ROWAN
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days since Cole walked out the boundary line with Ryker's envelope in his hand, and the pack house has settled into something that is not quite normal but is at least functional, and I have decided to count functional as a victory. Actual normal is on back order. I do not have the bandwidth to wait for it.
I am at my desk at seven in the morning with Marco's weekly report in front of me and a coffee that has gone cold because I forgot it existed, and this is what being acting Alpha looks like from the inside. Nobody tells you that part. When I was younger and thought I wanted this, I imagined decisions. Big rooms, big moments, a pack turning on the weight of what I chose. Nobody mentioned the cold coffee and the margin notes and the eleven problems stacked on a desk like firewood, each one waiting its turn to burn.
The north wall repairs are almost finished.
