When I was still that normal teenager in love, things were easier. I thought we were so strong… but no relationship is immune to hardship, and I had no idea what was looming on the horizon for Sam and me. Our ruin was not, as I imagined, a single instant that was simply too much, snapping the rope which held us together. Rather it was a series of moments, small things that increased and multiplied like bacteria, threatening to break us down. But even with all that, we could have survived, if not for the one thing that neither Sam nor I could have predicted… but that came later. The first indication that something was wrong was almost innocent: he stood me up, for the first time in our relationship. And I was pissed.

When he didn't come to see me that night, I was angry. He had never forgotten me before, and we'd had plans… plus, we hadn't even had a fight. He'd been sick with the flu for almost the entire past week, and this was supposed to be our catch-up date. I was a little hurt that he had stood me up, that he'd embarrassed me by having me wait for him in our favourite restaurant, finally admitting to the waitress that he wasn't going to show. But I was more irritated than worried... such was the trust I had in him.

But when I went to his house the next morning and found his mother, worried and uncertain, her hands trembling as she told me Sam hadn't come home last night at all, a sickening feeling started to creep up my spine. I could tell she was trying to pretend that there was a perfectly good explanation for this; that her son, who had slept in that house every night from the day he was born, might have just decided not to. But I knew different and so did she.

Just last week, right before he got sick, he had brought me a flower for no reason, slipping it onto my desk at school just before classes started. He was a grade above me, but the tribal school has only a couple hundred students, so we mix constantly. The single red rose, its water trapped in a tiny teardrop vase, sat on my desk that entire day, much to the jealousy of my friends. Sam wasn't exactly popular, but he had an aura of mystique about him that attracted attention. He was seen as a rebel, a bad boy, but with a good heart.

We had known each other almost our entire lives, but somewhere around the middle of my ninth grade, we suddenly got a lot more interested in each other. After a couple of months of flirting and dancing around our attraction, he asked me out. And after that, my fate was sealed to Sam Uley's. I felt like the luckiest girl on the planet to have a boyfriend like him.

It was because of this history that I knew something was very wrong. Him not coming home was reason enough to worry, but that paired with standing me up the night before made me terrified that something truly awful had happened. Sam wasn't a big risk-taker; he enjoyed the occasional cliff-dive like the other boys and he sometimes went hunting in the woods, but never alone. I couldn't imagine where he could be, but wherever he was, I knew he had to be found.

La Push is a very small town, and word travels like lightning here. Add to that the involvement of the police, and soon most of the community had volunteered to help locate Sam and bring him home to his mother- and to me.

The police chief was a friend of my family, which helped. Charlie and my father often went fishing, so when I called for help, we were already on a first-name basis and he knew me well. The search party for Sam ended up numbering almost a hundred people, as they set off in earnest, combing the beach and scouring the woods. Charlie forbade me from participating, so I was left sitting in Sam's living room, holding his mother's hand and praying for the first time in my life.

They didn't find him, and after three days, the search was called off. I moved through those days like a zombie, hardly noticing the people around me, ducking into the bathroom at school as often as possible to cry. Every day after the bell rang to release us I wandered the forests that ran for miles beyond our small community, calling for Sam until my throat was raw.

I imagined him dead, imagined him drowned in the ocean or mauled by a bear, perhaps fallen into a hunting pit or had his leg devoured by an iron trap. It was winter, so I imagined him frozen, cold and shaking, dying of exposure or hypothermia out in the woods. Everything I imagined was worse than the thought that came before, and my dark theories kept me up most nights. But I knew I wasn't the only one imagining scenarios. Rumours had started bubbling through the Rez about Sam, and they cast him in a much less innocent light than my own.

Sam's father had left him and his mother when he was very young. He had been a drinker and a drug-user, and people knew that those things could sleep in the blood and rise up again in the children of alcoholics and addicts. Sam had gotten into more than his share of fights at school, mostly to refute just these kinds of theories, but a lot of people thought that's what had happened to Sam. They always fell silent as I passed by.

Unlike Sam's, my family was very respected, and no one wanted to hurt me; but I knew they all thought I was better off without him. No one had approved of our relationship, and that too had kept me up nights, wishing that people could forgive Sam for the sins of his father and all the heartache that Joshua Uley had wrought in his life. And now I feared that he had died with everyone assuming he was just like his father, a failure and a degenerate who left the woman he claimed to love without even an explanation. But I knew better.

He was gone two weeks. I had given up by then on my own personal investigations through the woods, and for the last few days I'd been visiting his mother every day after school. I enjoyed sharing a cup of tea with the only other person that still held out hope for Sam's safe return, the only other person that, like me, believed he was a victim instead of a criminal in all this.

Apparently, I narrowly missed his homecoming. Within about ten minutes of my leaving the house, he walked through the front door as though nothing had happened. His mother fell to the floor in gratitude before pulling him into her arms and making him swear he would never do that to her again. Then she called me, but I wasn't home yet, so she left the message with my father that Sam was home and I should come straight back.

