

# Hitchhikers

### a Wolf Point novel

### by Kate Spofford

Table of Contents

Other Books in the Wolf Point series

About the Author

Copyright Information

### -1-

Rain is drumming on a tin roof overhead when I open my eyes to darkness. My nostrils inhale the scent of wet hay, dust, and a far gone hint of manure: a barn. I am up high, in the hayloft. Below I catch small noises–dripping water, scurrying sounds along the walls. I sense no humans, no large animals. I exhale in relief. Animals always seem to know.

I can't have been sleeping here long; my muscles are sore and my eyes grainy. I burrow into the moldy straw, trying to curl around this temporary safe feeling. Shivering, I pull my torn ski jacket tight around me and squeeze my eyes shut. They pop back open.

As always after my blackouts, dread sits in my stomach. Something bad has happened. I'm not going to be able to go back to sleep until I know what.

Still, I try.

Listening to the rain, I have no idea what time it is, and my cracked watch is no help. The hands point to quarter past twelve as they have for the past three years – almost three years, I remind myself, then shudder.

don't want to remember

I try to think of nothing, but my senses won't allow this, so I focus on the smells, and catalog the scents in my head. There are crops nearby, corn mostly, also tomatoes and sunflowers, cucumbers and snap peas and peppers. Traces of hours-old car exhaust. A bit of fuel left in a can down below. I'm thankful for the rain, which drowns out most noises and washes away heavier traces of scent.

My eyes are half-closed, staring into a darkness which slowly grows clearer.

The last thing I remember is hitchhiking.

" _Where you headed, son?"_

The man driving the rusty blue pickup is older, his hair mostly gray and covered with a worn cap, his paunch straining the stomach of his flannel shirt.

Regarding him warily. "As far as you're going."

" _Hop in."_

Hesitating a beat, glancing at the heavy sky before climbing into the truck cab. Keeping to my side of the seat, my hand on the door handle and my senses on the alert. Perverts have a smell about them, a dirty semen smell masked by something minty. This man at least smells honest.

" _You from around here?"_

" _No."_

" _You're lucky it was me who picked you up. Lots a trucks comin' down this road. Lotsa men who'd take advantage of a young boy."_

Saying nothing, staring out at the countryside passing by the window. The houses here far apart, the landscape lonely and isolated. Rolling over the miles in between.

" _You're young. I know you'll tell me you're older, sixteen or eighteen or whatever you think I want to hear." Fat raindrops splatter on the windshield and the man flicks on the wipers. "You oughtn't to be out on the road alone."_

Still I remain silent.

" _What's your name, if you don't mind me askin'?"_

" _Dan."_

Wishing briefly that he would stop talking, and a wave of nausea hits me like a wall.

Gripping the door handle.

" _Good name. So many kids these days with weird names. Parents namin' their kids after soap opera stars or fruit or some shit like that..."_

Shut up, old man...

My stomach lurching.

There's a dark farmhouse up ahead, deserted. Good. "Can you let me off here?"

" _I'm not going to leave a young boy stranded on the side of the road in this weather. Not this close to the city. Hey, you okay?"_

" _Fine." Black spots dancing across my vision. "Here's fine. It's fine."_

" _You can stay the night with me, eat something. Look at you. You're nothing but skin and bones. You can stay at my place, and head out in the morning. It's only a couple minutes up the road."_

Blinking hard, swallowing, but it doesn't help.

" _Please, sir, let me off?" My voice a croak._

" _Seriously, kid. Two minutes."_

Can't you feel it coming, old man?

The pressure in my head increasing, and I surrender myself to the darkness.

My stomach growls.

### -2-

Crouching low to avoid the roof, I hunt for the ladder down from the hayloft. I crawl along the edge, feeling with my hands. No luck.

It could be that I somehow knocked the ladder over when I climbed up. I peer down over the edge of the loft. I can see through the darkness clearly enough to see that there is no ladder down there on the floor.

How the hell did I get up here? It's at least a ten foot drop to the floor. I don't even see a stack of hay bales or a box or anything to climb up on. Over the past three years I've woken up in strange places, but this is definitely a first.

One lap around the hayloft later, I determine that there are two ways to get down: through a small door at one end, through which hay would have been loaded back when this farm was busy and prosperous, and the straight drop down into the barn. Twenty feet down through the small door, ten feet inside.

I lay with my legs hanging over the edge of the loft and inch backwards until I am dangling. One movement and I am hanging from the loft by my fingers; a deep breath and I let go.

The floor hits me and I roll with it, but the fall has knocked the breath out of my lungs. I lay for long moments on the dirt floor of the barn, until the hunger forces me to my feet again.

A search of the barn turns up only moldy hay and a small bag of rotting grain.

The barn door is slightly ajar. I peek outside into the sheets of rain pouring down.

Beyond the barn door stands that dark farmhouse I'd seen from the road. The house, the back of it anyway, is white and old-fashioned and rambling. The windows are dark, but it is still night. If the occupants are asleep, it might be possible to sneak in and raid the kitchen.

I take a deep breath and dash into the rain, hoping to avoid getting wet but failing miserably. I take a moment on the back porch to wring the wetness from my jacket and the frayed cuffs of my jeans. I am not sure why I do this kindness for whoever owns this place, but I do.

The back door is unlocked. I drip into a worn carpet in a hallway that smells of old people. My sneakers sloshing, I creep to the front of the house, to the kitchen.

The house is not abandoned, as I had hoped. Though devoid of the numerous knick-knacks that appear on every shelf and table in the place, the small kitchen is stocked with food.

I am reaching into the refrigerator when I find myself in blackness.

### * * *

Sometime later I awaken on the linoleum floor, surrounded by opened cans and boxes and bags, all empty. Gripping the countertop for support, I pull myself up, feeling weak and disoriented. A stray glance out the front window into the coming morning shows me the man's truck.

It is the worst omen I could have received.

My nose finds the trail of blood from the front door to the stairs; my eyes follow it up and up until finally my legs follow. I drag myself up each step, trying not to breathe, not to inhale that sickly scent like rusty death.

I must do this. I must face what has been done. Perhaps it is not my fault, but I feel that it is. I climbed into that truck. I put that man in danger.

Only one door stands open at the head of the stairs, and the blood leads me there anyway, but there is a stronger trail, one of decay and rot and a wet animal scent.

For a long time I refuse to look. My gaze rests on the brass doorknob of the room and the smear of blood marring its reflective surface. The smear does not look like a hand print. Could there be any trace of me here?

Finally I jerk my head away and see.

They lie on the bed, the man curled around the woman, or most of her. The lower part of her body is missing, replaced by the tentacles of her intestines dripping onto the quilt. I know without looking where her legs are, and bile rises in my throat.

The man's face looks back over his shoulder, still wearing an expression of shock. Or perhaps that is only because his jaw has been ripped loose of its mooring and hangs open.

I cannot be certain, because I have begun to vomit through my fingers, but it looks to me like his jaw had been gnawed with very sharp teeth.

Vomit pours onto the now hopelessly stained carpet until dry heaves wrack my body.

All I can think, as I lie with my sweaty forehead pressed into the grit on the rug, is _Now my stomach is empty. Now I have nothing to keep the darkness at bay._

### -3-

My sneakers sink into each mud puddle. Even the dirt wants me to stop and surrender. I plod along, determined not to give in to the dizziness, the weakness, or the weariness.

The best I could do was to cover the old couple with another quilt. With no food in my belly, it's pointless to waste my energy on burying them. I am tempted, if only because it means the police might show up in the meantime and arrest me, and lock me up someplace safe. But I have the feeling that the first visitor would not be the police. It would be a neighbor, some kindly old woman bringing over a plate of cookies, or a son or daughter with their toddling children in tow, and then there would be a mess.

There is no way I could begin to remove evidence from that room. After all this time it blows my mind that the police haven't caught up to me yet.

I'm a monster.

I slump along, like the beast toward Bethlehem, soaked through by rain and mud and tears. The desolate countryside accompanies me.

" _You little monster."_

A hand grabbing me, jerking my arm up at an impossible angle.

" _Look what you done!"_

My face pushed into the shards of glass. Cutting into my cheek. Glass and tears and a child's blood.

"... _little monster..."_

My first memory. Where was my mother when my father was grinding a four-year-old's face into a broken mirror? I don't even remember if it was my fault or not, the mirror. Somehow it was broken and somehow it was my fault.

Anger begins a slow burn deep inside me but I tamp it down. The drizzle is cold. Drizzle cold over my anger.

I can keep it away. I can control this.

Breath hot in my face. "You're a little bitch, just like your mother."

Stay out. Stay out of my head.

If only there was something other than this flat Midwestern landscape to look at, to keep my mind from those thoughts. Rolling waves of grain all the way to the horizon, ramshackle buildings dotting the fields. A tree! I run stumbling toward it. I'll climb it. I'll sleep in the branches like a bird.

Behind me, a trailer truck rumbles past. The earth quakes beneath my sneakers.

I run out of energy long before I reach the tree. The mud slows me down, and the tall stalks of wheat.

It's like an ocean, the wheat. I'm drowning in it, barely keeping my head above water. It's too much. I lie down where I am, the wheat enveloping me. Blue skies and amber waves of grain. Reminds me of second grade, the school concert at the end of the year. My class sang "America the Beautiful." Second grade, back when things were safe.

Safe. Ha! Just because I wasn't homeless back then doesn't mean I was safe.

I was never safe. Any small infraction could cause my father's wrath, or not. I never knew what would set him off. The only sure thing was if my father was drinking and my uncles were around, I stayed clear.

Blackness.

A flash, a darkening of the bright blue sky. I knew it would happen sooner than later. The hunger often does it.

Probably the only reason I haven't starved to death yet.

Darkness descends.

### -4-

I wake at the base of the tree, staring up into its branches.

I feel comfort when I have slept in nature like this, unlike last night in the barn. Yet I stay to the roads, avoiding the forest. Something about the empty shadows between the trees frightens me.

So alone that even the trucks rumbling by are company to me.

Three years. That should be enough time for everyone to have forgotten. Of course the police don't forget, but so long as my face on the WANTED poster isn't still hanging up at the post office, maybe I can go home and see my mom, let her know I'm okay.

No.

My sixteenth birthday is in two months. If I go home and get caught, I could be tried as an adult. And if they know about all the others... the results of my blackouts...

There have been more than a hundred.

I should hide. The forest offers herself to me. I can feel a presence there, and a pull. If I let myself go, I might disappear into those woods, and no one will hear of Daniel Connors again.

While it might be better for the human race if I do disappear, I have only myself to cling to.

This is partly the reason why I have drifted into the Midwest, away from forests. That, and the winter I can feel coming.

I barely survived my first winter on the run, with its heavy snowfalls and cutting winds. Many nights I spent in homeless shelters, cold and hungry. I made a habit of hanging around in 24-hour Walmarts, sleeping in bathroom stalls at gas stations. More than once I took up a trucker's offer of a night in a cheap motel, though luckily I do not remember most of those nights. There are many nights which are completely gone from my memory.

I try not to think about how many lives were lost that first winter.

Last winter was better, but only because I found an abandoned house and spent my days scrounging through dumpsters for food and whatever I could burn.

I didn't need much food, at the rate I blacked out, though I knew from the remains I found at my abandoned house that I killed mostly animals.

Summers are better. More food around, more places I can sleep. This summer hasn't been so great, and the ribs poking through my chest can attest to that. The animals hide. I am too cold and wet to sleep well.

Now summer is turning into autumn. The rain, the cooler nights. I knew for sure when I started seeing school buses trundling over the patched up roads. Soon the leaves of this tree will turn brown and spiral to the ground.

I've heard that Texas is warm, even in the winter. Out in western Texas, there's lots of open space. No people, no forest. Ghost towns. Maybe I can learn how to hunt rabbits and drink water from cacti. And if Texas is too cold, I'll keep going south, all the way down to Mexico.

Chewing on a blade of wheat grass to keep my stomach from growling, I head off down the road again.

### -5-

The roads are empty today.

I come across a cornfield. It is not time for corn to be ripe, but I am hungry enough to steal a few budding ears and tear at the hard kernels with my teeth. I pass one farmhouse where there are no cars in the driveway, and I snatch some tomatoes from the garden in their yard to eat like apples as I walk.

Walking has a rhythm that lulls the mind. I am able to keep from those dark thoughts that haunt me at night. Now it is wondering about the people in the distant houses and what their small lives are like. Have they traveled as I travel? Do they know fear?

I imagine they are all happy, content, eating Thanksgiving dinners around crowded tables and talking about the future.

I see the trees, whispering to one another in the breeze.

Clouds drifting in the sky, nowhere to go in a hurry.

There is never really silence. Always crickets, or birds, the drone of insects. It is a comfortable noise. Nothing alarming.

Until I hear the footsteps behind me.

The steps are light and quick, in a rhythm that tells me these do not belong to a human. Still, I feel my hackles rise, my senses extended to know what this creature is who approaches my back.

When it is closer, I hear the panting, the whooshing of a wagging tail.

I smell dog.

Putting my head down, I walk faster.

Usually animals stay away from me. They can smell the evil on me like a disease, and they turn tail and run. Sometimes before I even know they are there.

Dogs aren't like other animals. They're loyal to humans. A cat will run. A horse will gallop. A squirrel will scamper away. They have no reason to fight. Dogs will protect their territory, their humans, even if it means fighting me.

I never had a dog growing up. I'd watch reruns of Lassie and Benji and wish I had a dog, but it was always

" _Ain't no way in hell you're getting a dog."_

Even if we were out walking around, and we'd see a dog coming up on the street, my father would grab my arm and yank me to the other side of the road.

" _You afraid of dogs, Dad?"_

" _I ain't afraid of nothin'. That dog's afraid of me."_

I never believed him. And if I came across a dog when I wasn't with my dad, well, those dogs loved me. They trotted on up and sniffed me all over and licked me and lay on the ground with their bellies up.

Until this all happened.

Ever since I started blacking out, dogs don't like me so much. They see me coming up the road and their whole body goes stiff. Hair raised on their backs and all. Mostly I can just keep to the road, or cross the street, and they stare after me. Waiting. Waiting for me to make one move toward them, one threatening inch toward their family. I keep my head down and try to breathe and keep myself calm, because I feel that pull too. The beast in me doesn't want to back down from a stupid animal. I keep my head down and walk on by. And nothing happens.

Other times they go fucking crazy.

This one time, I ended up in a neighborhood. I wasn't paying much attention to where this truck driver let me off. Houses all around, nice big yards full of toys. I walked through it, head down and legs moving as fast as my tired muscles could go, hoping no one would see me and report a strange homeless-looking kid on their perfect street.

The dog was a golden retriever. They say those are the friendliest kinds of dogs. They look it, in all the pictures. Smiling mouths, playing with little toddlers and bright red Frisbees.

Not this one. Huge with its yellow fur all hackled up along its spine, and it already had its teeth bared at me from fifty yards away. I made eye contact with it and nearly lost it myself. I could practically feel the testosterone rising. My vision hazed in and out.

eyes down eyes down don't look right at him

I crossed over, thinking it would be fine. A golden retriever isn't the same as a pit bull, and I'd dealt with plenty of those. Thing is, most people who own pit bulls keep them chained up or locked in a pen. They know a pit bull would just as soon eat a baby as their kibble.

I'm sure the owners of this retriever had some kind of precaution in place. One of those underground electric fences, because I could see it didn't have a leash. The house itself was huge. A big yellow monstrosity you'd have to be rolling in money to afford.

Not like the little peeling ranch house I called home

These people had probably bought the dog to match the house. I crossed in front of it feeling cornered, even though there was room to run. Fences all around every yard. My eyes were scanning for ways out already. Walls everywhere. I felt trapped.

I was directly in front of the house when the dog made this strangled growling sound and launched itself at me.

A yellow blur, flying at me. I ran like hell down the street. Whatever electric piece of crap was supposed to keep that dog in was a distant memory.

"Tessa! Come back!" shouted a little girl's voice.

I ran and ran, the soles of my worn down sneakers slapping the pavement.

run keep running don't stop

blackness

don't stop keep running

The blackness pulsed in and out. I couldn't tell if it was because of my exhaustion or if I was going to have one of my blackouts. I made it to the end of the street and ducked into a blessed patch of trees before it happened.

When I came to, it was twilight and the forest sang to me. I felt my face slick with blood and gritty with short, yellow hairs. Nausea flooded my senses but I managed not to succumb. I wiped myself as best I could with the sleeve of my flannel shirt, staggered off to the cool scentless aura of running water. It was a long cold night waiting for my clothes to dry and fearing the call of the trees. I wasn't hungry anymore.

### * * *

Now this.

Some mutt trotting along behind me like I'm the pied piper of dogs, thrilled to have found some company on the road. I refuse to look at it or otherwise acknowledge its presence. Doesn't it smell me? Is it so desperate?

I throw the tomato rinds and corn cobs on the ground, and listen as the dog happily gulps them up in her teeth.

I can smell that she's female.

I walk on.

### -6-

The patter of rain starts up in those dim hours before nightfall. It's so dark on this country road. No streetlights. Only a few dots in the distance, lamps burning in farmhouse windows.

I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head and start looking out for a place to stay.

Farmlands are much easier than towns to find shelter. Town residents want to keep out the riffraff. They don't want kids sleeping in doorways, and they don't like abandoned eyesores so they tear them down. I've slept in sheds, crouched between bicycles and lawnmowers, in open garages, in tree houses.

Here in open country there are buildings everywhere that people don't sleep in. Up ahead, off in a grassy field, a three-sided shelter provides shade from the sun and a place to put the feed bins so they don't get wet.

The dog still follows behind me as I step through a white washed rail fence and head up to the shelter.

The grass is wet and soon my pants are soaked up to the knees. I don't see any cattle in this field, though I can smell their stink like I've been smelling all day. It's gotten so dark I can't tell if I'm stepping in mud or cow shit.

Rain patters faster against my head. It's soaked through now, wetting my hair, dripping down my face. The shelter didn't look so far from the road, but I wasn't thinking about the hill. Or how tired I am. How hungry.

Finally I reach the top and collapse under the wooden roof of the shelter. It's poorly built, and rain leaks down between the boards. I suppose the cows couldn't complain, right? Still, it's better than being rained on directly. I can avoid the leaky spots. Plus there's a big tub of water. There are chunks of grass, hay, and a frothy substance that's probably cud or something floating on top, but I still dunk my face in and drink.

The dog imitates me, lapping it up. I almost smile when I realize that both our chins are dripping with water. Almost.

I sit into the corner, curling my knees to my chest, and pull from my pocket the last tomato. If only I could have some warm food, maybe this shivering would stop. At least the tomato is sort of warm from being in my pocket.

The dog sits and watches me eat. I don't know what normal dogs act like, but this one can't be normal. She's just watching, not even licking her chops like she's waiting for the table scraps. She's an interesting-looking mutt to be sure, her fur all marbled and toffee colored under the mud. She's got pointy ears like one of those Alaskan sled dogs but her fur isn't as bushy.

I stare back at her as rudely as I can, but she doesn't get the hint. "Oh, hell," I say. My throat is raspy from not talking for so long. "Isn't staring at dogs supposed to be some way of intimidating them? Ain't it supposed to show how I'm the boss, the alpha whatever?" I ask her, but she doesn't answer. Just stares at me.

"Dumb dog," I say, trying to beat back that surge running through me, saying,

Show that bitch who's the alpha now

"Just a dumb dog. Don't need to get all upset over some stupid dog."

I give the dog one last rude stare before I turn my face toward the rough wall and close my eyes. It's a long while before I can relax my fingers out of their fist shapes.

### -7-

"Get offa me!" I yell.

I shove the mutt away from where she'd curled up against my side, her head under my sleeping hand. She moves away but not far enough.

"What are you, stupid? Get away from me!"

My foot kicks and connects with her belly, and she makes this awful whine and trots away. Out of reach of my foot, a few feet. Still sitting there watching me.

"You'd keep away from me if you knew what was good for you," I threaten.

She did survive the night near me. I can't tell when I'm sleeping or blacking out anymore, but it's been a good long while since I slept near any living thing that was still alive when I woke up. I stand there in the dewy grass and low morning fog looking at her.

My stomach rumbles.

