Prairie never knew belonging. Never the companionship of the pack. Prairie was maverick, was rogue. An outcast.

The Pack was solid, twenty-eight working as a single entity, brutally efficient when the hunger came. At first light came the pangs, like a Pavlovian response to the dawn, spreading quickly through the group swifter than words communicate. All eyes would be on the Alpha. Even those of Prairie, pacing at a distance.

When the Alpha moved, it was as if a weir gate had opened releasing a stream of water, at first steady then picking up momentum until a mighty surge rushed forth over the plain. With stealth, Prairie kept pace but also kept his distance; though on a chase, the Alpha, had he noticed him, which always was the case, would not be the least bit interested. After a kill, it would be a different matter. Hunger sated turns quickly to greed and the pack leaves nothing.

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