The fatigue, weakness, and lack of appetite had been following Sloane around for over a month. Others were sick, too. The Tribrid couldn’t leave his den - he was too exhausted, too weak. His thoughts were always of Prometheus, the little pup he’d rescued - and of his dead mother, Rachel. His vanished sister, Delilah.
Sloane still wished to live. He did not want to die, not here and not now. He was afraid of dying. Death was a mystery. No living wolf could know what waited on the other side of life . . . until they died, and death was final. Death meant one could no longer exist, and Sloane wasn’t even old yet - he had no mate, and no children. How could he die, then?
At least he would see his mother again. Possibly his sister, too. But . . . he wouldn’t get to defend or grow the pack! No! He must live, that was final.
Alas, Sloane’s condition worsened with time. He could hardly move. And, finally, death claimed him on a hot day. Summer was just beginning to enter its dying throes; the plague had claimed several. Sloane became its latest victim as he closed his eyes, never again to awaken.

“I bet it’s so nice up in heaven since you’ve arrived . . .”