The cattle are lowing, lumbering out into the fields. Must be middle of the morning, then, if the farmers are all done with the milking. Time for me to get a move on before they catch me on their property.

I head off down the hill, slipping a bit in the wet grass. Behind me I hear the rustling sounds of the dog following me. She races ahead to the road and waits for me, her ears perked forward.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming."

### * * *

Though it looked like there was farmland stretched as far as I could see, I end up in the middle of town by noontime.

I'm pretty thrilled. All day long there have been tractors rumbling by on the dirt roads, people out in the fields working. No chances to grab something to eat. No trucks to hitch a ride on. No shade from the sun beating down through the haze. My legs feel worn down to the last thread of muscle. When they finally hit paved roads a couple miles back, it only got worse.

The town center is a general store, a post office, and a gas station, combined into one, across from a clapboard building which the sign in front proclaims as "Town Hall." No indication of what town.

The dog seems skittish with the vehicles rolling by on Main Street, staying so close to my heels that I keep on kicking her. Sometimes I kick her on purpose. "Get outta my way," I mutter.

Warped windows, some prize from the pioneer days, don't help much showing me what I look like, so I head into the general store, damp and dusty, probably with blood in my hair or something. The dog tries to follow me in, but I close the door quick behind me. "No animals," I say, pointing to the sign. "Can't you read?"

Inside smells like heaven.

You'd think pre-packaged food wouldn't have a smell, but it does when you're hungry enough. I could smell chocolate and pork rinds and milk, bacon and Slim Jims. There were plenty of fresh vegetables and fruit out, but it was the meat I smelled most.

The cashier, a dowdy middle-aged woman reading a Harlequin novel behind the counter, glances up at me, and keeps glancing. She thinks I'm going to steal stuff.

I pull out the wad of bills I stole from the man with the white truck, after I covered his body with a blanket, and meet her eyes. She pointedly returns to her book, but as soon as I head down to where the food aisles are, I can feel her watching me again.

The man didn't have much on him, twenty-three dollars to be exact. There's a lot I can buy for that much. I load up on meats, bags of pepperoni and wrapped salami, some bread and cheese, plus a liter bottle of Coke and a bag of peaches. Then my gaze catches on a newspaper.

### YOUNGSTOWN COUPLE KILLED IN FIRE

A photograph is obscured by the center fold of the paper, though I know what I will see when I unfold it. The house is burned to the ground, unrecognizable, with a white truck parked out in front. That man's truck.

Someone came along behind me and cleaned up my mess.

With all the rain, there was no way this was a natural fire. I certainly had nothing to do with it. A little part of me is disappointed

(I wanted to get caught)

and I can't help but wonder if this is the first time a fire has obliterated the evidence of the murders I committed. Being on the run, I don't often stop to read the paper. Even when I do, I'm usually far, far away by the time the local papers might report a death.

I imagine someone following along behind me, seeing what I've done, and thinking they're helping me by burning it all. It's so sick it makes me shudder. I shove the newspaper back under its wire holder and head to the front of the store.

The lady at the cash register gives me a long look as I pile everything onto the counter. Looking at all the stuff I can't afford, the magazines, candy, handy little gadgets, I try to ignore the way she looks at me between every item she scans through.

"That'll be twenty-three seventy-six," she said.

I look down at the bills in my hands. I don't want to make a scene. "Shouldn't it be twenty-two eighty?" I ask.

"There's tax," she tells me.

Right. I should have known that. I swallow and look everything over. What can I let go? My hand hesitates over the pepperoni.

"Is your mom outside? Maybe she's got a couple more dollars?" the woman asks.

It sounds caring, like the lady's trying to give me a break, but I can hear the nosiness under it. She wants to know if I'm here by myself, a young kid, a truant. She wants to know if she ought to call the cops as soon as I walk out the door.

I pick up the pepperoni and hand it to her. "I guess I won't get this." I won't answer her questions. I won't give her any trouble or a reason to call.

"Sure." She punches the void into the cash register. "Twenty-one fifty."

As I'm headed for the door with my bag of food smelling so good I'm salivating, almost unable to wait until I get outside to rip into it, she calls after me, "There are leash laws in this town, you know."

Through the glass, the stray is sitting, watching and waiting for me to come out.

I sigh and push open the door.

### -8-

I eat in a barren little park that is sun-bleached grass, a sandbox, and a rusty swing set enclosed by a chain link fence. The emptiness allows me to eat the salami straight from the wrapper, to rip hunks of bread off with my teeth, and to burp so loud it echoes after washing it all down with the Coke.

At some point I had a dim thought about sharing with the dog, but all she gets is one of the Slim Jims before I am completely consumed by the eating.

When everything is gone save the wrappers, which go back into the bag to throw away, I lie down on the now-dry ground and close my eyes to the scorching sun. My stomach pushes out against my t-shirt. It's a good feeling.

I think about trying to hitch another ride south. I think about moving to somewhere less out in the open, where cops won't see me and my leash-less dog. But it's been so long since I've been full and sleepy and warm, and I can't convince myself to get up.

Even when the dog pushes her nose under my arm and wriggles up close to me. She whuffs out a spicy meat-smelling breath and kisses my cheek with her tongue before closing her eyes. I can feel her heartbeat against my arm.

Our breathing syncs up and slows until I drift into sleep.

### -9-

"Hey, kid."

A foot nudging in my side, a shadow across my face. My other side cold – no furry pillow.

I crack my eyes open.

"Hmm?" I ask the silhouetted man looming over me. One of my arms flops up to shade my eyes, but I still can't see his face.

Instead of an answer I get more of his boot in my ribs. "Ow."

"Come on, get up, kid."

I roll over and push myself up.

Dizziness.

I swallow thickly and I'm kneeling. Blinking to keep back those black spots dancing in my vision.

"You can't sleep here," the man states.

Now I can see he's a cop, the blue uniform, the black boots, his arms crossed.

"'Kay." I use the fence to help me get up - my legs are so tired - grab my bag of trash and my coat. Head out.

Pray that damn cop doesn't say anything else to me.

He doesn't.

### -10-

I thought the dog was gone, but she was only hiding. Popping out from some bushes behind a house further down the road, she rejoins me like nothing happened.

"You think you're so smart, huh? Hiding from the cops?"

Her tongue lolls out of her mouth as she smiles up at me.

"Nice of you to let me get the brunt of it," I complain, but when she nudges my hand I absently scratch her ear.

A faded white sign with an upward pointing arrow indicates the way to the state highway. The sun is near to setting, though I'll be awake for a while yet. Might as well get closer to the highway, then tomorrow I might be able to hitch a ride.

"You won't be able to come if I can get a ride," I say to the animal beside me. "You might as well cut out now."

Her ears prick forward while I talk, like she understands, but she doesn't understand, because she keeps on walking beside me.

### * * *

It's long past sunset before I find a good place to sleep: in some lilac bushes near a small cottage-y house. The yard is neat and clean, which means there's no little kids to scatter their toys around, or indifferent teenagers half-mowing the lawn and parking their cars on the grass. There's one small red car in the driveway with a handicapped license plate. From the road I can hear the television blaring, the light shining through the closed curtains.

The bushes are taller than I am, and I crawl inside

we're giggling and pretending to be bears or wolves crawling into a cave

The smell is so overpowering it immediately gives me a headache. The space underneath isn't quite as big as I remember. When the stray crawls in after me we're on top of each other, but at least I feel warmer in this small hidden space

it's our secret place

no one can see us

no one can smell us

I curl up with my fist under my chin, roots for a pillow, a furry blanket warming me.

" _Let's pretend I'm the bride and you're the husband."_

" _What do husbands and wives do?"_

" _Kiss each other."_

Accompanied by these bittersweet memories, I drift into sleep.

### * * *

When I wake into the still darkness, something is different.

Beneath my hand I feel smooth hair instead of fur. Smell woods and heat and earth instead of wet dog. I crack open my eyelids and peer around.

The girl looks back at me with wide brown eyes, her golden brown hair falling into her face. She looks like my cousin Kayla, not like what Kayla looked like when I took off three years ago, but what Kayla might look like now, if the round softness of Kayla's face became sharper, her eyes further apart, that untamable hair of hers grown long and flowing.

"Daniel," she says. Her voice is low and musical.

"Kayla?"

"You have to come back, Daniel. We need you."

"I can't go back. I don't want to get arrested."

"It will all be okay. We need you. You can't run forever."

You have to come back.

With a start I wake up.

Sunlight is burning through the lilacs in a purple haze. Though I'm sweating, the stray is right there, where Kayla was lying just moments before.

My hand remembers her warm skin.

Did I just dream about my cousin being naked?

### * * *

All day long the dream lingers in my thoughts. "There's no way I can go back," I tell the dog. "No reason, really."

(although I would like to see my mother and Kayla again)

"The cops would be waiting for me. They would arrest me for sure."

(isn't that what I want?)

"What I want isn't important." I'm a monster. A killer. Things would be better if I just disappeared.

I have disappeared. No one knows who I am. I wander like a ghost.

(that's not good enough)

I'm a danger to everyone. Maybe I want food and someplace warm, but it doesn't matter. I need to be locked up.

"I'm going south," I tell the dog. "I'll find some deserted town in Texas and live like a hermit. I'll grow a garden and trap my own food. Lots of people have done it, become self-sufficient. I won't need to go near other people then."

In the hot mid-afternoon sun I stop to rest in the shade of a cottonwood tree. As my eyes begin to droop, I'm still talking. "You smell like those lilac bushes still."

I rest my face in her fur.

"It could be good, living alone. Maybe I'll even stop blacking out."

It would be warm all the time in Texas.

"Just you and me. Would you like that, Lila?"

She pants in my ear, hot doggy breath.

"Yeah, Lila's a good name for you. What do you think?"

She could sleep at the foot of my bed.

"Just you and me."

### -11-

I reach the highway around dinnertime. Not that I've eaten any dinner, my stomach reminds me.

Trucks roar by going 70, 80 miles an hour, blasting right through this middle of nowhere place. Lila whines; she doesn't like being so close to the road. I stay on the shoulder, out of the breakdown lane. None of these big trailer trucks are going to stop for me; too much work to slow down. I'm tired of walking but I don't have much of a choice – that's the thing about following the highways, they're boring. A long stretch of flat road. No houses or trees. Out here some of the farmland is close enough if I get desperate for food

Hitchhiking isn't legal most places. I didn't know that when I started out but it seems to be a pick up line with truckers. "Hey, kid, you know you could get arrested for hitching? Come on, get in."

After a while I learned that I didn't even need to stick a thumb out like they do in the movies. Nah, scuffling along the side of the road looking homeless makes people feel kind. "You need a ride somewhere? It's awful cold out there." It makes other people predatory. "You need a warm place for the night, kid?"

The setting sun to my right burns over the landscape, turning ugly browning fields into golden valleys and the gray clouds to red and orange streaks in the sky. It doesn't last long, though. Within twenty minutes all is the same dim color, and now headlights wash over me and Lila, making our shadows shorten and lengthen over and over.

Not so long after the sun dies, a dirty white van flashes its red brake lights after passing us and rolls over into the breakdown lane.

I walk on past. The passenger side window is rolled down.

"Hey! You need a lift?"

The driver looks to be in his thirties, clean-shaven and dark hair. His smile consists of even white teeth.

"Sure," I say. I open the door.

"That your dog?" he asks, squinting down at Lila.

"No," I say. "She's just a stray."

"All right. Hop on in."

I look down at Lila. "I told you you couldn't come," I say to her as a good-bye, then climb into the van.

It's too dark to see her in the rearview mirror as we drive away.

"So, where ya headed?" the man asks. He fiddles with the radio, tunes in to a classic rock station.

"Texas."

"Yeah? That's cool, I'm headed there myself."

I keep my face carefully blank.

Already I miss Lila's fur, her closeness. Even though I couldn't see her as we drove away, I imagine her eyes watching after me, wondering why I'm leaving her.

"I'm Paul. What's your name?"

"Dan."

His teeth flash in the dark. "Nice to meet ya."

I have only the briefest moment to wish he would stop talking before he starts talking again.

"So what's in Texas?"

I shrug.

"Family?"

black pulse blocking out oncoming headlights

"No."

"Friends?"

shut up I know what you're really asking for

My hands shake as I hang on to the door handle. I have to swallow back the bile in my throat.

"Ah, well. I understand. Can't trust people out on the road, right?" More teeth. All I see are his teeth.

For a time he is blessedly silent, if you can count singing along with Aerosmith quiet. He taps his fingers on the wheel, "I know... nobody knows... where it comes and where it goes..." Nervous loudness, trying to fill up the empty spaces.

I breathe and try to calm down.

fight or flight you oughta run run run

I can't kick it down. I shove my hands in my pockets to hide my fists, clenching, nails biting my palms. My jaw clenched tight.

The van cruises through the night, a smoother ride than most trucks that deafen you with the sound of their own motors. The fields fall back; we pass by isolated gas stations and through dark, silent towns.

Up ahead, the word "VACANCY" glows red in the night.

"Hey, I'm gonna stop in here," says Paul. "You're welcome to share my room if you want."

no no no no no

I say nothing. There's not much else around, nowhere to go unless I keep on walking and hitch another ride.

He pulls in, parks in front of the brightly lit office.

"Just wait here. And crouch down a bit. Sometimes they like to charge by the number of people in the room. I'm just going to pay for a single then we can sneak you in."

I nod and he jumps out.

The familiar roiling starts up in my stomach.

you know why he wants you to hide

I watch him inside, chatting with the night clerk of the motel, laughing easily. Everything about him looks safe and friendly. Everything about him makes my body scream

RUN

As he thanks the clerk and turns to come back out I reach for the door handle. I'll tell him I can't stay. I'll walk off into the night without a word. My legs have rested; maybe I could run.

The door handle doesn't work.

The blackness pulses, heavy and strong, pressing into my eyeballs

RUN RUN RUN

"Oh, yeah, that door doesn't quite work." Paul hops in, restarts the van. "I'm gonna park closer to our room. That way he won't see you." He jerks his head to indicate the night clerk, and gives me a wink with his flash of teeth. "Remember?"

hands clammy, cold sweat dropping down my sides

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I can do this.

He parks in front of room 7, climbs out, and comes around to let me out.

When I move to slide out he doesn't get out of the way. He's close enough for me to smell his aftershave and the sour smell beneath it, nervous under a cool demeanor. No, not nervous. He leaves me trapped there between the door and the van as he reaches behind my seat for a suitcase.

Not nervous.

Excited.

He slings his arm around me like we're best buddies after our three hours on the road. Pulls me toward the door marked "7."

The taste of bile in my mouth becomes a flood.

"Hey, it's okay." He's noticed how badly I'm shaking. He pushes me through the door and sits me down on the bed. His suitcase at my feet and he's peering into my face. "When was the last time you ate anything?"

I'm panting now. "Yesterday."

the door's still open run RUN

blackness swimming in

"Okay. Why don't you lie down? Come on, it's okay, just lie down."

can't see anymore, just his voice sounds so nice but under it I can hear it that greedy sound of anticipation, of GLEE

He gently makes me lie down. "It's gonna be okay. You stay here and I'll go grab some food, okay?"

His hands are gone. I'm safe.

I hear clicking sounds then his hands are back, gripping my wrist.

Click, clank click.

A cold bracelet biting into my wrist.

fuck no NO NO NONONONO

"You stay right here and when I come back we'll have some fun..."

Even that cold shock gone now in the rush of darkness –

### -12-

My first thought is, _I'm still handcuffed to the bed._

My second thought is, _I'm not hungry anymore._

It's hard not to open my eyes with all the sunlight streaming in. Gauzy white curtains cover the windows, allowing only a vague picture of the parking lot.

The van is still parked out front.

It looks to be noon or later from the direct shadows beneath the cars.

My uncuffed arm is in front of my face. It's cold. No sleeve. I don't have on a shirt anymore. My right arm is cold too, colder, dangling from the handcuff that is attached to the bedpost and serving as a pillow.

My feet are cold but my waist isn't. A sharp breath and I see it. The arm encircling my waist. A hairy arm, wearing a cheap watch.

With that breath I am suddenly aware of the warmth at my back.

Am I wearing pants? I move one of my legs and see that I am not.

I can't breathe. Where's the blood? Why am I naked?

The world tilts as I roll off the edge of the bed and stand as far away from the mattress as I can with my arm still attached to the bedpost.

And heave a sigh of relief.

There's the blood.

### * * *

I shouldn't be so relieved. This is a big problem. BIG problem. I'm handcuffed to a crime scene.

First things first. Get my hand back.

I try pulling it out, but the cuff is tight. These are no kinky handcuffs. Stainless steel. Maybe even police issue.

There must be a key here somewhere. I lean over the body of Paul, a piece of it, anyway, and feel in his pockets with my fingers. Nothing. Roll him over and try the other pocket. Nothing.

His suitcase is on the floor at the foot of the bed, open. He took the cuffs from that suitcase; it would stand to reason that the key would be in there. But I can't reach it. My fingers barely reach the end of the mattress.

I stretch and stretch. The cuffs are rubbing the skin of my wrist raw.

Then I see the ring of keys on the nightstand on the other side of the bed.

I scramble right over Paul, sliding through the blood, and snatch them up. A handcuff key would be small, silver – there it is!

Freedom!

I shouldn't be so relieved, but I am. Backed up against the tacky motel wallpaper, my eyes darting from the splatter on the walls, the leg up on the radiator with the sock and shoe still on, the open suitcase –

Lights glints off of the sharp, shiny objects in there.

One step closer, curiosity, the instruments neatly tucked into pockets on the lid, a box of gloves, a large plastic sheet. A lump forms in my throat.

Paul wasn't just any pervert.

My mind refuses to focus. I'm frantically searching for my clothes, my shoes, then forget about it, rushing into the bathroom running the shower with an itch to be clean, to scrub this all away. The bathroom is clean. No sign of blood here, the toilet paper folded just so, the little packets of soap and bottles of 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner still neatly placed by the faucets, towels white and fluffy.

I stay under the hot stream of water so long the bathroom is enveloped by a thick fog. I look myself over: a few new bruises, and the chafing on my wrist, but everything else intact. Paul never got a chance to use his torture devices on me.

Once I'm done and toweled off I feel more together. Take a deep breath. Everything will be okay. Paul himself told me that.

Open the door and again look upon the chaos.

First, I need clothes.

I spy my shirt, pants and underwear half under the bed. Paul must have cut them off of me, although they look torn to shreds rather than cut. They were almost shreds anyway. There's another bag, which Paul must have gotten out of his truck... after... I paw through it, find some jeans, which are too big, and a belt to keep them on. A white t-shirt that's big, too, and a gray hooded sweatshirt with sleeves I roll up.

I don't touch his underwear. I'll find some someplace else.

My shoes and socks are on the other side of the bed, near the window. I lean against a bare spot of wall to pull them on. I want a coat, but it looks warm enough out for now.

Next, see if Paul the Serial Rapist Killer had any money.

His wallet's on the nightstand next to where his keys were. I'm lucky he was what he was: lots of cash, no credit cards. His driver's license was issued in Washington State and says his name was Gary Lafayette. I take the cash and leave the wallet.

I consider taking his keys and driving off in the van, but since I've never driven a vehicle before I think this would be a bad idea. Not to mention the likelihood of getting pulled over. If Paul/Gary hasn't already been put on the police wanted list, the night clerk might have the license plate number or description handy when the motel people discover that one of their rooms got a blood bath.

On my way to the door to leave, a black Polaroid camera half hidden under the bed catches my eyes.

I pull it out, and with it find a stack of photographs.

The first few I look at are obviously from some other scene, boys cuffed to the bed looking at the cameras with scared eyes and gagged mouths, or unconscious. I barely recognize myself among these, ribs countable and arms like thin sticks, eyes open and glazed over and bugging out.

With trembling hands I slide this photo out of the way and look at the next.

It's blurry and I can barely tell what I'm looking at. But it's not a boy. Maybe the perv's dog or something. I nearly collapse in relief but remember the blood puddles on the rug and keep myself up with shaking legs. I tuck the photos in the front pocket of the sweatshirt and leave the room.

It's important to keep out of sight. I hide behind the van, peeking through the windows to the office. Then I walk back to the end of the motel, around room 8 which is likely unoccupied judging from the lack of cars in the parking lot. I crouch lower than the windows along this back wall and creep around the L-shaped building, praying no one will come out of the back doors.

