.  Tucker however wasn't prepared for the quickness with which Joe executed his punch.  Things always seemed to happen differently in the movies. 

Tucker's head snapped to the side but there was no pain in the movement nor in his cheek or jaw.  Joe however screamed in howling pain.  He followed it up with curses and crying.  "Holy Mother of God!" the guy at the bar said behind Tucker.  The bartender could only stare in fascination.  With a chance glance towards the bar, Tucker could see his reflection.  The bar looked in that elongated mirror like it did outside of the mirror.  Tucker however looked to be a bit more golden.  Holding his hands a little before him, Tucker saw that his skin was gold with red coppery veins running from his fingertips up into his sleeves.  In the mirror, his face was gold with coppery red eyes and etched rose gold eyebrows and shaped hair.  His teeth were the rose gold color of his eyes. 

Joe's friend and the girls that were with them were running out of the door of the bar.  The baseball game was finishing up and the nightly news began to play.

Tucker stared at his transformed hands. A part of his mind wondered if he should be panicking now, but the strange mood that had taken him over kept the thought from blossoming into action. He flexed his fingers and rubbed his hands and face, checking to see whether he'd somehow donned gloves and a mask. Tucker felt the familiar lines and shape of his face under his fingers but it moved much less. The skin moved with the muscles underneath rather than the power external. It was smooth like beaten gold but solid through and through.

The sheer unreality of the situation finally overwhelmed him, but instead of yelling or screaming, what burst from his lips was a snort of laughter. Tucker turned to the horrified bartender, thinking that he should say something to reassure the man, or maybe plead for help. The only thing he could think to say was, "Damn."

"What the hell are you?!" the bartender finally manages to squeak out of a higher pitch than earlier.  "What the hell are you?" he repeats emphasizing different words.  The other guy at the bar had slipped off to the side of the bar and was running into the bathrooms.  Joe managed to pull himself up off the floor and picked up a cue stick and in the mirror Tucker could see it swung at him.  The jarring hit moved Tucker only slightly.  The crack of the cue stick breaking on Tucker's back sounded like a gunshot.  The broken half of the cue stick goes flying across the bar.  "Shit!" Joe sounds surprised and in the mirror behind the bar, Tucker can see it.

After a lifetime of mediocrity, of just getting by, making do, staying alive, watching the golden ring sail on by out of reach, Tucker felt a surge of power inside him, filling his senses. It made him dizzy, as if he'd drunk a good number more beers than he'd had. He had absolutely no idea what was going on; maybe someone had slipped some serious drugs into his food or drink. But whatever it was, it felt good.

Tucker turned to Joe, fixing him with his inhuman eyes. "Scram," he said curtly. Even his voice rang with a metallic edge.  Joe took the advice and carrying his broken hand close to him he left out the front door in haste.  The men's room door shut as the other guy left the main room of the bar.  Tucker's attention is brought back to the bartender as the sound of a shotgun being cocked hits him with a new question: would the bullets be more effective than a cue stick?

"I think I've seen about enough, stranger.  I don't know what the hell you are, but I would ask you to leave just the same."  The bartender has the gun aimed at Tucker and secured and ready to fire.

A lifetime of being the outsider reminded Tucker that no matter that he hadn't done anything wrong, he'd still be the one getting the blame. He raised his hands slightly, acknowledging the threat of the shotgun, though he couldn't help wondering what would happen if the bartender actually pulled the trigger. And realizing the thought gave him such little concern cut through his fugue and made him frown. What the hell was he? Tucker was familiar with being high, and this had none of the feel of tripping. He needed to go somewhere else, preferably out of sight, and try to figure this out.

Tucker spoke calmly as he moved slowly towards the door, trying to keep things cool, "Okay, relax. I'm leaving now."

Reaching the entrance, he couldn't help pausing and calling out before stepping through, "Sorry for the mess."

Outside, Tucker looked around for any other people before heading over to the motel, trying to stay out of sight. The serene mood that had overcome him before was fading, sinking into a dark mass of paranoid fear. He couldn’t pretend this was just some dream or drug-induced hallucination. His heartbeat pounded on his temples and his breath was loud against his ears with a disconcerting brassy twang.

