The World Ended.
Frankie Didn't.

Chapter 1

​Rosy Skies, Iron Wings

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The crisp cold air hits my lungs hard, sharp as metal. A layer of ice lies upon the bark chips here at the dog park, and Monster’s paws crush through the ice with a dull, muted crunching sound, as if he’s running on frozen cereal. Only four months old, already with paws like saucers—he’s going to be a big boy. Given that he is what people call a “Wolfsky”, it would be weird if he weren’t.

Monster drops the baseball at my feet, and as I bend down, he launches himself into my flank, all sleek momentum like a penguin diving. He even looks like a penguin—a wild-eyed penguin.

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An exasperated grunt escapes my throat as I spin, catch his scruff, and pin him in a single practiced motion. I brace him there while he wiggles vainly for a moment. He is still a puppy.

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“NO JUMP.” My command and motions are smooth and direct. There is no mistaking my intention—or my irritation.

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His eyes search frantically at first, desperate for some overlooked advantage, some miracle escape. There is none, of course, and realizing this, he begins to still. I can feel the tension begin to seep out of him as understanding takes hold.

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With his body calm and settled, I slowly release him. He rises without a fuss and trots off, circling the ball and me in a wide loop. After one full lap, he returns and sits in front of me—ears perked, eyes locked on the ball. The drama is over. He is ready for fun again.

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I cock my arm back and launch the ball with full force across the dog park, watching it arc across the early golden sky. Monster streaks after it, a blur of black and white fur. 

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Just Monster and me, alone at the dog park. Though technically we are out while the curfew is still in effect, I feel the risk is worth it for these precious moments of bliss. The early morning air is still and crisp, carrying only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds—a rare stretch of quiet that feels entirely ours.