Fenrir was sitting back against the wall of his 'pen,' wondering how the hell he got caught. One minute he was laying in a pasture, resting, and the next he was on a ship being sent over to America. The United States of all places! How could such a place compare to his native land of Scotland?
It couldn't, really.
The trees and grass weren't as green. The weres and witches were snooty and pompous. The auctioneers were arseholes. How could they not believe he was a master and part of a pack? Was it that hard to believe with him?
He had to find a way to get out. He had to get back home. Maybe call if he could. Thinking it over in his head, he was certain if he was to find a naive master, maybe he could trick the sap and escape.
But how the hell was he going to find a naive master in the middle of fucking nowhere?