That afternoon
Miksa had settled into Bellum Letale that morning.
It had been easy, really. She didn't have any possessions that couldn't be carried - a tent for the apartment, blankets, pillows, her cello, a wood flute, slats from a long-since rotted kayak. Her barabara was still in New England, after all. Bellum Letale was temporary - just a rescue cause at a local zoo; nothing more.
The park was warm, which she didn't care for - Miksa was accustomed to the cold, and she felt at home in frigid places, close to the Earth - but it was outdoors, and that would have to do. She found a bench, and she sat on it, the dark tan of her sundress trailing to the floor over bare feet, and she watched.
New York wasn't alive, she realized. There were people everywhere, but the buildings were old stones and cold grays. Even the splashes of graffiti were processed, canned paints without emotion. Trees were caged in black rod iron and built into sidewalks, as if people could ever hope to reign in the natural chaotic nature of wild things.
She knew the wildlife was just biding its time; it would be here long after she had gone, after they had gone.
The wolf - because she knew it was a wolf - caught her attention by pure chance. She didn't worry or fear; Miksa had always been liked by animals (it was almost as if they understood her), and as she watched, she frowned.