And I'm back on the road.

### -13-

I let the trucks zoom by; I ignore the ones that stop. The memory of Paul's teeth keeps me from even looking at them.

At a gas station I stop and buy a soda and a sandwich that I eat sitting on the ground against the wall, cooling off in the shade. I purchase a bottle of water for the road and head off again.

I want to be as far away as possible by the time room 7 is discovered.

A green sign looms on the horizon. As I get closer, the white letters spell out

### Moberly 20 miles

### Jefferson City 80 miles

These flat fields I see are all I'll be seeing for the next few days.

I sigh and keep walking.

It's getting close to dark when I smell something familiar. The breeze is at my back, and the scent drifts up to me, makes me feel warm and secure even though all day I've been jittery from the adrenaline rush earlier. Warm fuzzy feelings, but sad, too, once I realize what that smell reminds me of.

Once the vehicles on the highway have all turned on their headlights and I'm getting déjà-vu flashes from last night, I head down the little embankment on the side of the road, into a field. Wheat, the stalks rustling softly in the breeze. I'll make a little nest out here, sleep under the stars. It's cold now, and the gray sweatshirt isn't nearly as warm as my old jacket. So I yank up handfuls of the wheat and lay it over myself until it's less of a nest than a burrow, and my body heat is starting to warm it up.

Away from the road and the sound of my sneakers pounding the pavement, I hear it.

An animal approaching, taking quick trotting steps. Panting. With that smell.

I lift my head, craning around to see if it's real. It's too dark. "Lila?" I whisper. Then, louder, because I don't even know why I'm whispering when there's not a soul around to hear me, "Lila!"

The steps roll into a loping run and I hear an excited yip. Then she's here, knocking off my wheat blanket and whuffing her hot breath into my face and neck and licking me, licking me, and it's the happiest moment I can remember.

### * * *

Lila makes a warm blanket, though I envy her fur. I can only hope Moberly will have something akin to a Salvation Army or a church thrift store, although if worse comes to worse I might be able to find some clothes drying on a clothesline outside, or I could break in and steal something, but I'd rather not when I've got a big wad of money in my pocket. I'd like to be able to get something real heavy, a real winter coat that's a little too big, and a hat too. And gloves. And I can't forget underwear.

I guess because I blacked out for so long I'm not tired now. Lila's face is my scarf, we're wrapped up together and I'm watching the stars. I can't imagine how she found me after Pervy Paul drove off with me, or why she would want to keep following me when I don't have any food for her and I ditched her at the first opportunity. I'm just glad she did. She's dead asleep now. Her paws are hot and I massage them, imagining all those miles she traveled on those feet to catch up with me.

When I was a kid I didn't have many friends. Our town in Montana was small, and there were maybe 50 kids in my grade, most of them coming in from ranches sprawled out all over the place. My father wasn't a rancher and neither were my uncles. We all lived close together on the outskirts of the Canadian forest, and the only other kid near my age was Kayla, who was a year younger than me. My mom was able to find work, seasonal labor, because she'd grown up on a ranch and she'd help drive cattle and with branding and stuff like that. Sometimes I helped her. My dad never helped. He worked at the local bar in town, serving drinks or bouncing or even cooking, whenever the manager wasn't too pissed at something or other he'd done. He got into a lot of fights, my dad. If he wasn't so darn angry maybe I could have bought a friend home, if I'd had one. But we mostly kept to ourselves, and Kayla was the closest to a friend I had.

Maybe if I'd had a friend, it wouldn't have been so easy to run away and leave everything behind. Maybe I wouldn't have all these weird feelings boiling up inside me all because some stray dog decided it was better to be with me than to be alone.

### -14-

I smell like wheat and wet dog. It's killing my appetite though, which is a good thing, since it's almost noon and there hasn't been anyplace to get any food.

Lila and I have finally reached a town. La Plata, established 1855, population not mentioned on the sign. It's bigger than the last town, at least there's a separate gas station and grocery store. As we get closer, passing buildings and apartments and warehouses, my stomach starts to rumble with the scent of food. Pizza and Mexican and Italian. We're still pretty far from the cheap restaurants, but I can smell it over the exhaust fumes and sewage. Hot dogs. I smell hot dogs most.

That would be because there's an old man in the parking lot of a strip mall selling hot dogs out of a silver trailer. Not a trailer big enough for someone to sit inside, out of the weather, but a cart-like deal. The man is sitting on a stool reading.

I'm standing in front of him before I even decide I want a hot dog more than an entire double-cheese-pepperoni-and-sausage pizza.

"What can I do you for?" he asks, putting his book aside. It's On the Road by Jack Kerouac, which I've actually read. I found it lying on a park bench last summer, and I must have read it five times between that summer and that winter, before I holed up in the abandoned house and found other things to read.

I look over the four hot dogs roasting on the grill. "I'll take all of them," I say. "Two on buns with ketchup, mustard, relish... everything except onions. And the other two plain. For my dog," I explain.

"Sure thing."

With practiced hands the man prepares the hot dogs. He's not as old as his white hair makes him look from far away. His hands are big and strong, worn with years of work.

"Anything to drink?"

I order a soda and a water and add two bags of chips, then pay with bills I've peeled off the roll hidden inside my sweatshirt pocket. I toss one of the plain hot dogs to Lila and stuff one of the loaded dogs in my mouth.

"Have a nice day," the man says.

"Thanksh," I mumble around the food in mouth. His mouth quirks in a smile that softens his face a bit.

Lila sits at my feet chewing on her hot dogs while I make a seat out of the curb. Food never tastes so good as when you're hungry. My eyes are half-closed in the savoring of it. I try not to think about the winter coming and the scarcity of food. It's the here and the now and hot food in my belly and the sun on my face.

When I've devoured everything on my plate, I put it on the ground and pour some of the water in it for Lila to drink. Not the world's best doggy dish, but it serves its purpose.

The strip mall is small. There's a convenience store, a Dollar Store, and a Laundromat. The door of the Laundromat is propped open and lets out the rolling sounds of the dryers and the industrial hum of the washing machines. It's been ages since my clothes smelled like lemony detergent. It's been ages since I had deodorant, too. At least I had a shower yesterday. Most of the time I can find a gas station bathroom to clean up in, but a full shower?

Let's just say it was a long while before I ended up in the shower in Paul's hotel room.

None of the stores here look promising, so I ask the hot dog vendor. "Do you know of any places around here that sells clothes?"

The man looks up from his book, squinting at me. "Clothes? Huh. Not much of a shopper myself. There's a Walmart up to Kirksville, that's where I go for pretty much everything."

I've got no clue where Kirksville is, but if the town is anywhere near as spread out as this one, it'll take two days to get there.

(unless I hitch a ride and I don't want to do that)

"Do you know of anyplace closer?" I dig the toe of my sneaker into a crack in the pavement. "Like a secondhand store or something?"

"Sorry, son."

He looks like he's going to go back to his book and I turn to walk away, then he says, "I've got some extra clothes at my house, belonged to my boy. I usually head home after the lunch rush, if you don't mind waiting. If you're interested?"

My senses strain to decide if this offer is some kind of proposition. "Doesn't your son need his clothes?"

I bring myself to look at his face and I'm surprised to see his eyes glassy and far away.

"No, he doesn't need them anymore."

I don't ask anything else about his son. Instead I look away, scratch my neck. "Yeah, okay."

Leaving the man to his book, I walk over to the Dollar Store and browse through their outside display. Lila follows me, sniffing at the things I pick up.

"Stay," I tell her, and head inside the store.

I walk up and down the aisles, taking in all the cheap things I could actually buy but don't need. I don't like to be weighed down with things when I could black out and wake up with all those things gone. I do find an aisle with stuff like socks and underwear and I buy a pack of each.

The end of one aisle has all kinds of pet care products. I pause, looking over the collars and leashes and chew toys. There's a tan-colored collar that would match her fur, but no matching leash. I pick out a sturdy blue one and then a small box of dog treats.

"Five twenty-one," says the bored kid at the register. He doesn't look much older than me but he must be, if he's working during the school day. Or is it Saturday?

I grab my stuff before he can put them in a bag and head outside, shoving the underwear and socks into the front pocket of my sweatshirt. Lila's sitting beside the hot dog man, and he's scratching her ears. Can't say I'm not a little jealous, but she jumps up as soon as she sees me.

"I got you a present," I tell Lila as we walk back over to the curb.

I give her a doggie treat first, and while she's occupied with that I try to put the collar on her.

She yips and jumps away, leaving her treat on the ground.

"What? It's just a collar," I say. "All the cool dogs are wearing them."

She watches me warily from a few feet away.

Never having a dog, I have no idea how to convince one to do something she doesn't want to do. I try holding the collar out to her. "You can sniff it if you want."

No dice. She stretches her neck out a bit to get a scent of it but doesn't move forward.

"Come on. It's not that bad."

She stares at me with something like betrayal in her eyes. The man is watching us now which I try to ignore.

"Fine," I say, and put the collar and leash down on the ground beside me, out of her sight.

It's a few long minutes before she'll come back to my side. I try tempting her with treats but she doesn't take the bait. Finally she inches back and sits near me, nibbling at her milkbone.

When she seems calm enough, I drop my hand down. She doesn't notice. Then I'm grabbing the collar and wrapping my arm around her neck and trying to wrangle it on her.

Lila thrashes like crazy, her paws scrabbling at the air and her throat growling. Her teeth are bared but she's not biting at me. "Come... on..." I pant. I can't get both hands free to buckle the collar. Finally I let her go and she runs across the parking lot before stopping to look at me with her ears pinned back and her tail low.

Frustrated, I snatch up the collar and leash and shove them into the pocket of my sweatshirt, even though they're too bulky. "What am I supposed to do if the animal control people come by?" I yell at her. "They're gonna think you're a stray. You wanna go to the pound?"

Of course she doesn't answer, just looks at me with her sad eyes.

"If you don't want to be my dog, you can get your own damn treats."

I sit back down, disgusted with her and disgusted with myself. It's not like I'm gonna chain her up out in a hot yard with no water. I'd treat her nice. The leash and stuff is just for show. How do you explain that to a dog? At the same time, I feel dumb for wrestling with an animal in a parking lot. I should've left her alone. I know if I was a dog I wouldn't want some random kid slapping a collar on me.

I don't want some cop demanding to know _Is this your dog? Prove it_ and taking her away when I can't. Looks like I don't need a cop to take Lila away. I chased her away all on my own.

The time drags on while I get more and more miserable, Lila panting in the shade of a bush on the other side of the parking lot. I've nothing to do but be miserable. Wish I had a book or something.

Finally the hot dog man starts closing up shop. He didn't sell a single hot dog after me. "Do you need any help?" I call to him.

"Eh, I've got it down to a science," he says.

I get up and help him anyway. Securing the tubs of condiments and fastening the flaps on the sides. The cart is attached to his truck by a trailer hitch.

"That about does it." He shuffles to the driver's side door. "Hop on in."

With a look back at Lila, I open the passenger door.

"You gonna bring along that dog of yours?"

"I – I don't know."

"She can hop on in back," he says.

I look at Lila. Part of me doesn't want to try calling her over, in case she decides not to come. That would just about kill me.

I whistle softly.

Her ears perk up and she steps forward.

With a slap of my leg I whisper, "Come on, girl."

She comes.

### -15-

Lila's panting in my ear. The old man, who tells me his name is Robert but I can call him Bobby, won't let her sit in the front with me. Even though she's got the little backseat to herself, she's got her paws up on the back of my seat and is pressing her head between my head and the open window.

The buildings fall away and we are back out in open country again. Not for long, and not as wide open as before. Bobby drives down a bunch of random little roads, passing houses that get smaller and shittier as we go. Dust flying everywhere, lawns that are more scorched dirt than grass.

Bobby pulls into a dirt area that I guess is a driveway. His house is actually a trailer baking in the sun. It's kind of a cross between a house and a trailer. It's got an awning pulled out with a screen draped down from it, and inside the screen area sits a lawn chair next to a little table, making it look like a porch. There's some plants in there too.

The truck bounces to a stop and I wait until Bobby gets out before climbing out of the passenger side, Lila jumping to the ground beside me. She dances out of my reach, still nervous after the collar incident. It isn't until now that I stop to think that I'm gonna have to walk my way out of here, unless Bobby's heading back for an imaginary dinnertime rush.

You're so stupid.

"Home sweet home," Bobby says, parting the screen curtain and holding it aside for me and Lila to walk through. "Bobby Junior's clothes are in a box in the spare bedroom, if you want to come in and sit a spell."

I bob my head.

"The dog can stay out here. Not much space for a dog in here."

"Stay," I tell Lila unnecessarily. She's already found a spot to lie down.

What if he's got chainsaws and hunting knives hung up on his walls, an operating table in his kitchen?

I step up into the old-people-smelling living room of the trailer.

What makes you think you can trust him?

"Shut up," I growl at myself. Bobby's already down the hall so I don't think he can hear me. I thought he was joking about the spare bedroom but it's a pretty big trailer, almost like a little house. Cluttered. There are dirty clothes on the couch, the tables full of dirty dishes and wrappers. Messy. My nose wrinkles at the undercurrent of moldy crusted food and musty newspapers. I think I can even smell how long it's been since he vacuumed this worn carpet here.

I can hear Bobby in back, moving things around, so I take a seat on the couch next to the window so I can look out and keep an eye on Lila. She seems perfectly content to lie out there. I imagine if she'd actually gotten a whiff of Paul she would have freaked out. I should have listened to my own instincts and run.

"Here we are," Bobby says from behind the large box he's carrying. I jump up to help him. "Not sure what all's in here anymore, but I'm sure there's some that'll fit ya."

"Mostly I need a winter coat," I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows at me and I can practically hear him thinking, _Winter? It's only September!_ He doesn't say it out loud, though, and I breathe easy.

The inside of the box smells even mustier than the rest of the trailer. Bobby starts pulling clothes out and flinging them everywhere. "Too big, too big," he mutters.

I begin to wonder if his son simply outgrew these clothes, until I see the shrine.

Not a shrine with candles and shit, but there are a clump of framed photos there on the table next to the television. No dust or used tissues or candy wrappers on that table. I look away before Bobby notices me noticing it.

He dumps a few pairs of pants into my arms, t-shirts and sweatshirts and not one but two winter coats and tells me to try them on. "The bathroom's right past the kitchen."

It's also the size of a closet. I struggle to maneuver in the tight space. Both pairs of jeans fit better than the ones I stole from Paul, and the cargo pants. All the shirts too. The winter coats will be nice and warm, filled with down. I return to the living room.

"Everything fits," I tell Bobby, then shamefully drop my eyes. "But I don't have a bag or anything." I hate to be begging this way. I'd prefer not to have a bag, but with winter coming I should be thinking about gathering supplies. I don't need another winter like last winter.

"Ah, we can scrounge somethin' up for ya." He says this as he is sitting on the couch tuned into the television. Yet he doesn't look like he's going to get up and scrounge around for anything.

Unsure of what to do, I make myself look busy folding the clothes and stacking them neatly on one end of the couch. The television is playing a soap opera, not something I would have expected Bobby to be watching.

Then I hear the snoring, and I know Bobby isn't watching soap operas. He's taking a nap.

Should I take the clothes and beat it? No, Bobby will wake up and his son's clothes will be gone off with some stranger and he'll become suicidally depressed. Should I leave the clothes and take off? I really do need a winter coat, and you can't beat a free one.

I sit down on the other end of the couch.

The soap opera doesn't hold my attention for long. I find myself staring out the window at Lila, who is herself napping out on the makeshift porch. The afternoon wears on until my focus drifts to the inside of the trailer.

It's been so long since I've had any kind of a home that the mess of this one bothers me. Bobby's lucky enough to be able to stay in one place and live here without worrying about winter and starving to death, yet he can't even wash his own dishes. It's been so long since I lived at home with my parents that I don't even remember if I was a neat freak or if my room was as messy as this.

I start by gathering up the trash from the coffee table and floor. I smell the trash can in a cabinet under the sink, overflowing with garbage. I close my eyes and inhale. I catch the faint scent of new plastic in a narrow closet in the hallway and find a box of new trash bags there. Within only a few minutes of cleaning the bag is near to full. Then I start on getting all the dishes near the sink and run the water, using liberal amounts of dish soap.

The housework puts my mind into a lulled, zen kind of place. I don't have to think about anything more extraordinary than scrubbing off crusted eggs and ketchup and tomato sauce overgrown with mold, and dishpan hands. I can pretend I'm an ordinary kid, resigned to doing ordinary chores.

I have finished the dishes and am in the process of sweeping the dirt and food crumbs out the door of the trailer when Bobby says behind me,

"What have you been up to?"

I turn to look at him, a guilty expression creeping into my face. Is he offended that I found his place disgustingly messy? Then I see the smile in his eyes, and my shoulders relax.

"I might have to keep you around, Dannyboy," Bobby says.

Instantly my hackles are up again. No nausea or dizziness this time, just a different voice echoing in my head,

dannyboy dannyboy what have you been up to dannyboy

Lila whines from outside the open door. Her eyes look up at me like she knows something's wrong.

"You interested in some dinner?" Bobby hasn't noticed the way my hands are clamped around the broom handle, or the cold sweat pushing through my pores.

"Sure," I say through gritted teeth.

I hear him rustling through his cabinets. "Let's see... you like mac and cheese?"

I nod, swallow, then say, "Sure," trying to keep that edge out of my voice.

He doesn't know, I tell myself. He doesn't know that's what my father used to call me.

I step outside and lean the broom against the wall of the trailer, and sit in one of the lawn chairs. Lila comes over and puts her head in my lap.

Hug her squeeze her throttle her

My fists remain clenched. Can't touch her – don't want to hurt her.

Staying here is a mistake. Staying here puts Bobby in danger. Lila too. I should be alone, like I've been for the past three years. Monsters don't have pets, or nice lonely men to be their surrogate fathers. Monsters don't deserve these things. And I am a monster.

After I eat, I'll thank Bobby for the clothes and take to the road again. Maybe I can even leave Lila with him.

### -16-

You might think that after those two loaded hot dogs for lunch only hours ago, I might have less of an appetite for dinner. Three bowls of macaroni later, I finally feel full.

"I knew it was a good idea to make two boxes," Bobby says.

"Thanks so much for... for everything," I say as Bobby pushes away from the table. He picks up both of our bowls and puts them in the sink, then shuffles off to the living room again. "Uh, you know, for dinner, and the clothes and all?"

"Don't mention it," Bobby calls over his shoulder.

I stand and hesitate near the sink. If I want to have any light when I head off I should leave now. But I can tell Bobby will leave those dishes in the sink until mold starts growing again, unless I wash them. And what harm could it do? Bobby has given me so much, the least I can do is one last sinkful of dishes.

And when those dishes are done, and Bobby's eyes have slipped shut by the light of the television, and I've repacked the boxes with all the clothes I won't need, I enter that bedroom down the hall.

It's worse than the shrine.

Now I know Bobby's son must be dead and gone. The little bed is neatly made up with a faded Star Wars comforter. Books and toys line the shelves. I drop the box down on the bed and pick up a sealed package containing an action figure of Han Solo. There is a thick layer of dust coating the top. I wonder if Bobby's son was a serious collector. Or if he'd ever been here at all.

The clothes are practically new, the toys are new, the books have no creases on the spine.

For the first time I wonder where Bobby's wife is. Did she take their son and leave him here all alone?

I place the box back on the floor, on the square spot where the carpet looks brand new instead of dulled over by dust, and head back into the living room. Lila is whining at the door so I let her in, and then I sit down on the couch, pull an afghan over me, and warm my toes under Lila's body curled at my feet.

The television's dancing lights and muted sound send me to sleep.

### -17-

I snap awake in the dark. Lila is sitting in the middle of the living room, watching me, her eyes green.

(Did I kill him – no don't look)

It is a colossal effort to turn my head, to look at the place on the couch beside me.

(Blood you'll see blood everywhere)

But I don't see any blood. Bobby is sound asleep, just as I'd left him. He is obviously breathing, but I don't hear any snoring. I don't hear anything at all. The television is silent, its black eye watching me.

