Page 260 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Silver Ghost," Whiskey says solemnly.

The specialist blinks. "I… okay. The kids are mostly in the common room. We'll do room visits after we go to the cafeteria to meet the more ambulatory patients."

We follow her into a warm, bright common room scattered with beanbags and a TV playing cartoons. Nobody's watching anymore. Every kid in the room has turned toward the door.

One little boy is wrapped almost entirely in gauze, only his dark eyes visible.

"SILVER GHOST!" a girl in a wheelchair screams, pointing at Whiskey.

Whiskey drops into a frightened crouch, gripping his head. "Nooooo! My nemesis!"

She giggles so hard her wheelchair shakes.

Then the kids spot Wraith, who's somehow composed himself in the past five seconds. He looks completely calm now, and I realize immediately he's putting on a front for them.

"Wraith is back!"

"Wow! He's so tall!"

The name ripples through the room and Wraith freezes.

"Dude," a boy in an oversized Ghosts jersey breathes. "You BIT that guy."

Wraith blinks.

"That was SO COOL," the boy continues, his voice climbing with reverence. "My mom said it was scary but I said it was awesome. You were like—" He mimes gnashing his teeth at the air like a shark, complete with growling sound effects. "—RRRAAAGH!"

"He protected his omega!" another kid chimes in. "That's what alphas DO."

"She's so pretty!"

"I drew you," the first boy says to Wraith, running up with his sketchbook.

It's Wraith. Recognizably, unmistakably Wraith, rendered in green and blue crayon. His teeth are the size of daggers, his eyes are blazing red and angry, and he's standing on top of what appears to be a very flat Wade with more red spraying everywhere.

Wraith lets go of my hand.

He crosses the room in two massive strides and kneels in front of the beanbag, his huge frame folding down until he's almost at the boy's eye level. He reaches for the sketchbook and the boy hands it over. Wraith studies the drawing with the kind of intense focus he usually reserves for the ice.

Then his eyes crinkle above the gaiter.

He gives the kid a thumbs-up.

The boy beams.

"Can you sign my jersey?" a girl asks, already shoving a marker at Wraith.

Then another kid. Then three more.

Wraith signs jerseys and casts and sketchbooks, his huge scarred hand dwarfing each marker. A little girl asks if she can touch his hand and he lets her, holding perfectly still while she pokes at the burn scar wrapping around his index finger.

"Does it hurt?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

Not anymore, he signs, then seems to remember she might not understand and gives an exaggerated head shake instead.

"Cool," she says, and goes back to coloring.