I didn't answer right away.
The smoke on the horizon trailed in a thin line, shivering in the cold air. The bells were ringing more clearly now—a bright sound, chopped up by the wind. Sometimes shouts mixed into it: short, sharp, human.
Out there was a world where everything was already arranged. There were hands that knew how to comb wool, bowls of feed, warm sheds. There, they knew what to do with a sheep that ended up in the middle of a winter field.
I looked at the wolf.
He stood motionless, only his nostrils quivering slightly. He didn't need to strain to listen—scents reached him faster than sound. From where he stood you could already smell smoke, sheep's wool, human. And something else—a thin, barely noticeable note—weapon, iron, fire.
He didn't want that.
I did. Or thought I did.
"Baa…" It came out quiet, but he still turned an ear toward me.
I took a step forward, away from the shelter and into the white space between us and the fence. The snow there was untouched, smooth. The first print I left felt too loud—like a shout.
The wolf didn't move.
I walked a few more steps, feeling his gaze on me. Each hoof carved a small hollow in the crust. When I turned back, our improvised "home" looked like a dark patch under the bushes, and beside it—a lone figure cut out of night.
"Baa," I said again, a little louder. Not a plea and not an order, just a sound.
The wolf shuddered through his whole body, as if from cold, though the wind had almost died. He tore his gaze away from the smoke and brought it back to me. In that moment I clearly saw two forces collide in his eyes: the habit of staying away from humans and something else, something new—the strange bond that had formed between us in the pit.
He wasn't my friend. He had saved me the way I had pulled him out. But there was a debt between us now, a taut thread that couldn't just be cut.
The wolf exhaled heavily, as if agreeing not with my wish but with inevitability. Then he came closer and walked alongside me—just ahead, like a shadow.
We moved toward the smoke.
The closer we came, the more the snow changed. It became looser, trampled in places. Other tracks appeared—chaotic sheep prints, round depressions from boots. The air thickened with steam, with the smell of wool, manure, human sweat.
Beyond the snow a fence emerged—low, made of crooked wooden stakes, propped here and there with extra poles. Behind it bodies shifted—white, gray, mottled. Sheep. Many of them.
They stood close together, pressed into a dense living cloud. Tiny shiny dots flickered above it—eyes catching the light. The bells on their necks rang whenever a head moved.
A bit farther off, closer to the smoke, a house loomed—low, its roof buried in snow. Apart from it, on a small rise, stood a figure—a man in a dark jacket, in a hat, with something long slung over his shoulder.
He hadn't seen us yet.
We stopped, still on our side of the field. It wasn't that far to the fence—ten, maybe twenty of my steps. But the distance felt enormous.
The sheep behind the fence noticed me first—one lifted its head, then another. Soon the whole flock had turned in our direction. Their gazes were heavy and wet. Someone bleated briefly, passing the unease along.
The bells rang faster.
I took another step. The wolf stayed behind.
I could feel him tense—by the way the air thickened at my back. His breathing quickened. He didn't growl, but I knew: one wrong move, and he would lunge either forward, or back into the white emptiness.
The man on the rise finally turned his head.
Even from here I saw him freeze. Saw his hand grope for the strap holding the long object on his shoulder. Saw him slowly straighten, turning from a dark blot into a figure with a straight back.
Suddenly I wanted to hide behind the wolf. Behind the very beast everyone else here would fear.
We stood on the white field, the three of us: me—between the flock and the forest, the wolf at my back, the shepherd on his hill.
The wind shifted, bringing smoke and human scent to us, and to him—the smell of wolf fur and mine.
The shepherd took the gun from his shoulder.
The bells went silent all at once, as if some invisible hand had pressed down on that ringing choir. The sheep behind the fence bunched together more tightly, turning into one big quivering mass.
I stood in the snow, feeling the ground trembling beneath me—from the pounding of a hundred little hooves, from the restrained movement of the wolf, from the way the man's fingers (I could see them clearly, even at a distance) closed on the stock of the gun.
The world seemed to hold its breath with me.
The shepherd brought the stock to his shoulder.
The barrel of the gun slowly turned in our direction.