"You need to go back."

My head whips around looking for the source of that voice. A girl's voice.

(Kayla's voice)

No - that's impossible.

The window near me is open, letting in a chilly breath of air that reeks of autumn and decay. I look out. No sign of a teenage girl.

Not even the crickets make a sound.

"We need you back home."

My head whips back to look for the source of that voice. It sounded close, closer than anyone could sound from outside, but even though I have better hearing than most people I don't know where it came from. It's just me and Bobby and Lila. The hair on my arms is standing on end, every pore in my body painfully alert.

The voice almost sounded like it was coming from inside my head.

Vibrations rumble through my head darkness swimming in sweat

I swallow and try to hold off. I don't want to kill Bobby. I don't want to kill Lila.

Nausea

No, no, no.

Lila's eyes catch mine. Immediately I feel a flood of calm. No nausea. No dizziness. Her eyes anchor me to this place, this safe place where I am warm and well-fed.

"You must go home."

That voice again, soft and feminine. It is Lila, I know it is.

"Yes," I say.

Then I wake up. Everything is sideways. I've slipped over so my head uses the couch's hard armrest as a pillow. Lila is asleep on my feet. Bobby is snoring. The television plays its late-night reruns, filling the room with a babble of voices and laugh tracks.

I start to sit up, then stop. Relax.

Go home? Does it make any sense? No one out here knows anything of what happened that day, my thirteenth birthday. I've been running all these years, but where has it gotten me? A few states over, homeless and hungry, with no plans for a future aside from "go someplace warm." It could be the police aren't looking for me anymore. It could be no one found those bodies.

And even if I am wanted for murder, maybe it's time I stopped running and faced it like a man.

Yes, I will go back.

My eyes close and I pull the afghan tight around my shoulders.

After breakfast.

### -18-

It continues like this for weeks. I tell myself I will leave after lunch, after dinner, tomorrow, next week. But I like Bobby. I help him cook meals that aren't straight out of a box. We drive into town and I help him sell hot dogs. Sometimes I walk to the grocery store and buy ingredients for dinner while he's working. Sometimes I sell hot dogs while he sleeps in the truck. He sleeps a lot.

Some days, if I'm restless with nightmares and sleep too late, I only wake up when Bobby's truck rumbles to life. Usually he leaves a note, _Didn't want to wake you. Make yourself at home._ Or, _See you for dinner, cook something good!_ On these days I clean the trailer, vacuuming and dusting and sweeping and scrubbing. One day I find a pair of hedge clippers and trim the weeds around the trailer.

I've got a flair for cooking. Maybe it's just Bobby being nice and the crap I've grown used to eating over the past three years, the bruised fruit and pizza crusts from the garbage, but what I make tastes good to me too. It's surprising, considering what I'm working with, but somehow I can tell by scent what needs to be added. In the kitchen the warm smell of good food cooking wraps around me like a blanket. I can almost hear my mother's voice, asking if I want to stir or crack the eggs or lick the spoon, singing along with the radio. I can almost feel her hand on my head, just resting there, like she could protect me this way, keep me safe.

We both knew that when my father got home it wouldn't be safe.

A few times, like today, the memories of my father and what he would do to ruin dinner made me think it was him coming through the door and not Bobby. I found myself gripping the knife I had used to cut up beef for a stir fry, backed into a corner.

"Easy there, Dan," Bobby said as he entered the trailer. He held out his hands. "It's just me."

I couldn't get my jaws apart to say anything, my teeth were clenched so tight. But I did put the knife down and look away, pretending to be busy washing the vegetables. My heart is hammering in my chest.

Bobby has learned not to call me Dannyboy. He has learned to go to bed at night and not share the couch with me. He leaves me alone after these incidents and lets me get myself together. Except for that one time he found me curled up in a ball on the floor

(I don't even remember how I got there)

with Lila licking my face and hands. On that day, he stroked my hair until I stopped shaking so much, talking to me about his son, Little Bobby. I don't remember the first part of what he said, but once I was able to focus on his voice I listened real hard, about how he taught Little Bobby how to throw a baseball and how he went to all of Little Bobby's baseball games, how Little Bobby was going to play for the major leagues someday. When Bobby lost his job during the recession, and found out his wife was cheating on him, he funneled all of his energy into Little Bobby.

When he got to the part where his wife left him and took Little Bobby with her, that was when Bobby asked me how I was doing.

"I'm okay," I told him.

"I bet you are," he said, not sarcastic but matter-of-fact. He never mentioned it again. Never yelled at me for letting Lila hang out in the trailer with me, but considering that the place seems so much bigger now that it's clean, and I vacuum her fur up on a daily basis, there's not much reason to keep her out.

I cut the strips of beef in a slow, methodical rhythm, keeping my movements as steady as possible and my mind as blank as a new layer of snow. But it won't go away. Memories of my father keep punching through the blankness.

" _Stop with the women's work, Dannyboy."_

Flinching, feeling the tightness as he grabbed my collar and pulled me away from the counter.

" _Come on, let's wrestle."_

These were the good days, when we would wrestle.

" _Gotta learn how to be the leader of the pack, Dannyboy. Come on, show me what you've got."_

I was too afraid to give it all I had. What if I really hurt my father? How angry would he get then? So I held back, grappled with him until he laughed and pinned me to the ground, digging his elbow into my back and pressing my face to the floor, squeezing every molecule of oxygen out of my system, his grin hanging over me, waiting, just waiting, for me to think I was about to die.

black spots dancing in front of my eyes, behind the tears being squeezed out, losing sight of my mother in the kitchen, she's disappearing and she hasn't even turned around, I'm dying and she won't even turn around to see

It's a few moments before I realize Bobby is waiting just outside the kitchen area. I blink and look up at him.

"How's dinner coming along, kiddo?"

I clear my throat. "A few more minutes."

It's safe here with Bobby, I keep telling myself, smelling the sizzle of the steak and the weaker aromas of the pea pods and broccoli.

### -19-

"Why is this happening now?" I ask Lila after Bobby has begun snoring in the bedroom. My fingers scratch her velvety ears. "I'm safe here. I shouldn't be freaking out like this."

Lila looks at me. She's just a dog. She doesn't have any answers for me. I roll onto my side to stare at the television.

I shouldn't be afraid of those memories. My father is dead. I killed him. There was no way he could have lived through what I did, any more than that old man and his wife, or Paul the pervert, or any of the countless others I've woken up to find dead. I shouldn't still be afraid of my father.

I should be afraid of myself.

I still don't know what triggers it. I always had a feeling it was hunger, or anger. But it wasn't always. And it was only less likely to happen when I was feeling full and safe and warm. And it hasn't happened once since I've been with Lila, or this whole time I've been living here with Bobby.

It would be helpful to know what "it" is. Am I a psychopath? A multiple personality? Is a secret CIA program controlling my brain?

None of the late night reruns of Dr. Phil have cleared this up at all.

All I know is that it doesn't feel like a part of me that does that,

(the killing ripping apart eating thing)

more like a psychotic hitchhiker in my brain.

If I go home, and they are looking for me as a murderer, maybe I don't go to jail. Maybe my lawyer can plead insanity and I'll be in a mental hospital for the criminally insane.

I think I'd prefer jail.

It's not that I'm denying I have a mental disorder. It's more that I don't trust people. Especially doctors who'd want to drug me up and who'd probably only make it worse. I'd rather be in a cage than a straightjacket.

My two options – jail or hospital. Probably why I chose the open road instead.

This time when I begin dreaming I know it is a dream. My cousin Kayla stands before me in the white dress she wore to church on Sundays. We always went to church, my mother, Aunt Julie, Kayla, and me. My father and Uncle Red never came. Sundays were their hunting days, but even if they didn't go hunting they stayed at home rather than come to church with us. I hated those days. My father would see me in the suit and tie my mom made me wear to church and say things like, "One day you'll see dressing like a sissy ain't gonna make God love you."

Kayla's white dress has puffy sleeves and a white ribbon around the waist. Now that I see it on her, standing in the moonlight, looking fifteen instead of twelve, I realize that she hadn't worn that white dress for a least a few years before I left. It's a dress for a third grader, not the teenager wearing it now.

She's even wearing lacy ankle socks and black Mary Janes.

I stare at her from where I lay on the couch. I know she is a dream, so why bother getting up?

"There are things you don't remember, Danny," Kayla says. "Things you don't remember because you don't understand."

"Like what?"

She smiles at me. "Like what you are."

"And what am I?"

"You are a part of me," she replies. "As I am a part of you."

"What does that mean?"

"You need to come back," she says, not smiling anymore. She is starting to glow.

"Why? Why do I need to come back?" I cover my eyes with my arm. Her glow is becoming painfully bright. "The police will get me. They'll lock me up. I'm safe here. Why can't I stay here? I don't want the police to catch me."

"Then you will need to avoid the police. We need you back home."

"Why? Why?"

Because I can't see, I barely realize she is so close to my face until her lips are on mine. "You can save us all."

How? How can I save anyone, when I can barely take care of myself?

### -20-

All day it weighs on my mind. "You have to come home. We need you... you can save us all." I am distracted helping Bobby out at the hotdog stand and burn several dogs.

"Something on your mind?" he asks, feeding the charred meat to Lila.

I shrug.

The days are colder now and I'm thankful for Little Bobby's jacket and gloves, although standing in front of the grill keeps me warm. But now Bobby's handing me a hot dog with the works and telling me to go have a seat. The guys at the discount electronics boutique next to the Dollar Store are on their lunch break, which usually starts off the "lunch rush."

Sitting on the bed of Bobby's truck, I stare in the distance thinking rather than eating. On the one hand, I would like to see my mother again, but I can't imagine she'd be willing to forgive me for killing her husband. I can't even forgive me. Even after all he did...

Would she welcome me home with open arms? Her son, the murderer?

Hell, she probably wouldn't even recognize me.

It's just one more reason not to go home.

Of course, other scenarios play out in my head. One where my mother thought I'd been dead all these years, killed by the same maniac who killed her husband: she sees me, her face blank with disbelief as I walk up the driveway, until she finally recognizes that it's me, her son, I'm alive, and I'm back, and then she's weeping and running crazily down the driveway to hug me and finally I'm home and that emptiness which has accompanied me for so long disappears with a painful pop and I'm crying too...

I'm crying in real life, not just my imagination. I slap the tears away before anyone can see. (Lila saw, but she's just a dog)

I never let myself think about that. Never never never. I couldn't go back home, so I saved myself that pain by not thinking about it. Now, because of those stupid dreams, I'm thinking about it. I shouldn't think about it. I should keep on going south, like I had planned.

(And what if you're in the south and you're still killing people? They're big on the death penalty in Texas. They might not even let you see your mom again before they executed you.)

But...

What if?

What if my mother is in trouble? What if she knows something that could help me stop killing people?

"One dog with ketchup on it."

I am broken from my thoughts by a loud, clipped voice. Bobby's customer is a police officer. His eyes are obscured by sunglasses and his blue uniform is free of wrinkles. Instinctively I hunch down and start eating, hoping he didn't notice me.

Too late.

"That your boy?" the officer asks, nodding at me.

Bobby looks over at me. "Yup."

"How old?"

Bobby doesn't skip a beat. "Sixteen." Bobby doesn't know that my sixteenth birthday is only a few weeks away. It's the same lie I would have told.

"You will need to avoid the police." That's what Kayla said in my dream last night. What if this cop wants to arrest me right now? See some proof of my age?

"How come he's not at school?" the cop asks.

Bobby slathers ketchup over the top of the hot dog and slides it over to the officer, accepts the cop's crisp five dollar bill and gives him change.

"He a drop out?" the police officer presses.

"Homeschooled," Bobby says, finally.

"Good." The officer's final words before climbing into his patrol car and driving away. Only when he is out of sight am I able to breathe normally.

I am quiet the rest of the day. Bobby accepts my silence on the long truck drive home. Home. I call it home now. It's not my home, I think as I throw something together for dinner while Bobby takes his afternoon nap. I remember my mother's cooking, and forget about what happened when my father came home. I remember those sunny afternoons in the kitchen with her. That is home. Not this.

At dinner Bobby says to me, "You know, the couch isn't very comfortable. If you want you could sleep in Little Bobby's bedroom. Have a little space of your own."

I nod and chew thoughtfully, but I don't answer him.

It's time to go.

### -21-

It's midnight and I'm padding across the carpet in the dark, carefully not to make a sound. There was a backpack in Little Bobby's things and I'm going to take it, even though I spent almost three years living hand to mouth. This time I'll do it right. I'll pack warm clothes, and some food, and my money. The collar and leash for Lila, too, just in case. Maybe I've learned to control that dangerous side of me.

I take longer packing than I should. I consider carefully each item I place inside. Do I really need another t-shirt? Should I take a second pair of shoes?

(how will Bobby feel when he wakes up and I'm gone with half the things that remind him of his son?)

In the kitchen I take the basics: bread, a water bottle, a can of peanuts, a package of deli meat, three apples, some granola bars. I want to write a note, but I don't know what I would say. Thanks for the stuff?

Lila watches me with her brown eyes.

"Okay, then, let's go."

As quietly as I can, I open the trailer door and Lila and I leave. We walk into the night, not looking back.

### -22-

Lila leads the way. She trots ahead, sniffs the air, and decides which road to turn down. I let her, because it's dark. After weeks of turning on the light in the evenings when I couldn't see, I feel blind, stumbling through the night. I'm tired, too. Nightmares have robbed my sleep all week, and anxiety drained my days. Not even the cool night air, biting through my

(Little Bobby's)

jacket can make me feel alert.

I never paid attention to the dates, not during that whole time I lived with Bobby. The reruns on TV, the repetition of our every day routine made it feel like a time warp. Time didn't pass there.

It isn't until later, on toward dawn, watching frost form on the roadside grass, that I become aware of how long I stayed at Bobby's. September is gone. Any chance of Indian summer erased. Those warm days when I slept outside with Lila under a lilac bush are gone. I pull my knit hat over my ears and suck my chin into the collar of my jacket.

Winter is beginning already.

Up ahead, Lila turns and passes under a sign that says Route 36 West. West toward home. How does Lila know where to go? I'm so tired I don't care. The sunrise isn't beautiful. It stabs my eyes and makes me squint, and makes me want to fall down and sleep.

A truck with a bed full of chicken coops rolls up.

"You need a ride?"

The man is short a few teeth, but Lila hops into the truck bed, and I follow suit. The chickens cluck their disapproval.

The smell of chicken shit in my nose and my head clanging against the rail, I stumble into sleep.

### * * *

I wake in a cold sweat, the words

happy birthday to me

echoing in my head. The truck has come to an abrupt stop, but luckily the toothless wonder driving hasn't come round to check on me yet. I pick myself up, let Lila lick the salt off my face, then we disembark the chicken mobile.

"Thanks for the ride," I manage to say before heading down the road. Unfortunately the sun tells me that we've only been driving about an hour, and the lack of sleep is killing me. It's too bright. My eyes feel gritty and my mouth tastes like dirty socks. I didn't think to pack toothpaste.

There's no place to sleep here. It's another country road, lucky to be paved, stretching as far as I can see into the distance. Fields of wheat blowin' in the wind. The kind of road where trucks whip by, their drivers half asleep. I can smell the road kill already. Not safe to sleep on the side of a road like this. Not safe to sleep in the fields, either: it's near reaping time. Machines cutting down the fields.

An hour north from Kansas might put us in Missouri, or it might put us still in Kansas.

Lila is tireless. She runs ahead, then returns to me, prodding me with her nose, barking if I seem to be sleeping as I walk. "Yeah, yeah," I tell her, shuffling along. I think I must sleep as I walk, as there are periods of time I cannot recall. Or maybe the landscape is that repetitive.

I am ready to collapse in the road when Lila bolts into a group of trees.

"Come back," I say, half-heartedly.

My feet slog along after her. Suddenly in the shade, it feels like darkness has descended. Nighttime, time for sleep.

Lila has found me a nice bed in a pile of leaves from the neighboring farm's yard. I collapse and we twine ourselves around one another and sleep away the day.

### -23-

I had forgotten how being on the road gives you infinite time to think. I imagine Bobby's face when he woke up that morning to find me gone. His reactions range from immediate sadness to anger. Once I imagine that he might be happy I left. "Good riddance," he says when he looks around and sees that I'm not there. "Kid was costing me too much money."

Is it my ego that makes me think he could never react this way?

It is day three since we left Bobby's house, and I have yet to be lucky enough to get a ride. Mostly that has to do with Lila leading me through the woods instead of by road.

The forest used to have this pull on me that made me afraid, but it's not so bad out here. It's not real forest, anyway. Just bunches of trees that divide up farmland. It's nice not to have to worry about people, cops or otherwise, but after three days my food is running low and I'm tired. Hiking (I guess that's what you would call it) is a lot harder than just walking along a road. On the road I might get a ride, a chance to rest. Lila is tireless. Even if I tell her I'm taking a break, she come back and haunts me, licking my face and barking and jumping around until I finally get up and get moving again. "What's the rush," I complain.

My stomach is complaining now too. At this point, I'm not sure where the road is. I keep stumbling and tripping over tree roots and Lila runs on ahead. Why am I following a dog? I start looking out for any sign of a road through the trees, but by nightfall on that third day I still haven't seen anything.

It happens as the last of the sun winks through the branches overhead.

Nausea dizziness blackness

blankness

### * * *

When I open my eyes it doesn't make a difference. It's still dark. I wait for my eyes to adjust and listen feel smell until I know.

Still the forest, still nighttime. My head is buzzing but I can hear the silence beyond it. No one around.

Nothing around.

Where is Lila?

I sit up. I feel the leaves and dirt beneath my hands, and little sharp things. Twigs

(bones)

Smell of rotting. The buzzing isn't from inside my head. There are flies everywhere, zooming around my head, hunting down that slimy stickiness that covers me. It's an agonizing long time before I have enough light to see, but by then I know at least it wasn't human, and it wasn't Lila. Lila's scent trails away from me like a path through the woods. The bones are small. Squirrels or rabbits or prairie dogs.

At least I'm not hungry anymore.

Slowly I begin to see the tree branches pressed against the night sky.

"Lila?" I ask the darkness.

No matter how hard I strain my ears, I hear nothing but the quiet chatter of insects. No birds, no rustle of leaves where small creatures scurry. No sound of a dog breathing, waiting quietly for her companion to stop devouring all living creatures that venture nearby.

It is only when I stand up that I realize something else is missing.

My clothes.

Yes, you'd think that would be something I might notice right away, considering the chill in the air. Immediately I crouch down to hide myself, then realize that no one is around to see me. I stand up, feeling strangely exposed despite the cover of night.

I always suspected that most of my blackouts occurred when I was naked. How else do you explain me killing people in the violent way that I do and waking up with clothes that are no dirtier than they were when I blacked out? Granted, there are exceptions. That golden retriever, for one.

Still, it's a little weird to think of myself blacking out, and THEN getting undressed so as not to dirty my clothes. And putting them back on after I've cleaned myself, before I regain consciousness?

The scent of death marks my path, and I begin to follow back to where my clothes (hopefully) still are, careful not to put my bare feet down on any bone fragments.

It's not normal. I always kind of imagined myself in some killing frenzy when I blacked out, like some psychotic part of my mind took over. But a killer in a frenzy wouldn't think about the mess. Unless he was an entirely separate personality.

It could be a medical condition. There are symptoms, the hunger, the dizziness, the feeling like I'm gonna throw up. A rare medical condition that makes me eat people.

I alternate between having a medical condition and a psychological disorder until I realize I've been walking for a good long while and I still haven't found my clothes. I can still smell the trail (and yes there are still little animal bodies to avoid in the darkness).

And still no Lila.

Suddenly it all weighs down on me and I stagger like it's a real weight. I should never have left Bobby. Things might have worked out, if I stayed full all the time, and Lila was there. Now because of some stupid dream, some childish impulse to go home and see my mommy, I have nothing, literally nothing. No clothes. No backpack full of supplies. No Lila. I'm in the middle of the godforsaken forest like I've just been born.

A grey glow is creeping over the sky, the early stages of dawn, but it doesn't help me see because I'm crying like a

fucking little baby

snot dripping from my nose and my hands under my armpits to keep warm

doncha know men don't cry? you're not a man

my sobs echoing in the empty forest

you're a fucking little crybaby, aren't you?

