Howl

I.

The first time he hears the howl, he dismisses it as the product of an exhausted mind after a long day. The second time, he hopes it might be someone's pet dog. On the third howl, he grabs his jacket and sets off towards the sound. He can't remember the last time Storybrooke was this eventful.

(He can't remember.)

He sees the wolf first, standing in the middle of the road with a guilty look if he ever saw one. He notices the car next, then, the sign. Regina wasn't going to be too pleased about that.

The car! Her car.

Ten years ago, when he first heard a wolf's howl, an infant named Henry arrived in Storybrooke. Tonight, it is Henry's mother.

I wonder, old friend, if this was really the best approach to making her stay.

The wolf blinks at him. What other option did we have?

He sighs, plucking her out of her seat and carrying her over to his car. The bruise on her temple makes him uncomfortable. He sets her in the backseat and wonders why his hands are having such a hard time letting her go. Regina really wasn't going to be too pleased about that.

The wolf lets out a short bark, tilts its head back at her car.

He makes his way over, places his hand on the hood and notes the damage. Nothing Marco can't fix.

Maybe it is the dark and the wind and the rain and the cold, but the sight of her small yellow car, damaged, there in the road, on the cusp of leaving (on the cusp of freedom), is so arresting to him that he stops.

He turns and dares himself to look beyond, into the darkness, into the world beyond Storybrooke.

He chances a step forward and is momentarily absurdly relieved to find that the world does not drop off after the town sign.

The wolf pads up next to him and nudges his leg. Duty calls. With one foot over the threshold, he turns back, clears his throat. I'll have it towed in the morning.

He puts the key in the ignition and feels the machine roar to life. He glances behind his shoulder at the woman, so unnervingly still and silent. Vulnerable. He does not have to wonder what would have happened to her if the wolf had not alerted him. It would have been something terrible.

Until next time, old friend, he nods at the wolf, who returns the gesture and saunters away.

He drives excruciatingly slowly back to town, dreading the morning (and consequences and going back to normal – he wonders if things can ever be normal again now that she exists, now that she exists here).

He glances back at her and wonders how many others have tried to leave. A hollow voice from another life echoes inside his head: no one leaves here.

She begins to regain consciousness. He can hear her shifting behind him.

Her face is still pressed into the seat, her voice muffled. Is it morning yet?

He panics, ludicrously, and notes that the situation looks not unlike a kidnapping. But no, he is the sheriff (he remembers) and this is not a kidnapping and he is doing nothing wrong by pulling her back into this story. Into Storybrooke, he corrects himself.

He gathers his wits. Not yet, he replies, go back to sleep.

She mumbles something unintelligible and falls still again. As if they have had this exchange many times before. (As if they were meant to have this exchange many more times.)

He feels something change as he approaches the town square. He feels lighter, he feels alive.

The faint prick of a long-forgotten memory.

Somewhere in the night, a wolf howls.