When I arrived home, my father was waiting for me in the living room. His dark brown eyes looked troubled, and I hesitated as I sat across from him. There was no sign of Seth, and my mother was at the clinic.

My father looked at me and said, "Leah, do you know how important our history is?"

"Yeah," I said slowly. "Of course I do."

"Sometimes men have experiences that change them forever," he told me. "Experiences that aren't meant to be shared."

I thought he was talking about himself. I thought he was talking about the purification ceremonies and spirit dances and all that stuff that the tribal council loved to warn us against forgetting. "What happened, Dad?" I asked.

"Sam Uley came home today," he answered simply. "About twenty minutes ago."

I stared. I thought my heart would burst as it sped up in my chest, and at first I didn't know if it was panic or joy. I started to stand up, but my father took my hand.

"Leah," he said. "Wait."

But how could I wait? How could I delay another moment when the man I loved was alive against all reason, when he had walked with his own two feet through the door of his house? How could I linger here, knowing that all my horror dreams of injury and death had been nothing but fear? I wanted to see Sam immediately, to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him and never let him go away from me again. How could I wait?

"Dad, I have to go," I said. This time he let me stand up.

"Just remember," he called to me as I hurriedly pulled my jacket back on and shoved my feet into my shoes. "Some trials are meant only for those who go through them."

I ran from my house, sprinting to my car and throwing myself into the driver's seat. I missed the ignition twice, then finally slipped the key in with shaking hands and started the engine. The drive to Sam's house normally took about ten minutes; I made it in three. Barely parking my car before I abandoned it in the driveway, I ran to the house, not bothering even to knock before I burst through the door, already calling his name.

I didn't see Sam. His mother approached me, seeming nervous. "He's in his room," she said. I ignored her worried eyes and hurried to his bedroom, the room that I had visited almost every day for these past two weeks, to cry into his pillow and feel close to him. Quickly I pushed the door open, hardly able to contain my excitement or the huge grin on my face.

He stood in the centre of his bedroom. He looked like he was trying to remember something, or like he needed to find something but had no idea where to start looking for it. I was taken aback at first- his hair, which he had kept just long enough to brush his shoulders for as long as I could remember, had been cut short. He was also dressed oddly, wearing nothing but a pair of what looked like board shorts- not a style he would have normally gone for. But I didn't care what he looked like. He was healthy and alive and I felt as if my prayers had been answered.

"Sam," I whispered as I closed his bedroom door behind me, reaching out tentatively to take his hand. It took him a few moments to look at me, but when he did his eyes told me that he'd been wandering in a desert, and I was a cool glass of water. He wrapped his arms around me, crushing me to his body, and it seemed like he never wanted to let me go. I never wanted that either, so I let him hold me, surprised at how warm his skin was despite his seasonally inappropriate outfit.

When he said my name, he said it almost like a plea for help. I rubbed my hands over his back, which somehow seemed more solid than it had been before, or stronger. His arms around me, too, seemed more muscular. I could feel his heart beating in his chest through my own small frame, and for the first time my relief faded enough that I started to wonder where he'd been. Why had he cut his hair off, and why did he seem so strange and out of it?

Sam pulled back from my embrace just enough that he could look me in the eyes. He stroked my face with his hands, threading his fingers through my hair as though he could anchor himself to me through that act. His eyes frightened me; behind his love for me I saw immeasurable sadness. I laid my hand on his cheek, amazed at the heat that was emanating from his body.

"Where were you?" I whispered, but he closed his eyes, tightly, against my question. "Sam-" I started, but he closed his lips over mine. His tongue pushed its way into my mouth and found mine, and as I responded he let out a low groan, only it sounded more like despair than passion. He backed me up against the wall quickly, so fast I would have hit my head had his hand not cradled it at the last moment, as he deepened the kiss, pressing his whole body against mine, capturing one of my breasts with his free hand and squeezing. His actions felt strange to me; the way he grabbed at my body, it was as though he was feeding some deep need that was desperate to touch me. This was a side of him I'd never seen; our lovemaking had, since it started just over a year ago, been gentle, slow, still young and full of tenderness and wonder. And always in a bed. Mostly foreplay, with sex always being the grand finale. But now he reached immediately for the button of my jeans with one hand as his other started to undo his own pants.

I pushed him away from me, twisting out from his grasp and going to his bed, gasping at the heat of him, of my own response to his burning lips and hands. He didn't move for a long moment, and I just watched as he took deep, steadying breaths before following me. I thought he seemed afraid as he sat down next to me, not looking at me.

"I missed you, too," I said softly, fearing that I'd hurt his feelings. "It's just... well, your mom's right out there." I didn't want to admit that his urgency had made me a little nervous. Usually we had sex at his house, but that was because his mother was more likely to be out than my entire family. We hardly ever did it when she was home, and when we did I insisted on absolute silence. I didn't believe he was capable of that right now, and I still wanted to know what had happened to him, even if my body was craving his touch, not having had even the pleasure of holding his hand for nearly three weeks, let alone anything more.