And when I stumble over my clothes, neatly folded in the crook of a tree, my backpack hanging from a branch, it's a slap in the face

Say it, little baby. Say it.

"I'm a fucking crybaby."

### -24-

Lila finds me right around the time I find the road. It took just about every ounce of concentration to find it, hearing that faint rumble of trucks, smelling the wisp of exhaust fumes. Trekking through the woods and farmland wasn't nearly as hard. I'm full and I have shoes on again, a warm coat, and my face is clean, all the snot and tears erased.

"Where have _you_ been?" I ask as she trots up, her mouth smiling. She keeps her head down.

"So it's like that, huh?"

I try to ignore her, even telling myself I'll hitch a ride and leave her behind like last time, but when a sedan pulls up, a tired-looking man in a business suit asking me if I need a ride but "I don't have room for your dog," I shake my head and say thanks, anyway.

"That doesn't mean you're forgiven," I tell Lila. To further explain myself to an animal who has no idea what I'm saying, "You can't do that, let me get too hungry. You're lucky I didn't kill you."

She leaps at a crow pecking at roadkill, snapping her teeth as it flies off.

"I'm serious! And no more going through the woods. We stick to the roads. I can find food on the road."

Trotting back to where I'm walking along, Lila licks at my hand. I snatch it away. "I'm still mad."

My stomach full of woodland creatures keeps almost all day. Until we hit a diner planted in the middle of a barren stretch of road, and the smell of burgers on the grill reminds me that I haven't eaten since about 3 a.m.

There's no sign on the door to say otherwise, so I let Lila in with me, and we seat ourselves at a booth in the corner. Lila curls up on my feet under the table.

Two men at the counter, sitting a couple of stools apart. Both sport the flannel shirt and down vest combo of truckers. One of the other booths holds a teenage couple sitting across from each other. The boy's wearing a football jersey. There's a family at another booth, a mom with stringy hair wearing a waitress uniform and two squirmy kids dipping French fries into ketchup. I can only see the back of the dad's head but he's got a large bald patch.

As I look around at all of them, I begin to realize that most of them are looking back at me.

The waitress finally sees me. She has bright red hair pulled up and heavy eyeliner, and she's wearing the same brown and tan uniform as the lady sitting with her family. I order a burger and fries and a large soda. "Can I have another burger just plain? Like no bun or anything else?"

She looks down at my feet and suddenly I fear I'm going to get kicked out of this place.

"Sure."

When she walks back behind the counter I watch her conferring with a woman in back wearing an apron. I close my eyes and listen to their low voices under the clink and clatter of the diner.

"Hey, Donna, that kid's got a dog in here, under the table."

"Is it a service dog?"

"No... It looks like some stray. But who knows. The dog's got no collar, and he looks like he's been sleeping in the woods."

"Where is he? Oh. Well, I don't see what harm it can do to let him stay. The dog's lying down."

"Isn't it unsanitary?"

"We have to let service animals in here... it's not any more unsanitary than that."

A big sigh. "You're the boss..."

I whisper a thank you and open my eyes. Everyone has stopped looking at me. Maybe they've also overheard the conversation between the waitress and Donna, or maybe I'm not all that interesting. I'm just some homeless kid with a scruffy mutt. They probably think I'm going to run off before I pay the bill.

"Here you go, hon." A plate slides in front of me. Hot food. I shove a bunch of French fries in my mouth even as I'm reaching for the ketchup. Then I see the waitress sliding into the seat in the booth opposite me.

"You got a place to stay tonight?" she asks in a low voice. She can probably feel the eyes of the other people in the restaurant on the back of her neck. Now I can see that her name tag says Beverly.

"I'll be okay," I answer, which I know isn't really an answer. My stomach gurgles with nervousness.

Not here not now

"I'm just passing through." I try to appear confident when I say this, like I'm older than sixteen

(or fifteen)

"I don't want to hear that someone's found you dead on the side of the road." Beverly steals a French fry off my plate. "Donna's a bleeding heart, but mine's not made out of stone either. And I'm not letting her take you in for the night, her being all alone. My husband will be here to pick me up around 9. If you're still here you're welcome to stay with us." She sniffs as she slides out of the booth. "You could certainly use a shower."

I don't answer. I don't think Beverly needs or wants me to. I mull it over in my head as I scarf down my burger and sop up every ounce of juice and salt and ketchup with my fries, and slip the plain patty down to Lila when no one's looking. Beverly keeps my soda topped off, which is why I'm still sitting there an hour later, when she brings over a slice of cherry pie and the check.

"The pie's on the house," she says.

"Thanks."

She turns and walks away. "At least you've got _some_ manners."

I pull out my money and count out the exact amount. I know you're supposed to leave a tip but it's been so long since I've eaten in a real restaurant, and even then it was with my parents. How much money do you leave? I count out one extra dollar and tuck the roll of bills away.

The jock and his girlfriend are looking at me. I squeeze the money in my fist, hoping they hadn't seen. The guy is big, that bulked up football build. He could probably crush my head between his hands. Well, unless I black out. Then he'll be the one with a crushed head.

This thought immediately puts me in a bad mood. What am I thinking, sitting here, waiting for some guy I don't know who doesn't know me to come and bring me back to his place? Even if Beverly is okay, I don't know her husband.

I can't be that lucky, to find decent people to stay with twice.

I get up and leave, Lila at my heels, and head outside. I know why I was sitting inside. It's sharply cold out here, and dark. My breath rises into the air in a hot cloud.

Behind me I hear the shuffling sounds of people getting up and following me out.

Fuck.

### -25-

"Hey, kid."

I bury my face into my jacket and attempt to keep walking.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

(ignoreignoreignore)

A heavy hand on my shoulder, pulling me around. I jerk away. "Hey." The jock is smiling. Smiling? "Hey, no need to be rude, huh?"

"Yeah, we're not gonna hurt you." His girlfriend walks over. She's one of those confident girls who knows she's hot with her highlighted hair and perfect makeup. Maybe not so perfect makeup. Her eyes are ringed with liner that looks a few days old.

"We noticed you had some cash on you and we thought you might be looking for a good time." He's still smiling.

A good time? I stare at him.

"What do you say?" he asks.

"Yeah." The girl saunters closer, brushes her hand against my cheek.

I back off like she's burned me. No one's touched me in a long time.

"Touchy, touchy. Don't you want to relax for a little while?"

She smiles at me. There's something empty in her eyes, but she seems interested in me. Maybe I was wrong, and the jock isn't her boyfriend.

"I guess," I say.

"Well come on, then." She takes my hand – her skin is smooth and warm. I feel my palms start to sweat almost immediately. She leads me to a beat-up van in the parking lot, not white like Paul the Pervert's van, but brown and covered in bumper stickers. The guy trails behind.

Lila's whining. "It's fine," I tell her.

"What's your name?" the girl asks, spinning to face me as the jock opens up the back of the van and climbs inside.

"Dan," I say. I wait for a moment, but she doesn't tell me her name. She just climbs on into the van and tells me to hurry up.

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to relax in the cramped back of a van, even if there is a bunch of cushions on the floor. It smells in here, a smoky smell but not like cigarettes. A warm, earthy smoky smell. I'm getting a headache.

The girl pulls the door shut in Lila's face.

The inside is lit up by the dome light and that smell has just gotten a lot stronger. I don't know why it smelled sweet before; it smells like a skunk now. I watch the girl, but she is watching the guy so I do too.

Now I understand.

He's got a joint and he's flicking the lighter to start it up. My stomach starts feeling queasy. This isn't what I meant when I said I wanted to relax. I was thinking a warm bed. I was thinking a girl who liked me and who wanted to be with me.

The guy takes a few hits off the joint, exhaling his foul smoke into the air. My eyes water. "Come on, Matt, pass it already!" the girl whines.

He chuckles and takes another hit before he puts it in her waiting fingers.

"This is the life Dannyboy," he says.

I've gotten better at not reacting to that name

Daaaannybooooy

And the girl puts her hand on my arm, gentle, handing the joint to me.

"I, uh.... I – " It's so stupid, the way all those anti-drug commercials run through my head, and yet my hand reaches out to take the joint from her.

I bring the joint to my lips and suck in, as I saw them do. The smoke hits my lungs in a suffocating cloud. I erupt into coughs and Matt plucks the joint from my fingers.

"Newbie," he laughs.

The girl laughs too, and in the smoky haze her cackling is amplified, bouncing around the tin can van until all I can see are open mouths and yellowed teeth and their laughter.

Is this the effects of the drug? Is my sudden nausea an effect of the drug?

"Okay, kid, pay up. You can't smoke for free."

The teeth are suddenly sharp. I try to focus but I'm being groped, hands clawing at my sweatshirt pocket.

"Get off," I say. My voice echoes in the same weird way as their laughter.

It's all spinning

Maybe she wants to kiss me. I grab her and pull her toward me and then I'm hit by the football jersey.

"Get your dirty hands off my girl," he says in my face, his mouth in my face.

And then darkness

It seems only a few moments have been lost. I'm still in the van but it's quiet now. Before me, a tangle of limbs and shredded clothes and hair.

My hands are red with blood. I wipe them on the pillow, scrubbing frantically against the upholstery material to get all the red off. My jacket is red. I zip it to keep the blood on my sweatshirt from showing. Check my shoulders: backpack still there. Surprisingly, not much mess on my jeans. A piece of football jersey has protected them.

I crack open the van door, check for anyone nearby, and slide out, shut the door behind me.

Lila slinks out from behind another car. She approaches me cautiously, licks at my hand. She must smell the death on me.

"Let's get out of here." Suddenly I stop, feel around my mouth. No blood. Good. "Let's go," I say again, and head toward the street.

"You taking off?"

I turn to find Beverly behind me in a puffy down jacket. It must be nine o'clock

(but I went into that van around 7 and it felt like only a moment that I blacked out)

and I can see Beverly's husband lurking back there in the shadows, near a blue Ford Taurus. Lila pushes her head up under my hand and my racing thoughts and nerves are quieted enough so I can smell the air and there's no danger. He smells like fresh wood and the outdoors and honest sweat.

I haven't responded to Beverly's question so she asks, "Do you want a place to stay tonight or what?"

"Yes," I say.

### -26-

There is a clock ticking loudly in the kitchen, and the fabric on the couch scratches my face. I can hear Bev's husband snoring behind their closed door.

I flop onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. I should be tired, yet my eyes refuse to close. I keep returning to those two teenagers in the van. Did they deserve what they got? During these three years I haven't really thought about whether those I killed deserved it, not until Paul. It had always sickened me and made me feel like a monster. I think back to that old man, the one who I killed in his wife's arms

(the one whose house "mysteriously" burned down right after I left)

Did he deserve to die? All those nosy questions, they had made me angry. Or maybe irritated is a better word. Is that enough reason? I think of others, so many others.

(did my father deserve to die? My uncles?)

I sigh and roll onto my side. So many dead, it's a strain to think on all of them, all the whys, since I usually began panicking at the first sign of the blackouts. Was it something a person said, a careless _dannyboy_ that set me off?

There were no bite marks on those two today. I did not kill them out of hunger. But I didn't kill those squirrels in the forest because they offended me or meant me harm.

The night wears on. My eyes itch. The clock ticks.

### -27-

I am eager to migrate towards a city. Bev and her husband Jack tell me the nearest city is 15 miles south, Lexington. When I tell them I'm heading north they point me toward Broken Bow: 50 miles. Jack gives me a ride on his way to work. He builds big empty houses for people with money to spare.

The house skeletons salute me as I walk down the street, which is not yet paved and rutted from the dump trucks and cranes. How are there this many people looking for a new house? I stop at the end of the road, where the dirt meets the pavement, and look at the sign: Mist Valley Estates: Luxury Homes. In smaller print: "a gated community." The wrought iron fence is already in place, with stonework wings that will eventually hold the gate meant to keep homeless kids like me out.

From up here I can see the highway, across several streets crowded with houses. It looks so close but I know it's about a half day's walk. Nevertheless, Lila takes off for it, running across a field of cut-down cornstalks.

So I managed not to black out last night. I managed not to kill Bev and Jack. It shouldn't be so hard to believe, since I managed not to kill Bobby for several weeks, but Bobby never raised his voice to me. Bev had a harsh way about her, the way a lot of truck drivers are – the way that got them killed, at least if my theories are correct. And I didn't kill her!

Of course, I'm paying for it now, because it meant I barely slept at all last night.

It's harder than it looks walking over a freshly cut field. The jagged stumps of corn stalks and hardened clumps of earth keep tripping me up.

But I keep thinking: maybe I can control it, maybe there's hope.

Then I think: maybe it was the pot.

### * * *

After the corn field, Lila leads me through a neighborhood that makes me wary of psychotic pet dogs. I can tell it's nearing the end of October – not by the weather, but by the decorations. This is the sort of neighborhood with corn stalks on their porch posts, pumpkins carved into jack o'lanterns. No toys on the lawns. Everything in its place.

The families must have money, but not enough to buy their way into a gated community. They must keep their dogs chained, or inside, because not a one is heard barking its warning at me. I can smell them, though. Faintly, beneath the squeaky clean scents of Pine Sol and lemon-scented Dawn and bleach. It makes me walk faster.

Finally, the highway. Many cars whizz past but none stop for a skinny boy and his dog.

Around late afternoon I wander away from the highway toward a dusty town center. I figure I'll save the sandwich Bev made for me for later, and buy dinner while there is someplace to buy from. I eat a greasy slice of pizza outside on the bench, even though I'd like to eat inside, out of the cutting cold air, because the guy behind the counter barked, "No dogs in here!" the second Lila set her paw inside.

I had figured it was October, but it becomes clear to me that it is actually Halloween. I watch store owners light up jack o'lanterns in their shop windows, and don witch's hats and monster masks. Soon little kids, wrapped up in costumes over their bulky winter jackets, are being led down the street by their parents, carrying sacks of candy.

The last time I noticed Halloween was Before – the past two years gone by I must have been camped out in the middle of nowhere, someplace trick or treaters don't go. The last time I noticed Halloween I dressed as a vampire, with a black cape that was too small and barely covered my back, my face painted white by my mother with blood dripping down my chin and uncomfortable plastic fangs that made it impossible to talk.

you're too old for halloween, dannyboy

Kayla and I went out together, the tallest ones on the sidewalks. She was a Greek goddess, a white sheet wrapped over her coat and leaves in her hair. We filled our pillowcases with candy, ignoring those houses where the occupants told us, "Aren't you a little old for trick-or-treating?" All the while a knot formed in my belly, thinking about what awaited me when I got home.

halloween is for little babies, dannyboy

I swallow my last bite of pizza, crumple my plate and throw it away. Then Lila and I head back to the highway.

Maybe it's because I know it's Halloween, but I am seriously unnerved when it's time to bunker down for the night. Lila sniffs out a playhouse – the owner's house is dark except for the porch light, and the tiny house is just big enough for the two of us. There are even little blankets and a pillow from a miniature crib. Lila crawls under the child-sized table and starts snoring.

I should be tired. No sleep last night, walking all day today. But the little sounds keep me awake. The grasses whisper and the playhouse creaks in the wind. Inside the big house I can hear the soft breathing of children beneath the louder sighs of a woman and a man's snoring. I strain to count the children, but they are too quiet behind closed and locked doors, and the wind seems determined to blow strange faraway sounds and smells to confuse and distract me.

There are prairie dogs burrowing under the earth, coyotes scrabbling in the hills past the highway, the unbearably loud engines of semis barreling toward their destinations. I press the pillow against my ears, but there are still the smells. Cracker crumbs from a pretend tea party in the little house, garbage freezing in a plastic trash bin. I can smell the prairie dogs and the coyotes, but I can also smell something else. Some other animal.

It smells familiar but I can't place it. All I know is that this animal's scent puts me on edge. I feel threatened. It is a predator, whatever it is. There is some comfort in that. I might have imagined my unease being a fear of discovery, or of blacking out.

I reach between the table legs and wrap my arms around Lila, burying my nose into her fur. I might be dreaming, but I think I can still smell the lilacs.

### * * *

The howling wakes me up.

The sound is far off, echoing across miles in the quiet darkness. Still, I feel the threat in those howls. A pack, hunting their prey, confident in their strength.

I open my eyes despite the darkness. In the dim moonlight Lila's head is up, her ears alert, nose facing the nose. Her nostrils work delicately. I wonder what it is she can smell that my own sensitive nose can't detect.

The predator smell is strong and I still can't figure out what sort of animal it belongs to. I'm safe here, I tell myself. There is a little door and a little doorknob to keep out those without opposable thumbs. I'm in a neighborhood full of strong people smells. I have a guard dog. Roving packs of wild animals are not going to attack me as I sleep. These things do not happen in neighborhoods full of happy families and minivans and picket fences.

When I reach over to pat Lila, she pays no heed to my touch. Even her fur stands on guard.

### * * *

After our strange night, we sleep late. Too late. I awaken to children's voices laughing in the yard.

I raise my head and assess the situation. A mother watches from inside as her three children play with a soccer ball. The oldest is perhaps eight, school age, which means today is a Saturday or Sunday. The youngest could be three or four. All have the same carrot-orange hair and freckles.

For now I am safe, but I don't know when the focus will move from the soccer ball to the playhouse. I can continue to hide out and wait for a better time, or make a run for it before I am discovered and police called.

Three red-haired heads swivel toward me as I emerge from the playhouse, but I am in the front yard and jogging down the street before a word is uttered. That word comes from the youngest: "Puppy!"

I can only hope the mother, busy at her computer, didn't see me well enough for a description.

Although, "teenage boy and dog" would still get me stopped by a patrol car.

### -28-

At a gas station I stop in to pick up something to eat: a sandwich if this is one of those deluxe gas stations, or a Power Bar at least. Before I even reach the refrigerator cases at the back of the store, the latest newspaper grabs my attention.

### Pack of Wild Dogs Attack Local Boy

Those howls last night – my irrational anxiety – were these the same dogs?

Quickly, and under the scrutiny of the acne-covered clerk (she doesn't really care what I'm doing, but teenage boys don't usually read the paper and who knows what my hair looks like or how strongly I smell), I scan the article.

The body of a tenth grade student at the local high school was found in bushes in a new development. Apparently he had been out late, over a friend's house, drinking on Halloween, and had taken a short cut home. His body was torn apart, and the numerous paw prints around the body indicated at least five different animals. The authorities weren't sure if these were wild coyotes, wolves, or feral dogs, but the paw prints were smaller than a wolf's and larger than a coyote's. There had also been reports of a pack of wild dogs in the area.

The article went on with tips about what to do if approached by a wild animal, and information about rabies, even though the possibility of the wild dogs having rabies had not even been mentioned by the animal control officers who were interviewed. I suppose it makes sense that the reporter would assume something like that – what other reason would make a pack of wild animals attack a human?

As I select a sandwich from the deli case, I wonder if that new development was Mist Valley Estates.

Days pass by in monotony, ever headed north. In the nights I dream. In dreams I run alongside Lila on all fours, baying at the moon, driven on by the scent of blood.

### -29-

Libraries can be tricky. Some are small, and if you look school-age and the librarians see you hanging around all day, they start to ask questions. Others are big, and have security guards there to keep people from stealing stuff and taking baths in the men's room, and they're pretty alert for truants and homeless people, of which I am both. An adult they'd just kick out, but me they'd have to call the police.

There are some libraries, though, that don't ask questions and don't mind me hanging around all day reading, libraries where the bathrooms aren't locked and I can wash up, libraries that let you use the computers even if you don't have a library card.

These are the libraries I like.

Normally I don't like spending a lot of time around other people, especially places that would eventually notice me. Gas stations, diners – these places are full of anonymous faces, passers-through. Libraries, on the other hand, are full of local people who notice if you're not from around here. But in those quiet spaces I don't have to worry so much about blacking out. I'm calm and the beast sleeps.

My first winter on the road I spent a lot of time in libraries. It was warm, and even though my stomach was so empty it felt like a cave between my ribs and my hipbones, I could pretend for a few hours that I was normal. Lost in a book, I was a normal kid with normal problems like a school bully or a suicidal friend or anorexia. I never found a book where the kid has my problem: waking up to find that he's murdered a bunch of people and possibly eaten them. Then again, I never read horror books.