Tucker fought the panic nibbling at the edges of his consciousness like a hungry mouse. He focused on an immediate goal: grab his things and bail. Recovering his belongings at his room was simplicity itself; he rarely brought anything more than his toilet kit and a change of clothes when he stayed at a hotel. The room was already paid for, so he could just leave the key on the dresser.

Tucker threw his bag into the back of the cab as he climbed into his rig. The engine started up without complaint, and he eased into the highway with no mishap. He alternated staring at the road running underneath the headlights and glancing at the side-view mirrors for any pursuit, using the familiar feel of the vibrations from the seat and the padded steering wheel against his hands as a crutch for his crumbling composure.

He’d been concentrating so much on the minutiae of truck driving that he couldn’t tell when he’d gone back to looking normal. All of a sudden, he noticed that his hands resting on the wheel had regained their usual tanned hue. Instead of relief, Tucker felt the last shreds of reason sweep away. His chest felt as if a clamp had closed around his heart and his breath caught, his throat squeezed tight. Through slitted eyes, he saw an empty rest stop ahead and managed to steer the rig into the exit, not even bothering with aligning his truck on a painted slot before shutting it down and stumbling out.

His feet missed the step and he tumbled out onto the rough asphalt, scraping his hands and knees. He laid there, his body shaking uncontrollably as hot tears burned his eyes. “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,” he repeated, sobbing, as the delayed physical and emotional reaction to the inexplicable events of that evening washed over him. His mind relentlessly replayed the scene; the young man breaking his hand on Tucker’s face, the frightened bartender threatening him with the shotgun, the apparition that stared back at him from the barroom mirror.

There was nothing more horrifying to Tucker than having his body betray him, having something he couldn’t explain or control happen to him. He’d lived with the secret terror of cancer since witnessing the disease turn his father into a withered shell of a man. But this was beyond anything that he could assimilate.

He did something he hadn’t done since his father’s funeral, not even when he’d come home to find an empty house and the note from Sarah. He wept, loudly, tears and snot shamefully running down his cheeks and face.  Tucker's own wailing hid from him the chorus of howling wolves in the background.

Afterwards, spent, he crawled back up into the rig, not even aware as he instinctively closed the door behind him, and collapsed on the small cot in the cubbyhole in the back. His mind dropped into the darkness of sleep like a man embracing a long-lost lover.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** 

Saturday, April 6th, Tucker awoke the next morning to the sounds of claws on the hood of his rig.  From his vantage point he could see through the curtain.  On the hood was the very same wolf that had stopped in the middle of the road the night prior.  It was standing on the hood of his rig and given this new perspective, Tucker could tell the beast was huge.  His joints ached, his eyes hurt from the tears, his muscles felt like they had been bunched up into a knot of Christmas lights and tossed into the closet for someone else to untangle next year.  His hands were flesh instead of gold however, and the night prior felt like a dream and the wolf was some new nightmare to face.

He stared stupidly at the animal staring back at him. His sleep-befuddled brain struggled with sorting out the whirligig of random thoughts and memories until they finally settled down like a drier finishing its cycle.

He realized he had a choice. Dismiss the events of last night as some fevered ream, brought on by too much alcohol (but he'd only had two beers!), or accept them in their complete implausibility and face this new screeching detour from reality face to face. And do it before he'd had his morning coffee.

Tucker groaned as he fumbled his way to the front of the cab, feeling like sand had somehow got under his skin and gummed up his joints. He dropped onto the driver's seat with a grunt and resumed his inspection of the animal, with only a thin layer of safety glass separating them.

Finally, he grumbled in bleary annoyance, "Well, Lobo? Ya gonna do anything else besides scratch my paint?"

The great wolf lied down on the hood and stared into Tucker's eyes.  Tucker was able to glance to the side and into his rear view mirrors and see that several other wolves surrounded the front of his rig.  None were quite as big as the one on the hood but there were all impressive in their own right.  The CB crackled to life, "Tucker come in this is home base.  You in your truck?  Your cell phone isn't picking up.  I hope you're there.  I've got your next pick up and destination.  Tucker?"

Without taking his eyes off the wolf, Tucker reached for the mike and thumbed it on. "This is Tucker. Just had a late night and I forgot to charge my phone. Um, can you give me an hour to get back to being human, then call you back? Over." He was amazed he'd managed to say it all without breaking up, whether laughing or crying.

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