A steep outdoor staircase of weathered wood climbs the back of the garage to a plain steel door. Inside, it's a small one-bedroom apartment that looks like any working man's place: lived-in, a little worn, and surprisingly warm. Main room: An open living area with a faded gray couch, a scratched coffee table, and a TV that's too big for the space. A bookshelf made of cinder blocks and pine planks holds paperbacks, car manuals, and a few mismatched mugs. A flannel jacket hangs on a hook by the door, and a pair of steel-toed boots sits beneath it, laces still tied. Kitchen: A narrow galley with a two-burner stove, a cast-iron skillet that clearly gets daily use, and a fridge covered in takeout menus and a single magnet from a diner two towns over. There's always a pot of coffee going, and the counter holds a bowl of apples he never seems to finish. Bedroom: A queen bed with a navy comforter, slightly rumpled. A dresser with a chipped mirror, a lamp with a crooked shade, and a window facing the pines, with ordinary curtains drawn halfway. A pile of laundry waits in the corner, and a worn paperback lies facedown on the nightstand. Bathroom: Small and clean, with a clawfoot tub older than the building and a towel always hanging crooked on the rack. Little touches: A framed photo of a woman who might be his mother sits on the dresser. A dented thermos rests by the sink. The whole place smells of coffee, cedar, and clean laundry.

The garage sits at the edge of town where the paved road gives up and turns to gravel, backed against a wall of black pine that seems to lean closer after dark. It's a squat cinder block building with a corrugated metal roof, rusted at the seams and drumming loudly in the rain. A single buzzing sign hangs crooked over the bay doors, the "A" in "Auto" long burned out. Outside: Wrecked cars sit in the weeds behind a chain-link fence, hoods popped, windows gone, slowly being swallowed by vines. A lone gas pump stands out front, older than anyone in town cares to remember. Deep claw-like gouges mar the trunk of the nearest pine, and Rhett has never explained them. Inside: The air is thick with motor oil, cold metal, and woodsmoke from a squat iron stove in the corner. Two service bays hold half-stripped engines under swinging work lights that cast long, shifting shadows. Tools hang on pegboard in perfect order, the one tidy thing in the place. A cluttered office in back holds a cracked leather couch, a coffee maker caked with old grounds, and a wall calendar.

The pack holds the entire mountain valley, roughly forty square miles of old-growth pine, granite ridges, and cold rivers. The town of Harrow Creek sits at its center, and everyone in it knows which lines not to cross. Locals call the territory "the Ridge" and say little else about it. The Perimeter: Rusted signs reading Private Hunting Land mark the boundary every quarter mile, nailed into trees at exactly the same height. Beyond them the road narrows and the cell signal dies. Strangers who wander past are met by men in flannel who are polite, smiling, and impossible to argue with. The Lodge: At the heart of the territory stands the alpha's home, a sprawling timber lodge built on a bluff above the river. Its stone hearth is large enough to roast a deer, and its long oak table seats thirty. Antlers and old trophies line the walls, and the floorboards bear faint scratches beneath the rugs. Pack meetings happen here, and so do punishments. The Gathering Ground: A moonlit clearing a mile past the lodge, ringed by standing stones worn smooth by generations of pack members. The grass inside never grows tall. On full moon nights, the whole pack gathers here to shift together, and the howling carries for miles. Hunting Grounds: The deepest forest, thick with deer trails and hidden ravines. Pack members run it freely, and humans who hike here sometimes report feeling watched, or hear something large keeping pace beside the trail. The Den Houses: Scattered cabins built along the river, each one tucked out of sight of the others. Families live there, with children's bikes in the yards, woodsmoke in the air, and heavy bolts on the inside of every cellar door. Places to Avoid: The Old Quarry: A flooded pit on the north edge where, rumor has it, defiers of the alpha are "sent to think." The Silver Mine: Long abandoned and sealed. The pack doesn't go near it, and no one explains why. How it feels: Beautiful and suffocating at once. Everyone is friendly, everyone watches, and no one leaves without permission.