On some really bad days, I hid in the library all night rather than face the cold winds and seeping wetness and the certainty of blacking out.

I arrived in Broken Bow, Nebraska late last night via a trucker who offered his bed to share at the truck stop motel. He was lucky that he made this little proposition after he'd pulled into the parking lot, when I could just jump out. He was lucky that he was just a sad man offering out of loneliness and not perversity. He had also been willing to take Lila along.

I chose instead a bed of trash bags beside a dumpster, located outside of a Chinese food restaurant, with Lila as my blanket. My pillow smelled of dim sum. The trucker had bought me dinner at a fast food window several hours back, otherwise I might have ripped open that garbage bag and made a meal of it.

Nights like that make early mornings. Although I'd like to lose myself in a book after the pace Lila has set for me, I need some answers, and there's only one place I know to get those. Lila has disappeared, but somehow I know that she will find me.

The library is only a block away. I sit on the stone wall that surrounded the building, watching people come and go. It's a quiet place, or maybe just a quiet morning. I only know the days when I look at newspapers. I decide to take a chance and walk inside.

Bathrooms unlocked, that is a good sign. I wash off the odor of trash, then decide to use a computer.

It's been a while since I used the internet. When I first hit the road, I checked for news about what I'd done. I was sure there was going to be a manhunt, or at the very least a missing persons report. There was. It was worse than I could have imagined, headlines splashed on all the newspapers about the massacre, although it had taken the police three days to find the bodies. By then, I'd gotten out of Montana and was halfway across South Dakota.

They weren't looking for me yet, but I was sure soon they'd make the connection, find some DNA evidence and then there'd be wanted posters. I stole a box of hair dye from a CVS and dyed my brown hair black in a gas station bathroom. I stopped going near people.

Today, however, I'm not checking for news.

The trucker last night had rambled some story about his wife and how she found a tumor and diagnosed herself on Web M.D.

I open up Google, then type in "web md" and click on the site.

I select my symptoms: headache, dizziness, nausea, blackouts.

The website pops up a list of possible afflictions. Most I can immediately rule out: migraines, sinusitis, heat exhaustion, diabetes. I click on labyrinthitis and cryptococcosis, but the illnesses are not nearly as mysterious as they sound. I doubt that anemia or kidney disease would cause what I have. That leaves the psychiatric sicknesses like panic attacks and anxiety disorder.

I stare at the screen until I grow concerned that others are watching me, thinking me crazy, as I now think myself crazy. I close the internet browser, move to a catalog computer and type in "psychiatric disorders." I get a Dewey Decimal number, which I copy onto a slip of paper and head into the stacks.

I never knew there were so many ways a person could go crazy. My fingers graze over the spines. Finally I find a thick book, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. This will take a while.

There are comfortable looking chairs in the periodicals area, where several people sit reading newspapers. One is an old man with half moon glasses. Another man sits with a newspaper over his face. His clothes are dirty and he smells like I did this morning. If the librarians are letting him sleep, perhaps they will not notice me sitting here, either.

Each disorder has a checklist of symptoms. It is long past lunchtime, as my stomach reminds me, when I come across Dissociative Identity Disorder.

"The primary characteristic of this disorder is the existence of more than one distinct identity or personality within the same individual. The identities will 'take control' of the person at different times, with important information about the other identities out of conscious awareness."

Though the only physical symptom is blackouts, this sounds more like what is happening to me than panic attacks. I sense no panic until I feel the darkness coming.

"Often triggered by physical or sexual abuse."

Check.

"Patient may experience blackouts or missing time, but are usually aware of having done things during these blackouts."

Check.

There's no mention of the other personality sometimes being a psychotic killer, but I'm sure it's very rare.

Unfortunately, the manual doesn't explain how to get rid of a multiple personality. Years of expensive therapy, probably – nothing I can ever afford. If I get arrested maybe they can use the insanity plea, and then I could get therapy for free.

I was hoping for something easy, like a lobotomy or an exorcism. At the very least, some idea of how to control the other personality.

Suddenly I feel tired. There are no answers here. I drag myself to the fiction section and listlessly browse through the books. What am I doing? I've done this before. Stolen library books. Usually I end up returning them at some other library down the road, once I'm done reading, yet I still feel guilty. My eyes flicker toward the librarian at the desk until I give up. I can't do it. I am about to leave empty-handed when a title jumps out at me.

Wolf Point.

I snatch the thick paperback off the shelf and shove it into my jacket pocket.

Then I wander around the fiction section. That is the key to shoplifting: never hurry off. They will always suspect you if you run away. By lingering, they can't imagine you would stick around when you have just committed a crime.

When I see Lila's face through the glass front doors, I head out. She wags her tail at me before she bolts off toward the north.

### -30-

The last of Paul the Perv's money runs out just before Lila and I enter the Nebraska National Forest.

It is five days after the library, and I haven't been able to hitch another ride. I've only allowed myself one meal per day, and still the money disappears. I buy myself a pair of mittens and a fur-lined hat with ear flaps and a thick scarf at a thrift store. With my last few dollars I buy a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter.

All that's left now is a fistful of coins.

It's just as well, since Lila has led me deep into the forest where there aren't any stores. It's not like the forests in Montana. The ground is flat between the clumps of trees, which are sparse enough that I don't get that claustrophobic feeling. Still, the shade of the pines blocks out any warmth from the sun. On our first night sleeping in the forest, I wake up covered in a light layer of snow.

Lila leads me along a lonely path, and I follow, as I'd prefer not to run into the forest rangers or campers. I can smell their traces, a whiff of exhaust from the rangers' four-wheel drive vehicles or the smoky stench of a campfire that burned out many nights before. I'm most nervous when I hear the sounds of reckless youths riding ATVs through the wilderness trails, or when I smell that faint predatory scent I caught that night of the wild dogs.

I feel like we are running away from something.

My dreams are getting stranger. Kayla appears almost every night. "Only you can save us, Daniel," she tells me.

"Save you from what?" I ask.

I never get an answer. Winds blow up and wrap that awful dangerous scent around us and then I'm running, we're running. Or she starts to tell me but then I can't hear her. She gets angry and screams at me. "It's a part of you! It's who you are!" That I hear, but I can never figure out what she means. Some part of what she's said has been lost.

I often think about the hitchhiker inside of my head, that Other who steals my consciousness from me and uses me to kill. Does he know about me? Or am I an annoyance to him, making him come awake in random situations, hungry and angry and sometimes handcuffed to a bed with a predator looming over me?

The three of us hike through the forest. At night I collapse wherever Lila has found us a shelter. We walk until I have no more food left. And then, at night, after I fall asleep wishing for something to fill my stomach, curled up and shivering, I run.

The dreams of running are more than dreams. I wake up tired, in different places, having slept until the sun is high overhead. Yet in those running dreams I'm not running away. It's freedom, flying faster than any human could go. Sometimes Kayla runs beside me; sometimes it's Lila.

There comes a night when we run out of the forest. The moon overhead watches as we fly over roads and across vast fields covered in snow. I wake up in an abandoned car buried in bushes. I am so cold that my breath is not even a cloud in the frigid winter air. I am so hungry I am numb to it. Euphoria has me wondering whether I am awake now or asleep.

Lila licks at my face. Her tongue is warm but once it's gone I feel her saliva turn to an icy crust on my skin. I don't want to move. The ripped vinyl seats, their smell of decades of rot and mouse droppings, are the most comfortable bed I've had in more than a week. My limbs feel too heavy to lift.

My eyes slip closed.

Some time later, I'm not sure how long

(seconds, minutes, hours? days?)

Lila becomes more insistent. Aggressive. How did the car's rusted door open? I didn't hear it. Did I do that? I stare at it vacantly until I realize that Lila's teeth are digging into my arm. She's pulling me. Without the strength to pull away, I fall out of the car and onto the hard, frozen earth.

The movement has woken something in me and I begin to shiver.

It's too much it's too cold

She's still tugging, yanking with her teeth. In the flashes that follow sometimes her teeth and sometimes human hands haul me to my feet. When I am finally upright it is just my mutt Lila beside me. No one else.

so hungry

All around me is dead, dead grass, dead leaves swirling in the dead wind, dead earth. The wind is too cold for my nose to smell anything.

Blindly I follow Lila.

Time slips in and out. I hold myself, pressing against the emptiness inside of me.

And then it comes: a wisp of scent, delicious meat smell, tender and young and fresh

and I am lost

### -31-

A screaming wail wakens me.

Full, I am warm and full and sleepy with that fullness. I lick my lips. Blood drips from my chin but I don't care.

Then I look down.

### -32-

How is Kayla here? Why is she screaming?

(It's Kayla screaming not the child's mother)

"What have you done, Daniel? How could you?"

I've run away, following my own trail automatically, grabbing my clothes from where they are piled carelessly on the ground, still running, that familiar voice in my head, screaming at me, "How could you? How could you?" Kayla isn't here. Just her voice in my head.

I keep going until I get to the car. I brace myself with a hand on the rusted frame. It's not right, none of it. I threw up when I saw what I had done to that old couple in the farmhouse. Yet now I cannot even summon tears. I am blank.

little legs with the flesh gnawed off

little fingers bent and broken

blond hair on a little skull, held back with a purple barrette

I'm a monster.

My clothes make no sense as I try to put them on. It's like I exploded out of them when the Other Me took over. I stare at the ruins of fabric and make this my mission: to put myself back together again.

little body in pieces that will never fit back together again

### -33-

The miles all look the same. Barren, dead.

look what you done you little monster

I don't know why I keep walking. Sometimes I stop, staring at the road in front of me, unable to go on. Other times it feels like something else is making my body move. My legs keep walking because I don't care enough to stop them.

I wish my legs would just walk me right over the side of a cliff.

monstermonstermonster

I walk through darkness. I veer off where there are no roads. I don't want to be near people. I don't want to eat. I don't want to sleep.

I drag myself onward.

### -34-

The night is like the empty expanse inside my brain

like that black hole inside of that baby's skull

my entire head opened up and immense spinning wildly overhead. It's too much, it's too big.

(make it stop stop stop)

I close my eyes and see that little body there, what I did to it

you monster

I open my eyes and still see

monster

It's too much for my head to hold.

I can still feel her blood on my face.

### -35-

"Daniel, stop."

Gentle hands I don't deserve. I am pushed to the ground as easily as a blade of grass, away from the tree trunk I've been smashing my head against.

### -36-

I'm not entirely sure how I got here, but it's as good a place as any to die.

There are lots of beams overhead, and I've found a rope.

With more energy than I've had in weeks, I throw the rope up and over, secure a knot that will hold my weight.

Through the soaped over windows, light gleams, a milky twilight. When I was in grade school, one of my classmates showed us how to tie a hangman's knot. "You have to wrap the rope around thirteen times," he said. In a corner of the playground we watched him wrap the rope around and around, mesmerized by the repetitive action.

around and around and around

There is a rickety chair in this abandoned warehouse. I drag it through the dust on the floor and step onto the seat. Slowly, to keep my balance, I stand up straight and hold the noose out in front of my face.

Through the loop Lila sits, watching me with sad eyes. I see her, and I see my father, and my uncles, and a small child, and hundreds of other who are shades, waiting for me on the other side.

"I have to," I tell her.

Her eyes accuse me.

"You'll be fine on your own. Better than fine. You're better off without me." I take a deep breath. "You've seen what kind of monster I am."

She has seen. She knows what I am. And still she is here.

No. I'm a monster.

"It's better this way," I say, and slide the garrote over my head, pulling it tight like a dog collar, pulling it tighter so it's hard to breathe. I don't deserve such an easy death. I should die in terror, my limbs torn apart like those of my victims. I should die with sharp teeth coming after me, feeling my flesh being eaten and ripped from my bones.

That is what kind of monster I am.

Now Kayla stands before me as I struggle to breathe, nude, her long toffee-colored hair draped over her. "It isn't your fault, Daniel," she says.

your fault your fault your fault

Her voice stabs me.

"I can't control it." My eyes blur. "It's better this way. For everyone."

"No."

She steps forward. She has a shadow. Her musky woodsy scent drifts up to me, fills all the air I breathe. "You're not even really here. I'm imagining you."

"They should have told you," she says. "Warned you. But that is the way of the pack. The men face it alone."

There is a darkness crowding in. I blink, try to see what is real. Where is Lila? Is the sun really setting so fast?

Her soft hand reaches up and touches my face.

"It is forbidden to tell you. You have to figure it out. See what is in front of your eyes."

Kayla.

Kayla is here.

it's too much it's too big

I try to step off the chair. There is no one here who can stop me. There is no one here except in my imagination.

A very real hand presses on my chest, keeping me alive.

"Listen to me," she insists. "It happens on your birthday. Remember your birthday?"

my birthday

Today is my sixteenth birthday.

happy birthday to me

### -37-

happy birthday to me...

Humming low so no one can hear over the truck's roaring engine. My uncle Red was driving; my father and my uncle Buck filled the rest of the front seat. I was crammed in the back with the spare tire. Not a real seat, just a blanket thrown over the wheel well in the six inches of space.

I didn't complain, because this was special. I could feel it. Usually my birthday consisted of my mom laboring over a cake, and my cousin Kayla coming over. My presents were usually clothes, stuff I needed. My mom tried hard to make it festive, but Dad and Uncle Red were never around. It was like Dad always forgot, or just didn't care. This year, my thirteenth birthday, Dad woke me up real early. "We're going on a trip," he told me.

"A trip? Like a hunting trip?" Lots of kids at school went on hunting trips with their fathers. Maybe now that I was thirteen Dad would take me on one. Maybe Dad was always gone because he was off hunting.

"Yeah, something like that," he said. "Get dressed. We're leaving in ten minutes."

So I pulled on my jeans and a flannel shirt, my boots. I was a bit surprised to find my uncles in the truck already, but it made sense. It was a hunting trip. All the men were going.

We drove until there were no more houses and trees crowded against the windows. Then Uncle Red parked and we started hiking. None of them had guns or anything. Uncle Buck had a flask that he passed to my dad and Uncle Red.

The hiking was hard. "Get a move on," my dad snapped at me when I'd fall behind.

If I tried to get ahead, one of them would grab me by the collar of my shirt and yank me back. "Age before beauty," Uncle Buck said once, and my dad and Uncle Red roared with laughter.

The way the three of them were carrying on, it was almost like I didn't exist. I kept my head down and tried not to feel sorry for myself. It was my birthday and Dad was barely paying attention to me except when he'd put a foot on my ass and kick me forward. "We're not there yet. No rest stops."

I wasn't entirely sure how they knew where we were going. I vacillated between thinking they must have been here a million times and thinking they were drunk and we were never going to find our way home. There was no path that I could see. They ducked through the brush and trees, splashed through tiny streams and climbed up rocks. I checked my watch. It was well past lunchtime. My stomach growled. We'd eaten breakfast on the drive out, but that was five hours ago.

Finally, sometime around three, I asked if we were going to stop to eat.

"It's best if you're hungry," my dad said, not even looking at me.

I wanted to ask if wasn't he hungry, and why didn't they bring any food if they knew we were going to be hiking so long. But I still wanted to trust my dad. He knows what he's doing, I kept telling myself. I just wished I knew what he was doing.

The October sky had begun to darken by the time we stopped. I could barely walk anymore, although I could tell my father and uncles weren't as tired as I was. Once I had caught my breath and sat up from where I had collapsed on the ground, I saw that we were in a clearing. The forest loomed up around us, filtering the orange sun into long shadows.

My father and uncles were just staring at me. I tried not to be self-conscious about this as I turned my head this way and that to try to figure out where we had ended up. There was no cabin, no hunting blind. Nothing. It was just a patch of dirt in the middle of the woods.

"Now we wait," said my father to my uncles. They all hunkered down and started talking quietly, passing the flask back and forth without offering me a sip. I was mighty thirsty.

I didn't have the energy to ask what they were waiting for. I flopped onto my back and stared up at the jewel tones of the sky. After a short time I must have fallen asleep.

When I woke up I was disoriented. The dark was so dark. I looked around wildly for my dad but I couldn't find him. My watch had a glowing face and I looked at the time. Almost midnight. Once the glow disappeared, my eyes started to adjust to the darkness.

In the light of the moon, I could see the eerie green eyes of my father and uncles, watching me.

That was when I started to feel really weird. My stomach cramped so bad I bent over double, and my skin became slick with a sheen of sweat. I thought I was going to throw up. My vision swam and tilted, making the nausea worse.

I can't be sure what I saw then.

I can't be sure, but it still wakes me up in terror and cold sweat some nights.

With my pulse pounding in my head and my vision gone, I only felt this struggle to stay in one piece as my body felt like it was being torn apart. The darkness interceded for a time that was still painful, and when it all cleared I lay for a long time staring up at those same stars, gulping the fresh woodsy air and feeling better than I ever had.

That feeling lasted until I sat up and saw what I'd done.

They were dead. All dead. Torn apart. I gagged and spun away but it was everywhere. Entrails strewn about the clearing, dripping from the bushes. I couldn't even tell what was my father and what were my uncles. Even the shreds of their flannel shirts were black with soaked blood. Pale bits shone through the dark liquid, and it took me until I was crashing through the forest several minutes later to realize those were bones.

I had completely destroyed three grown men.

### -38-

Early morning sunlight is filtering through the soaped over windows of the warehouse when I come to, stiff from the cement floor. I rub my cheek. How did I get on the floor? Behind me the chair is smashed into splinters and there is no trace of the rope.

Lila is not here. Nor is Kayla. I sit up, sitting up and wrapping my arms around my knees. A violent shiver passes through my body.

I'm alone.

Around me are prints in the dusty floor. Paw prints from Lila, shoe prints from me. And footprints. Bare footprints.

I'm not sure how long I sit there staring

see what is in front of your eyes

when someone enters the warehouse.

Senses alert, I determine that this is not Lila

(or Kayla)

but someone else, human. Female. There is another room to this warehouse, and this is where she enters. Her footsteps on the concrete do not hesitate. She has been here before, many times. She closes the door behind her and scrapes a heavy object in front of it. Her high heels click along. Things are moving.

I could sit here in this dusty room where she must not come very often, hidden. I could keep her safe from my Other, the killer side of me. And yet...

After last night I feel like a barrier has broken. I stand, brush the dirt off my pants. Then I walk to the door separating me from this person, and push it open.

There is a gun pointed at my face.

"Who the fuck are you?" she demands.

I stare at the round hole in the little black 9mm. Just last night I wanted to kill myself. A bullet to the head would just about do it. I close my eyes.

"I asked you a question," the girl demands. "Come on. I'm not gonna shoot you. Just don't attack me or make any sudden moves or anything, okay?"

I open my eyes. The black hole is gone, replaced by the face of a young girl – about my age. She has bleached blonde hair sprayed into a poufy mess, and garishly bright make up. My eyes are drawn down to her outfit, which is awfully revealing for such cold weather. A mini skirt and a tube top, boots with spiky heels.

"Why don't you take a picture," she says.

My gaze drifts to the floor. "Sorry."

"Hey, whatever. I'm used to it." She puts the gun into a little plastic purse, bright purple, and sits down on a mattress in the corner to pull off her boots. I get a nice view up her skirt and I turn my whole body away, my face turning hot.

"You don't have to be shy. You're squatting here, right? Me too." The boots come off and land in a heap on the floor. She stretches her toes and the joints snap and crackle. "Not much of a talker, huh?"

"Sorry," I say again.

"I'm Candi," she tells me. "What's your name?"

"Dan."

"You got anything to eat?"

"No."

"Any money?"

I think about the pocket change in my backpack. "Nope."

"None at all?"

"Uh, a dollar and some change. Does that make a difference?"

She screws up her face. "You really don't have any money."

Pulling some blankets over her, she lies down on the mattress. I don't know how long that mattress has been out here, but it stinks. Although it looks a hell of a lot more comfortable than the cement floor.

"Yeah, so, I'm gonna sleep now." She closes her eyes. "I'd offer to share, but you're broke."

"Oh." It doesn't make much sense to me for a long time. Maybe because I'm still hungry and out of sorts from last night. Eventually I realize what she means, and start apologizing again.

