In the early, dark hours of the morning, though, there's a crash behind the closed combination rink-and-speakeasy. A large shadow of a wolf rifles through knocked-over trash bins for the after-hours, uh, buffet. Paper rustles, empty glass bottles jangle, and the steady, low whine of an animal in pain as she laps at puddles of boozy-smelling runoff. This goes on for 'bout five, ten minutes 'til the wolf limps off and wedges herself 'neath a parked truck nearby, grooming the wet, matted fur on her hind leg in a feeble attempt to soothe herself.]