"I just… want you," he whispered. "Please. I love you, Leah. I need you… God, you're so beautiful." He reached for me again.

But I shook my head and caught his hands in mine to stop him. "Sam, where were you?" I asked again.

He glanced away so quickly I didn't even have a chance to read the expression in his eyes. Finally he reached for me and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me into his lap. I straddled his hips, laying my head on his shoulder, and I breathed deeply into his neck. I could smell the forest on him, moss and pine, so strong it seemed embedded in his skin. His hands were under my shirt, tracing light, nonsense patterns on my lower back. The warmth of his hand raised goose bumps everywhere he touched, and I couldn't help but get a little turned on. I kissed him gently, but he returned it with an intensity I wasn't ready for, so I pulled away.

"Sorry," he whispered, kissing my cheek, the curve of my jaw, the underside of my chin. He seemed frustrated, but also lost, confused even. It was like he was trying to use my body as some kind of handhold, a familiar refuge where he could pause and find himself again. I was very tempted to let him, but something stopped me.

It was his eyes- when I looked into them, I saw a hunger I had never seen before- not the superficial insistence of a horny teenage boy, but a patient, persistent need that looked like it might never be satisfied. I wasn't afraid of him, but that look stopped me from giving in to what we both wanted most: to touch each other after this long absence from touching, and to learn, through a language only our bodies knew, all the things that might have changed.

When I made it clear he couldn't have me, he didn't do anything for a long moment. Then he pushed me off his lap, not roughly but certainly quickly, and got to his feet. He clenched his fists and paced to the other end of the room, where he stood, looking like he wanted to punch the wall or scream- maybe both. I was shocked. I had known Sam to, occasionally, become angry about something, but mostly he was very levelheaded, and certainly not violent. I think he took pride in his calm temperament. But now I took in this raging, shaking version of my boyfriend with disbelief, and I was completely at a loss of what I should do for him.

"Sam," I said, my voice shaking a little with real fear for the first time since I'd learned he was alive. "Where were you?"

It was the third time I'd asked the question, but he still didn't seem to want to answer me. I could read the hesitation all over his body. Finally he took a deep, shuddering breath and unclenched his fists before turning around to face me again. He sat down once more on his bed, taking my hand. His skin felt like it was on fire, but he seemed fine, clear-eyed and healthy, so I just imagined that I was cold.

"Lee-Lee," he whispered his special nickname for me, stroking the backs of my fingers slowly. In every movement he made, every look he gave me, I sensed his desperation. But I was seventeen then, from a happy home, never left the Rez. What did I know about heartache? How could I help him? I had no idea what to say. So I said nothing, I just pulled him into my arms and cradled his head in my lap like a child. I ran my fingers through his thick brown hair, trying to get used to the closely cropped style he wore now.

"You don't have to tell me," I said softly. "I know you will, when you're ready. I'm just… I'm happy you're home, Sam." He turned his head so he could look at me, and there was such relief and love in his eyes that I was sure I'd said the right thing. I didn't know then that he would never tell me.

Then I saw the tattoo. Now that he was curled sideways into my lap, it was obvious. I held my breath as I touched the black ink that had been etched into the side of his right shoulder. It was beautiful, intricate and detailed, with two wolves facing each other, like mirror images. I could see their faces, even their tongues, and their claws and tails. I knew all the artists on the Rez by name, but I couldn't pinpoint who had done this work. It wasn't quite the right style for any of them. I wondered if that meant Sam had been somewhere far away, maybe in Seattle, or on another reservation for some reason, with the Hoh maybe, or the Makah. But why?

He saw me looking at it and followed my gaze. He seemed to grimace at the tattoo and for a moment I thought maybe it was still fresh and my fingertips on the ink hurt him. But no; it wasn't that. He didn't like it. Why on earth would he have it, then? Another mystery.

I let out a short sigh, but I said nothing except, "I like it. I didn't know you were into wolves."

"Leah," he said softly. It sounded like he was going to continue, but he said nothing more, and the silence stretched between us. I felt, suddenly, like crying. I wanted him to take me into his confidence and tell me everything, so I could share his burden and make it my own, to lessen the load of whatever awful thing he was carrying. I was so naïve then, so stupid. But my heart was in the right place, with Sam, where I believed it belonged.

I forced myself not to cry. Instead, I gave him what strength I could, through my eyes and touch, trusting that I was doing the right thing, keeping his head above water until he could recover from this. I assumed that it would pass, that he would come to terms with whatever horror he had encountered, tell me everything, and my love and acceptance would cleanse his spirit and give him peace once again. I still believed that love, in all its beauty and virtue, could conquer all.

I didn't realize then that the enemies you cannot see are always the most dangerous. And blind faith is just that- blindness, dragging you down into a deep, dark place, where something terrible is bound to be waiting for you.