"I–I'm sorry. I guess I'll take off then?" I say this quietly because she looks like she's sleeping. I've turned to go back into the other room to get my backpack when she speaks.

"You don't have to go."

I stop but don't look at her. I should leave. She'll just end up dead

like that little baby like all those others

if I don't. I should leave.

I don't leave.

I crawl into the space under the covers she makes for me, and I lie there in her cold embrace while she sleeps.

### -39-

She wakes up around the time the sun starts fading. "Hmmmm... what's up," she says to me, stretching.

The warehouse has all kinds of hidden treasures. Candi lights some candles, then pulls out a little camping stove and proceeds to heat up some soup in the can. It's broccoli and cheddar. I never really liked it, but my stomach growls anyway.

"You hungry or something?" Candi asks with a smirk.

"I guess so." I roll over and stare at the wall. I shouldn't be hungry. I never want to be hungry again, if hungry means doing what I did.

"Here," she says a few moments later.

I flop onto my back. She's holding out a mug steaming with hot soup.

"I don't have any spoons, but you can drink it."

The mug warms my hands. Maybe I should let myself starve to death. Or will my hitchhiker take over when I get too hungry and kill again? Despite my stomach growling, I don't feel hungry. I feel numb.

"You gonna stare it all day or drink it?"

I look up at Candi. Her makeup has smudged under her eyes, making her look very tired, and her hair is all frizzed up and knotted in the back.

"Cuz, you know, I wouldn't mind eating it if you're not going to."

She glares at me until I take a sip.

"That's better. Man, you're skinny. I bet you weigh less than me. What are you doing out here anyway? You a runaway?"

"I guess," I say. Maybe three years ago I was a runaway. Now I'm sixteen and I'm headed back home. Maybe. If Lila doesn't come back I'm heading south again. "You haven't seen a dog around, have you?"

"What kind of dog?"

"Light brown, about this big. Pointy ears."

"Nah."

"Oh."

"Did you lose your wittle puppy?" Candi sticks out her lower lip and juts her hip out at me. "Poor baby."

"Whatever." I crawl out of bed and head into the other half of the warehouse.

"Hey! It was just a joke," she calls out. "Jerk."

I look around for my backpack. I must have stowed my winter coat in there, because I don't have it on. Of course, I can't remember having it on at any point in the recent past. Another reminder of just how out of my mind I've been. I wonder if I imagined the whole thing with the rope and the noose and Kayla. It's completely impossible that Kayla was here. Naked. In the middle of November in Nebraska.

My backpack is not here.

I slam through to Candi's end of the warehouse. She jumps. "Did you take my backpack?"

"What? No. I didn't even know you had a backpack."

"Yeah, right."

She glares at me. "Look, dickhead. You're the one who showed up at my place, okay? I didn't invite you here. If you lost your shit, that's on you."

"All I know," I say testily, "is that we're the only two people here and my stuff is missing."

"Dude, I knew I should've maced you when you came in. You're a fucking psycho!"

I slam back into my end of the warehouse and wish I hadn't. The cold is starting to get to me. No winter coat, and the windows aren't keeping out the icy air. Tucking my hands under my armpits I pace back and forth. Where could my stuff have gone?

Maybe I left them somewhere. It doesn't help that the clothes I have on are ripped and stained and tied together. Lucky my sweatshirt is black or there'd be blood on it.

For the hell of it I ransack the deserted end of the warehouse, shoving aside crates and boards and piles of trash. Nothing.

Then: brilliance! I return to the splintered chair and close my eyes and breathe. The cold makes it hard to pick up the scent. Mostly I smell myself, but there it is, a whiff of Lila. And something else. Lilacs. I laugh softly.

Unfortunately there was nothing in my backpack that would smell. I follow Lila's trail anyway. It leads to the door.

Even the handle is cold, and I only open it for a second before shutting it again. The wind blows right through me. That second is long enough for me to see that there is a fresh layer of snow from last night. No tracks of any kind.

I go back into Candi's side. She glares at me and demands, "What?"

"Can I b-borrow your blanket?" I can't stop shivering.

"For what?"

"T-to warm up."

She looks at me, then moves away from the mattress. "Knock yourself out."

I wrap the piles of fabric around me and rock back and forth, trying to stop the chills. I can't help watching what Candi is doing. She's leaning over a cracked mirror, reapplying her makeup. She's wearing tight pleather pants now. She's got a big bruise on her arm.

"What happened to you?" I ask. She looks at me in the mirror. "Your arm."

"None of your business," she snaps, and goes back to her eyeliner. "What do you care, anyway? You're the one who looks like he got attacked by a wild animal. Did you stick your clothes in a wood chipper or something?"

"No." I sound defensive and look down at the floor.

"And, like, why is your neck all bruised? You look like someone tried to strangle you. Plus you probably haven't showered in forever."

"What about you? There's no shower here."

She snorts. "I smell better than you." The smile fades from her face. "Sometimes my clients make me take a shower before... you know."

Normally I try to avoid thinking about those nights when I was younger and took truckers up on their offers. But now that Candi has reminded me, many of them did ask me to take a shower. Usually at that point I hoped they were just being nice. Eat some food, take a shower. Then they wanted something back for all they gave.

I feel like throwing up.

"That's rude," I say finally.

"Really." She turns from the mirror and looks at me with one hand on her hip. "What do you know about manners?"

"Not much, I guess."

For a few minutes we are both silent, listening to the tapping of snow on the windows, then Candi pulls out a small radio and turns it on to a pop music station.

I lie down and watch Candi getting ready. In the warm haze from the candles and the blanket, I fall asleep.

### -40-

When I wake up the candles are still dimly glowing but Candi is gone. In the dark outside the windows, bright white snow is falling at a fast clip. My mind is curiously free from worry, although there is much I could worry about: where Lila is, what I'm going to do in the middle of a blizzard without a winter coat, even whether or not Candi is okay. I wonder when Candi will come back, if after dawn is her usual time.

Hours pass. The candles flicker.

I can't say whether I sleep or not, but suddenly I become aware of someone opening the door in the other part of the warehouse. I must have been asleep – how else could I have missed the sound of footsteps crunching through snow?

I'm on all fours, crouching beside the door that separates the two halves of the building, peering through the crack between the door and the frame before the intruder has even fully opened the door. My entire body is ready and tense. Cold is no longer an issue.

Practically in slow motion, the outside door swings all the way open. I strain to get a view of the intruder but all I see is a sliver of jeans, a slice of long hair. Another girl? The wind blowing in offers more than my vision. A girl. A familiar girl, wrapped in my scent.

"Kayla?"

My voice is high and squeaky. I push open the door and stare. Kayla. She's here

(it wasn't a dream)

And she's wearing my coat, my extra pair of jeans. Probably my extra t-shirt under the coat. Carrying my backpack, too. But mostly I'm staring at her face.

She's real. I have to walk right up to her

See what's in front of your eyes

and put my hands on her face, feel her skin, smell her woodsy scent, before I am sure: this is real.

(how much else is real?)

"You're really here," I say. A smile is growing on my face.

"Duh," she says.

"You took my coat. I was cold."

She stares at me. "I would have frozen to death going to get help for you if I didn't."

I'm so happy to see her that I don't understand why she sounds angry. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"What's wrong? God, Daniel!"

She drops the backpack to the floor and shuts the door, starts peeling off the gloves.

"First, you can barely take care of yourself. Second, you refuse to control yourself. And third, you freak out at the drop of a hat. You can't even figure it out after three freaking years. Seriously, it's like you're blind. Or retarded!"

Shut up you little retard – slap –

"Don't call me that," I snap at her. I blink, trying to keep away the blackness that suddenly pulses in and out.

Kayla takes a deep breath and says through gritted teeth, "Let's both just calm down, okay?"

More deep breathing from Kayla. I clench my fists up tight and then let the tension go. I don't want to hurt Kayla. I was so happy to see her – why did she have to ruin it?

"It's good to see you," I tell her.

She looks up at the ceiling and laughs. "Yeah. Good to see me. Okay."

I'm so confused. "How did you get here?"

At this she rubs her face with her hands, like she's wiping away a smile. "Okay. Let's go sit down. There's a bed, in there, right?" She indicates Candi's room.

"Uh, yeah – "

"Come on."

Pulled along by my sleeve, I follow Kayla into the warm glowy room and sit beside her on the smelly mattress.

"Well, this is cozy," Kayla says, looking around.

"Yeah, this girl named Candi lives here."

"Girl? You mean prostitute?"

"Yeah, I guess that's what she does."

"No kidding. I could smell it a mile away. Disgusting."

I'm not sure what to say or do. Luckily, Kayla takes over. She turns to me abruptly.

"Look, Daniel. I know it was traumatic for you and all, but do you remember anything about what happened that night you... that night my dad and your dad and Uncle Red died?"

"What do you mean? I don't remember killing them, but I know I did."

Kayla bites her lip. "Um, okay. How about if I ask it like this: did they look any different before you killed them?"

I know what she's talking about but I can't bring myself to say it. "I was sick. What I saw... it wasn't real. I was hallucinating or something."

"What did you see, Daniel?"

my father curling up, his arms growing and thinning and his face too, his mouth stretching and his joints bending in ways they should never bend, all the while his eyes on me... his yellow eyes

"No. It wasn't real."

" _What did you see?"_

"He– he– " I grip the thin quilt. I shake my head but that image stays with me. "He turned into a monster. He was a monster!"

"Not a monster, Daniel," Kayla says gently. "He turned into something. What did he turn into?"

"A wolf," I say.

### -41-

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Kayla smiles at me encouragingly. How can she be so calm?

"It's impossible. People don't turn into wolves. That's a story, a horror movie. Not real."

"Think about it," she says. "You don't remember seeing me at all since you picked up that stray dog you called Lila?"

"Yeah, but those were just dreams – "

She shakes her head. "Daniel, _I'm_ Lila."

I stare at her. Sure, her hair is the same color as Lila's fur, and she has the same warm brown eyes, but it's impossible. I bury my face in my hands. "I must be hallucinating again. Maybe Candi drugged me with that soup..."

Kayla sighs.

And waits.

It all runs through my head. Those dreams of Kayla where she's naked, when I fell asleep holding Lila. Those mixed up things from when I tried to kill myself. The footprints and paw prints on the floor.

If Kayla can turn into a wolf, then all those times I blacked out... I must have become a wolf then. I was a wolf when I killed all those people... that little baby...

"You're wrong," I tell Kayla.

"You just have to accept it–" she starts.

"No. You're wrong. My father did turn into a monster. And I'm a monster too." In a whisper I add, "I'm a killer."

She puts her hand around my shoulders and pulls me to her. "The wolf is the monster, not you. You have to learn how to control it, that's all."

I push her away and glare at her. "I just have to learn how to control it? What do you think I've been trying to do for the past three years? I killed a fucking little kid, for Christ's sake! I'm a goddamned monster!"

"Daniel, that... that was an accident. And it wasn't totally your fault."

"How can you say that? I was hungry and I smelled that little girl and then I ate her! Maybe 'the wolf' did it, but that was me licking my lips after I chewed open her head!"

dizziness

"Please, Daniel, hear me out." Kayla's voice has risen in panic. It's like she can feel the monster trying to take over. "That kid was already half-dead by the time you found her. There's another... we're being followed. They set a trap for you. They are the monsters, the ones who spilled her blood, knowing full well how hungry you were. You were starving and suffering from hypothermia, and you smelled fresh blood." The dizziness has subsided, but it still doesn't make sense to me. "I would have done the same thing if – "

"If what? If you were a monster?"

"That's not what I was going to say." She takes a deep breath. "Daniel, you don't understand the kind of danger we're in. These others... they're hunting for you. They want to kill you."

"Let them. I don't deserve to live."

"Stop being so selfish!" Kayla screams at me. "Do you have any idea what will happen to the rest of us if you get killed? Do you?"

I shake my head. I don't even know who she means by "the rest of us."

"It will be bad, Daniel. That's why we need you to come back. We need you to protect us."

I laugh. "Protect you? I can't even stop myself from killing – "

"If you mention that kid one more time, I will smack you," Kayla says. "This is serious. You're the strongest wolf any of us has ever seen. You took on three full-grown wolves by yourself on the night of your initiation." Her brown eyes gaze into mine. "You could save us all."

### -42-

Our families form one of the oldest packs in Montana, Kayla tells me. They emigrated from Europe in the early 1800s, coming to America to escape the eradication of wolves. Long before the Westward Expansion, our families disappeared into the forest and headed west.

"You're saying we were the first families to live in Montana?"

"No," Kayla says. There were others who lived in Montana. Mostly the Crow Indians and some other tribes, and some missionaries. Our families formed a secluded settlement, first in caves in the hills and later in houses. Eventually other settlers came and our families became less antisocial, began to mingle with both the natives and the other folk that arrived.

"Wait, so that's how it happened, right? We got some Indian blood wendigo thing–"

"Don't be racist, Daniel. This has nothing to do with Indians. Wendigos aren't even close to what we are."

"They aren't werewolves?"

"No, that's just popular culture. Wendigo are cannibalistic spirits–"

"And that's different from me how?"

"Just shut up, okay? The wolf is in our blood. Our blood, not Indian blood. Got it?"

Some of the other families interbred with the natives and with the pioneers. The bloodline spread. The werewolf gene got weaker, but it spread, so now there are three packs in Montana. Us, and two others.

"The others aren't as strong as us. We keep to our own. Our blood is pure."

"But?"

"They have numbers on their side. It's down to you and me."

There were two families left in our pack: the Connors and the Roulfs. My father, my mother, myself, and Uncle Red were the Connors; Uncle Buck, Kayla, and her mother were the Roulfs, her mother being my mother's sister. A third family, the Loupes, had died off decades ago, after the patriarch went crazy and killed his mate and most of his offspring. Those who survived disappeared into the forest and never came back, except for one: my grandmother.

"How many surviving offspring are we talking?"

"Back then it was normal to have ten or more children. Most people had that many because of high infant mortality, but not us. Our babies were very resilient. There were at least four survivors, if you include your gramma."

"So three kids disappeared? What happened? Did they join one of the other packs?"

"No one knows. Mom told me they tried for weeks to track them down, but eventually the pack decided to give up. It wasn't completely unexpected. Incest leads to a lot of birth defects... including insanity."

"Oh yeah?"

"Don't even say it, Daniel. You're not crazy. Trust me."

The Connors and the Roulfs had done their best to avoid the fate of the Loupe family. The pack decreed that no one closer than a second cousin would marry. That was okay for one generation, since my grandmother was around. After that, it was harder. My father and Uncle Buck had gone out and sniffed out women with the wolf blood. My mother and her sister went to a high school in a neighboring town. They were descended from one of the original five families, the Randells, but the process is different for a woman than for a man.

"For males, they change on their thirteenth birthday. Girls only change when they get their first blood."

"Wait, so that's what they were doing when they dragged me up to that mountain? They knew I was going to change? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"It's complicated."

Sometimes, for reasons unknown, the change doesn't happen. The pack decided a long time ago to not tell the children until they came of age. That kept the children safe in the case of outsiders asking questions, and if the change never happened, the children grew up not knowing. It was better this way.

"How is that better? Don't you think it would have helped me out a little to know what I was in for?"

"Would you have believed it?"

It is tradition for the male to change in the company of the other males in the pack, a sort of initiation ceremony. The other males are there to subdue the new wolf and teach it the ways of the pack.

"It wasn't quite like that."

"No?"

"I thought they were going to attack me."

Part of the initiation ceremony is also a dominance test: if the new wolf can overtake the pack leader, he becomes the Alpha.

"Okay, that sounds more like it."

Again, for girls, it's different. The female may get her first blood during the day, but she won't change until that night. The other females of the pack are usually able to tell when a girl is about to change for the first time by her scent. Their initiation ceremony is a bit different. The girl is dressed in a loose gown and led into the forest. The other females talk her through the change, telling her the lore of the pack and explaining everything that is happening to her. Sometimes they are able to share these experiences through a kind of telepathy.

"Is that how you got into my dreams? Can all wolves do that?"

"Yes... although you won't be able to do it until you're in control of your wolf."

The females remain in human form except for the new wolf's mother, who also changes. They bathe the new wolf in a kind of baptism, while the mother licks her cub clean.

"It was like being born into a new person. A stronger person."

"Wish my experience had been like that."

For years the males and females had been at odds about different traditions of the pack. The men were becoming more violent. The females usually found it easier to ignore the violence, especially after Fallon Loupe killed his wife.

"How do you know all this, if our mothers didn't grow up with the pack?"

"Your grandmother passed it down to our mothers on her deathbed. She told them..."

"What? What did she tell them?"

"She said you were special. You were the one who could save us all."

My grandmother died when I was three.

"I know this is a lot to take in, Daniel. You should have been told this all a long time ago."

"I still don't understand what I can do about anything. All of this sounds like our pack was in trouble even before I killed our fathers and Uncle Red. If there's really only you and me left, what can I really do against an enemy pack?"

Kayla rests her head on my shoulder. "We'll figure it out."

### -43-

I lie awake while Kayla sleeps, her scent of

forest fur winter

filling my nostrils. I shouldn't like this. I shouldn't have my lips pressed against her bare shoulder where my t-shirt has slipped off her small frame. I shouldn't want this.

But I do.

Sometime in the dim hour before sunrise she awakens and slides out of bed. "I need to go get more supplies," she tells me, shrugging on my jacket.

"I could go."

"No. It's not safe for you yet."

My arms curl around the cold space beside me after she's gone.

### * * *

Candi returns a short time later. "Still in bed? Must be nice." She plops down on the mattress, kicking her shoes off and ripping off her top at the same time. Her sudden flesh wakes a feeling deep inside. I reach for her.

She swats my hand away with a slap.

"Unless you magically found some money since last night, this is off-limits." She indicates her pale torso.

With some struggling, she pulls off her pleather pants and settles into Kayla's spot on the bed wearing only her underwear. I would have expected a prostitute to be wearing a thong or a g-string, but instead it's grayish cotton underpants, stained, the elastic loose.

"Mm, nice and warm." She wiggles back until her body fits into the spoon of mine and pulls the hand she slapped around her waist. "No funny business now."

In a matter of seconds her breathing slows and I know she's asleep. She smells like cheap cologne and night air and sex.

I'm afraid to move lest I disturb her. How can she feel safe lying in a bed with some stranger? The longer my hand rests against the flat plain of her stomach, the more I think about what lies to the north and south of that plain. My palm sweats, itching to travel. The longer I force my hand to stay there, the harder I get. In the darkness I can't tell if my vision is blacking out, but there's a familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach

Nausea?

I rip myself away from her. I curl up on the edge of the mattress, hugging myself violently. My ragged fingernails dig into my arms. It's a good long while before the hot trembling turns to cold shivering.

When the cold gets to me, I yank the blanket away from Candi and wrap myself up.

"Hey!" she squawks. "Hello? I'm practically naked here?"

I don't respond to her. The blanket is between my teeth.

"Dan." She pulls at the blanket. "Dan. Come on. It's colder than a witch's tit in here."

The comparison doesn't exactly help. I start trembling again.

This time when she speaks her voice is soft. "Dan." Her hand slides under the blanket and she inserts herself. Her naked form against my back. I can feel the soft lumps of her breasts through the material of my sweatshirt.

It's when she reaches around me that I tense up.

"What?" she demands. "Oh, I get it. You're a virgin."

I say nothing.

"Whoa-ho!" she crows. "I haven't met a virgin since I was a virgin!"

My fingers grip the blanket, more determined than ever not to let her have an inch.

"Oh, come on. Don't be so sensitive." She tries to snuggle back under the blanket but we end up wrestling for it. She yanks at it until I'm no longer facing the wall but the ceiling and her topless glory. I look away. "What is your problem?" she says.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, right." She glares at me, but when she figures out I'm not giving up, she changes tack. "Come on, Danny. I'll freeze if I don't have a teeny tiny bit of that blanket. You don't want me to freeze, do you?" She puffs out her lower lip.

I parcel out half of the blanket and she climbs under. "You're so sweet," she coos, pinching my cheek. I flick her hand away. "So kind of you to share MY blanket."

"Sorry," I grumble.

Only a few moments later, I feel Candi's hands slide around my waist. I try to ignore it, but she keeps going. I push her hand away and try to move so she's not touching me.

