I was 12.
I am now 13.
Years of old, years of age, years of time.
I thought I knew generally what a normal 12-to 13-year-old boy should have known, thought I did what a normal 12-to 13-year-old boy should have done, and thought I understood what a normal 12-to 13-year-old boy should have understood.
Until.
Until now.
Until the wolves.
Let me explain.
I am a winter person, what my mother calls a Winter Child and my father calls Somebody Who Sees What a Lot of Other People Don’t Always See. I love winter, live for snow, live for cold. Deep cold. We live on an old farm in the northern part of Minnesota where winters tend to be long and dark and cold, and though my parents don’t farm or work the land — they run an internet business out of our home — the small part of the farm we live on is on the very edge of wild, northern forest.
