Chapter 5: Birth of the Wolf Generation

On the seventh day, Silver Hollow gave birth en masse.

It was a mess—screaming, crying, and, somehow, a whole lot of joy. The old building shook with the force of it.

Over a hundred folks recovered together in the Hall of Brotherhood—a wild sight.

Blankets and cots lined the floor, midwives darting between them like angels in scrubs. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and the cries of newborns.

The hall was filled with the scent of sage and angelica. All 108 leaders lay wrapped in blankets on the floor.

It looked like the world’s strangest slumber party—every blanket a story, every face a mix of exhaustion and wonder.

Except for me, everyone cradled a baby in their arms.

I sat apart, hands empty, watching the others with a mix of envy and relief. The ache in my chest was real, even if the cause was not.

General Doug Parker even had twins.

He looked shell-shocked, two babies tucked under his arms like footballs. The others teased him, but the pride in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Strategist,” Sarah Early said, nursing her child, “you may have lost yours, but you still need to keep warm.”

She handed me an extra blanket, her eyes kind. I wrapped it around my shoulders, grateful for the gesture.

“Mm.” I played along.

I nodded, swallowing hard, playing the part of the grieving father. Sometimes, a little vulnerability goes a long way.

“You lost your child, but ours are all yours too. When they grow up, they’ll call you Uncle Wyatt.”

Her words were a balm, easing the sting of loss. I managed a small smile, feeling the warmth spread through me.

“Thank you for that.”

I nodded to her, then said to Greg, “Greg, with so many new mouths to feed, we’re running out of supplies. Since I’ve got nothing else to do, I’ll take three hundred men down the mountain to get groceries.”

The logistics were staggering, but I rattled off the plan with confidence. Greg nodded, relief flooding his face.

Greg, head wrapped in a white towel, leaned against his bearskin chair, looking lovingly at the little dark-haired baby in his arms, spooning him chicken soup.

He looked every bit the proud papa, his gruff exterior softened by fatherhood. The sight was almost enough to make me forget the chaos that had led us here.

Luckily, these kids grew like weeds—after just one day, they looked a year old. At this rate, they’d be adults before their parents finished recovery.

It was uncanny, watching them sprout up overnight—clothes stretched tight, voices deepening, eyes bright with curiosity. The parents could barely keep up.

“What’s with this brown sugar, cider, and egg soup? I want beer!” Iron Clay’s voice boomed through the hall.

He pouted, waving his spoon in protest. The others laughed, the tension easing for a moment.

“Clay, you can’t. You need to recover, or you’ll have lasting problems,” Hunter Rowe said.

Hunter’s voice was gentle, but firm. Clay grumbled, but didn’t argue.

“Who cares about recovery?” Clay grumbled, dipping his sausage-sized finger into beer and feeding it to his baby.

The baby giggled, smacking its lips. The room erupted in laughter, the absurdity of it all bringing folks together.

Over five hundred midwives and doctors had been brought up to the Hollow—one for every two leaders.

The medical team worked around the clock, exhaustion etched into their faces. Still, they kept going, driven by duty and a sense of wonder.

The rest of the thousands of pregnant men kept the remaining midwives running ragged.

It was a logistical nightmare, but somehow, everyone managed. The spirit of Silver Hollow was nothing if not resilient.

“Strategist,” Greg said, “since the pack are all warriors, before you leave, help name these kids.”

He looked at me, eyes twinkling. Naming the next generation was an honor—and a headache.

“How about using the months? For example, your son could be Greg January.”

I tried to keep a straight face, but the room erupted in groans and laughter.

“No, no,” Hunter objected. “I’m called Junior. My kid can’t be Junior Junior!”

He shook his head, mock horror on his face. The others chimed in, each with their own objections.

Riley, Charlie, and Pete all protested too.

They crossed their arms, united in their refusal. I held up my hands in surrender.

“Then how about Greg Little Greg?”

I grinned, enjoying the game. Greg shot me a look that could curdle milk.

Seeing Greg’s you-think-you’re-funny look, I quickly changed course: “Then Greg Junior!”

He rolled his eyes, but the others cheered. The tradition was set—every kid got a name that honored their parent, but with a twist.

Twelve days later, when I returned to Silver Hollow, the kids had already grown into young teens.

It was like stepping into a time-lapse video—gangly arms, awkward voices, and enough attitude to fill a football field. The parents looked exhausted, but proud.

Sam Wolfe’s son, Sam Junior, was lifting a tractor tire like it was nothing.

He grinned, muscles bulging, sweat glistening on his brow. The others cheered him on, pride shining in their eyes.

Charlie’s kid, Charlie Two, with wild eyes and a fierce look, spun his baseball bat so fast his flannel shirt billowed, just like his dad.

He was a whirlwind of energy, the spitting image of his father—right down to the stubborn set of his jaw.

Big Luke’s boy, Luke Junior, shirtless, was wrestling a sapling as thick as a child’s arm.

He laughed, dirt smeared across his cheeks, the sapling bending but not breaking. The others watched, impressed.

As the saying goes, teenage sons will eat you out of house and home.

The kitchen was a war zone—empty plates stacked high, crumbs everywhere. Looked like a tornado had hit. The cooks could barely keep up with the demand.

Seeing me return with food, the young wolves who’d been practicing with their parents all rushed over, shouting “Uncle Wyatt!” and swarming the trucks for food.

They mobbed me, hands outstretched, eyes shining with gratitude. I laughed, handing out apples and sandwiches as fast as I could.

Watching these energetic little wolf cubs, I couldn’t help but worry.

They were strong, fearless—but wild. I knew trouble would find them soon enough.

Their parents were all legends—none of them were easy to handle.

The kids had inherited every stubborn streak and wild hair. Herding them would be like trying to lasso a tornado.

I’d have to focus on their education first. As I pondered how to set up a school, I went to report to Greg.

I made a mental note to call in every retired teacher and coach in the county. Maybe a little discipline would keep these kids from burning down the Hollow.