"Stop being so cold, Danny," she whispers. "Your stubbornness is turning me on." Her hands return and her body presses against my back again.

I don't really need the blanket right now.

"Just loosen up." Her breath blows in my ear.

Then she's kissing me, her lips warm and moist on my neck. She traveling up along my jaw line then finally gets to my mouth. By that time I'm kissing her back.

She slides on top of me. It feels nice to kiss a girl. I've never done it before. I let myself go until Candi comes up for air. "Now that's more like it," she purrs. Then she hooks her fingers into the waistband of my jeans.

I shove her away. She lands at the end of the mattress. "Don't do that," I tell her.

It was instinctive. My heart is hammering away and my fingers dig into the fabric beneath me. What was I thinking? What if I had lost control... blacked out? I have no idea what would happen if I had sex. All I know is I've spent nights in hotels with men that I don't remember, except for the blood bath after.

"What's your problem," she snaps. "Are you gay?"

"Just because I'm the first guy you've ever met who doesn't want to fuck you right away doesn't make me gay."

Candi crosses her arms and puts on her pouty face. "Don't you find me a little bit attractive? A teensy weensy little bit?"

"Well, sure," I say uncomfortably.

"So what's the problem?"

"Look, I... I just don't think it's a good idea." In fact, I think it's a really bad idea.

"Why?"

I go over in my head the reasons that I can't tell her: I'm a werewolf, I might kill you, you're a prostitute, you might have an STD, you might get pregnant... actually...

"You might get pregnant," I say.

She laughs. "Yeah, right. I take precautions."

"Like what?"

"Well, I have some condoms if you're really worried. I also know where the Planned Parenthood is and they've given me the morning after pill a bunch of times before."

"That sounds safe."

"And, I mean, even if I did get pregnant, so what? You're kinda cute. Our baby would come out cute. We could get some money from welfare. Lots of the other girls have babies."

"What other girls?"

"You think I'm the only girl working a corner? Have you lived in a cave your entire life?"

I don't say anything.

Candi pulls the blanket around herself and curls up in it, facing away from me. Now I'm the one in the cold. That's fine. I need to cool off.

"You know," Candi says, "it kind of hurts my feelings that you don't want to have babies with me." She giggles. "It is SO obvious you're a virgin."

My face burns. I turn so my back is to Candi's back.

I am anything but tired.

### -44-

"Have fun while I was gone?" Kayla announces, waking me out of a bored doze. Nothing else to do but sleep. Too cold. No food. Several times I wished for that book I'd stolen from the library in Broken Bow. Too bad it was in my backpack, with Kayla, the whole time. Too dark to read now anyway.

"I finally got more clothes." She drops the crammed backpack on the mattress. I notice she's wearing a new pair of fuzzy gray mittens that smell like the bottom of a box left in storage. Between her knit hat pulled down over her ears and forehead, and the fleece scarf that covers her mouth, all I can see of her is her red nose and brown eyes.

The backpack oozes other scents just as strange. Smoky car seat. Mothballs. A faint gardenia-scented perfume. "Socks. Long underwear. Regular underwear." Kayla pulls these garments from the backpack as she names them. "Flannel-lined jeans. Fleece shirt. Down vest."

She looks at me. "What are you waiting for? Start stripping." She grins. "Now."

I smile back, but wait to see what else she has.

"You think I'm kidding? Come on. You need to put this stuff on."

"Okay." I feel more than a little weird taking off my clothes in front of Kayla. Plus it's freezing, so I'm hopping around trying to get my pants down as fast as I can. I grab the long underwear.

"Daniel, you need to put on the new underwear." She shakes the package at me. "Yours smells like... well, let's just say I can tell you haven't done your laundry in a few weeks."

"Okay," I say, accepting the underwear. She continues to watch me. "Um... maybe you could turn around or something?"

"What, are you shy?" Kayla grins. I suddenly get the idea that she was hoping to see me take off my underwear. But she turns around.

To be safe, I turn my back to her while I change. When I'm done putting on the underwear and the socks and the long underwear and turn back to get one of the new pairs of pants, Kayla's watching me with that grin still on her face.

I can feel myself blushing and I can't seem to meet her eyes. I have a harder time than usual putting on a simple pair of pants. As I'm fumbling with the button on the fly, Kayla's fingers dance up my spine.

"You need some help?"

"No!" My voice is a little too loud and I jump away from her touch. There is a tense moment.

"Here's a clean shirt." She hands it to me. I glance up at her eyes. She avoids mine and her smile is gone.

I take off the scraps of the shirt I'm wearing.

"You've healed up pretty quick," Kayla remarks. I raise my eyebrows. She gestures to her neck. "The bruises. They're gone."

My fingers explore my neck, pushing where only yesterday it was so sensitive. No pain at all. How long since I had that rope around my neck? Has it really only been two days?

"Yeah. I guess they're all healed up." I pull the thermal shirt on. I feel warmer already.

"You need to eat more," Kayla says, eyeing my ribs. "And I don't mean broccoli soup."

I lean over to see if she has anything in the backpack I haven't sniffed out yet. There's a faint trace of hamburger but it's coming from Kayla's breath. "You didn't bring any food back?"

"I barely had enough money to get clothes for you. I had to steal the socks and underwear."

"But you had enough money to go to McDonald's."

She stares at me. "It was Wendy's. I guess you don't need any training for your sense of smell."

My stomach growls. Or maybe _I'm_ growling at her.

"Look, see? Now you have warm clothes and we can both leave here and get something to eat. Okay?"

My eyes narrow, but not before the darkness pulses in and out.

"Daniel, calm down. Changing now isn't going to help anyone."

I swallow the bile that has risen up in my throat. That faint wisp of hamburger slathered with special sauce and tomatoes is driving me crazy.

Daniel.

I blink and squint and blink. My vision's gone blurry.

Daniel, calm down.

A wave of warm, happy feelings shudders through my system and suddenly I can see clearly again. I suck in deep breaths. No nausea. I feel great.

"Feeling better?" Kayla looks at me with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah," I say. "I thought I was gonna black out for a minute there but now I'm fine. Wow. I can't remember the last time I felt this good." I look around at my surroundings like I'm seeing them for the first time.

"Here's what we're going to do," Kayla says. "You are going to finish getting dressed. Then we are going to decide where you want to eat."

"Wendy's sounds good to me."

Kayla snaps her fingers at me. "Come on. Put that sweatshirt on. And the vest. And the coat."

"What's the rush? Why can't we talk about dinner while I get dressed?"

"One thing at a time."

I don't like her tone and that good feeling I had before is starting to wear off. I yank the sweatshirt on over my head, hearing the sound of a seam ripping. "I'm just hungry," I snap, jerking my arms through the vest. "All I've had to eat lately is a can of soup, and that was yesterday."

"Button it," Kayla says, pointing to the snaps on the vest as I'm reaching for the jacket.

I glare at her.

She smiles sweetly. "Please."

I continue to glare as I snap each button closed. After shrugging on the jacket, I zip it up to my nose. "Happy?"

"Very."

"Now can we talk about food?"

"Hat and gloves first."

Finally, all suited up, I growl, "Food."

"Okay." Kayla takes a deep breath and smiles. "Food."

"Yes."

"You have two options. We can head into town, which is about an hour on foot, and see what's still open and where we can steal some food from."

The idea of stepping out into that frozen tundra does not exactly appeal to me. Now that I'm finally warming up, I'm realizing exactly how cold I had been. "What's option two?"

"We can go hunting."

"You have a gun?"

"No..." She raises her eyebrows, looking at me like I should know what she means.

"Hunting. As wolves."

"Bingo."

"That's not an option."

"You're going to have to learn sooner or later," Kayla says. "Right now, you're in a pretty deserted area, so we're unlikely to come across any people. And considering we don't have any money... it's free food."

I swallow and stare outside. "I think later is better."

Kayla nods and puts her own mittens back on. "Then back into town we go."

"You'd rather go hunting."

Kayla looks at me. "This isn't about me. This is about you. You don't feel comfortable going hunting, and that's fine. We'll try it later. Right now, we need to get you some food, okay?"

I look away and follow Kayla outside without saying anything. I feel weak, like it took all my strength to keep from succumbing to that change a few minutes ago. The cold cuts into every chink in my winter armor. All I can do (besides shiver) is trudge behind Kayla along the little path she's made with all her trips into town through the snow.

It isn't snowing, and in the darkness I can see for miles along the flatlands. An occasional tree, bowed under the weight of the frost. A dark ribbon through the snow that is a road, with headlights flaring and blinding me.

Kayla keeps away from the road.

Over a low hill the town throws off an electric glare that turns the sky a faint pink above its rooftops. When I look up at the clear starry night I realize there is no moon. And no streetlights anywhere nearby. Only that faint pink glow from several miles away.

I don't mention my observation to Kayla. She'd think I was dumb, only now noticing that I can see better in the dark than normal people. I bury my nose into my scarf and keep walking.

My scarf smells like wood fires.

The noises are not alarming at first. Of course, it's so silent out here that the crunching of our boots through the snow deafens me. Once my ears become accustomed to that sound, I pick up the whishing of tires across that road half a mile away, and Kayla's breathing, which is silent except for a little whistle when she inhales, then her heartbeat, a relaxed BOM-bom BOM-bom. I tune into that sound and follow it, my eyes closed to keep the wind from freezing the tears against my eyeball.

Then I hear the snuffling.

It reminds me of when a dog smells food under the couch. He sniff sniffs, then snorts out so his nose is clear to sniff again. Sniff sniff snort. There's some heaving breathing too, panting. And there are a lot of mouths breathing and noses snuffling.

Kayla doesn't do anything so for a while I ignore it. Probably some animal, some harmless animal burrowing under the ground, a herd of bison or something

(doesn't sound underground, doesn't sound that big)

until I can't ignore it anymore. It sounds like a pack of something running. I pull my nose out from the scarf and snort myself a few times

("This thing stinks," I tell Kayla when she looks back at me)

and inhale a big double lungful of icy cold air.

The thing about icy cold air is that most of the time it makes it hard to smell anything. Frozen things don't have a smell.

The other thing about icy cold air is that when everything else has no smell because it's frozen solid, you can smell heat-pumping creatures that much better.

This smell puts my nerves on edge. It's like that night in the playhouse all over again. The smell, the sounds – I know it's a pack of wolves coming up on us, and fast.

"Watch it," Kayla says. I've walked into her, not paying attention to where I'm going and thrumming with nervous energy.

"Do you smell that?" I ask her.

She sniffs the air.

"I don't smell anything."

I shove my nose back into the burnt wood scarf.

"What was it?"

Kayla sounds so patient. I shrug. "Nothing, I guess."

We continue.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm so crazy hungry for food that I'm hearing things. Smelling weird stuff. Kayla should be able to smell that. If she's not worried, I shouldn't be.

For the next half hour walking to town, my muscles burn with alertness.

### -45-

"How's that sandwich?"

My mouth is too full to answer. I bob my head up and down and tear another bite before I've swallowed.

We're sitting on a fire escape in a dark alley, away from the streetlights and the chances of a police car patrolling the area for kids out past curfew. The fire escape is near the exhaust pipe from a 24-hour laundromat, which means warm, damp air billows around us in clouds. While I'm warm now, I know once we leave the cloud the dampness will turn to ice and I'll be even colder than before. It doesn't make me eat any slower, but since we managed to steal a foot-long sandwich from the convenience store, I still have plenty of sandwich left.

"We really need to think about getting back on the road," Kayla says.

I swallow without chewing enough and have to swallow a few more times to get the lump of food down my throat. "Once I'm done we can get going." I tear off another chunk, this time chewing a few more times.

"Really?"

Through the mouthful I ask, "Yeah. What else were we gonna do here?"

"By here you mean... in town?"

"Yeah. What did you mean?"

She sighs and looks toward the street through the steam. "I meant we need to leave East Bumfuck, Nebraska, and get home."

"Oh." I stare down at my sandwich. I'm kinda not hungry all of a sudden.

Kayla sighs again, more disgusted this time. "Look, I get it. You're all freaked out about the werewolf thing. It's perfectly understandable. But..."

"But what?"

"Ever since you left, and the other packs started harassing us, all my mom and your mom talk about is how great you are. How you're going to save us all. So I track you down, expecting to find some great warrior, and all I come up with is some self-centered kid who doesn't know how to take care of himself, never mind use his God-given powers to help anyone else." Kayla sighs one final time and gets up and disappears on the other side of the steam.

Now I'm really not hungry. But I know better than to throw away good food. I wrap the rest of the sandwich and put it in my pocket. All the time I hear her voice in my head

some self-centered kid... doesn't know how to take care of himself

When I walk through the cloud, I feel wetness on my face. I tell myself it's the condensation and I wipe it away before it freezes to my cheeks.

### * * *

The dark and cold press in on us. We huddle inside our layers and scarves, and the darkness cuts us off from everything around. It's worse walking back, not only because I'm damp from the condensation but also because we're facing into the wind. My eyes are narrowed so much that most of the time I'm walking they're closed, and I find my way by the sound of Kayla crunching through snow ahead of me and the odd assortment of scents from her second hand clothes.

The wind changes direction slightly so it's scouring the right side of my face instead of dead on, and that's when alarm bells start ringing in my head.

I can smell them.

They're close.

nausea

I double over, my muscles singing with tension.

(Daniel, stay with me)

Gagging, sour bile filling my mouth.

(Do you smell that?)

(Yes)

I double over further, my vision blurring

dizzy

Blinking furiously to keep the sudden sweat out of my eyes, to try to see.

(Take off your clothes)

I'm not sure I can even move, my fingers feel strangely short and unbendable. Hands, Kayla's hands, her breath hot and sweet in my face, fumble with the zippers.

A low whining fills the air, and I realize it's me.

It's only a matter of time before the

blackness

(stay with me, dammit, stay here with me)

Everything is darker. I rip my shoulders free of the jacket and the vest. It all feels uncomfortably small in my shoulders and too big in my waist. My pants fall to the ground while Kayla is still trying to unbutton my shirt.

The world is fading in and out and that smell is filling my nostrils, every time I inhale I see red and black and a new wave of nausea rolls over me. I'm growling and whining because I can't make any words come out of my mouth, and the fur on the back of my neck is stiff like an extension of my tense muscles.

(I have fur on the back of my neck and my mouth feels weird, too big and crowded)

blackness pulsing

(stay with me, just a few seconds)

Finally Kayla gives up on the buttons, the backs of her hands covered in butterscotch colored hair. She grips my shirt and rips it off.

I don't want to look down and I can't anyway. I fall to the ground, bracing myself up in the snow with my bare hands

(why don't I feel cold?)

The blackness is crowding around the edges of my vision. I try to focus on my hands, but they're moving. Growing, curling, hair sprouting.

This is everything I never allowed myself to see. All those times I killed people, this is what happened. My arms straighten out involuntarily and my joints seem to turn backwards.

Beside me, Kayla's clothes drop to the ground.

(They're nearly here, now Daniel NOW)

The scent hits me. Eight wolves. My brain takes a sudden backseat to the darkness.

(Daniel control your wolf)

I'm racing, paws flying over the snow, which has crusted over enough in the subzero temperatures to hold my weight. I can smell them in front of me, blood and sweat and fear and for a moment I'm not sure I'm going stay here instead of slipping back into that pit of blackness. There are fewer of them now but it's a little harder to tell, the scents are everywhere. The scent of death.

(Kayla!)

I slow down. The minute I think about how my human body might have slowed down, leaning back and digging in my heels, my wolf body slips on the icy snow and slides.

scrabble claw tumble stop

It's a weird feeling, to have arms and legs that don't move like they should. My brain can't wrap itself around that.

(Don't think)

I lift my head and

sniff listen

for Kayla. She's there. Cleaning up. Blood pricks my nose,

tangy copper death

I have to get back to help her. Her blood is mixed in there, although I can feel her heartbeat connected with mine, beating like we are one. Her heart is beating, strong and sure. My legs, however, don't want to cooperate with me.

(Don't think about it. Just go. Just pick your destination and go.)

I focus on Kayla and sure enough, my body figures out how to move itself. Faster and faster until I can see her, caramel fur against the white darkness.

Then faster still, until I am by her side.

### -46-

There's blood everywhere. Hunks of fur, wolf legs, some looking suspiciously humanoid. I'm panting and coughing every few breaths to get the stink out of my nose, but I think it's there to stay. Kayla

(Lila)

is just standing there, looking at me.

(That was...)

(crazy)

She's bleeding. I'm at her side and licking at her before I can think anything about unsanitary or hunger or anything human. The wolf knows that licking a wound helps stop the blood. It's her neck. One of them got her neck. I growl.

(It's no big deal, just a nip)

(I should have stopped them faster)

(You were amazing)

Then she does that thing again, where I'm flooded with warmth and good and my heart slows and my eyes slide to half mast.

Funny thing is that this also gives me the irresistible urge to pee.

While I'm marking my territory

(my kills MINE)

Kayla's changing. I watch with blissful interest as the fur fades into her golden, smooth skin. She makes it look so graceful. One moment she's a wolf, the next she's a woman.

(she's my cousin)

(I can still hear you, you know)

I choke off my thoughts and try to shake them out of my head. Some other kind of happy feelings are racing around and they make me want to hump Kayla's leg.

(Try changing back now, Daniel)

Her voice in my head is smiling.

I turn away and try to push my humanness out. I have no idea how to do it. My pelt suddenly feels like it's too hot, too tight. I glare at my paws. Why aren't they shifting?

(close your eyes)

I oblige.

(see yourself, your human self)

Drawing a blank. I barely know what I look like. When was the last time I really looked at myself in a mirror? Dark brown hair, too long. Brown eyes. Pale. Skinny.

I keep seeing Kayla as she unfurled herself.

Growls emerge from my throat. I grind myself into the snow. Damn fur is too hot. I'm agitated. Why is this so hard? I've done this a million times before, only I don't remember it.

(take a deep breath. Let it melt away)

I suck in some air. Close my eyes. Imagine the fur melting off and revealing my human self. Cold air rushing in. It's a relief for about two seconds and then the cold robs my breath away.

"Why did we h-have to change b-back?" I ask.

Kayla laughs through her chattering teeth. "Look." She's pointing at one of the more humanoid bodies. "We can't leave this for the humans to find."

"What do we do?"

"Burn it."

"With what?" I gesture around. "All we've g-got is snow and ice."

"There's a lighter in the backpack."

I glance around, looking for our stuff. I don't see it anywhere. My nose sniffs out our trail, but my human eyes don't allow me to see too far into the distance on this moonless night. "Where is our stuff."

"About two miles thataway."

A vicious shiver rips through my body. "Why the fuck did we change then? Makes no sense. We can't walk two miles through the snow like this."

"You need practice."

"P-practice walking through the snow naked?"

"No, practice changing. Hurry up, I'm freezing my ass off."

She wants me to change back into a wolf. I stand there, wondering how to even begin. It's one thing when I'm feeling dizzy and nauseous and angry to just turn myself over to the wolf. But now? I'm cold and I can't feel my feet.

"What's the hold up?" she asks.

"I don't–I have no idea how to start it," I say. "I've never tried to make it happen. It just happens, and I usually try to stop it. What do I do?"

She steps closer to me, and I instinctively step away. We're both naked. What is she doing?

"Don't move away," she says. She steps up to me and puts her arms around me.

The back side of me is turning almost as numb as my feet, but suddenly my front side is all kinds of warm. I lock my hands around her back, press my face into her hair. We shiver in unison.

(you have to change or we're both going to die)

(I can't do it I have no idea how to do it)

(let me know how this works)

She gives me her good feelings again, only this time it feels like she was holding back those other times. I'm instantly hard and flushed and jittery. My fingers dig into her back.

(let yourself go)

(it's not that easy!)

I'm waiting for those symptoms that tell me the wolf is clawing at my door, but there is no nausea. I'm not dizzy. I'm just stepping back and

fur fangs snow death blood

Kayla has melted into a wolf in the next heartbeat. She makes it look so easy. Her forelegs bow down, but I know she's not bowing to me. It's not subservience but

play

And I'm bounding after her, no thoughts just

warm female lilacs run mate

### -47-

Kayla and I stumble back to the warehouse, clinging to each other. We don't bother taking off our coats; we are nearly frozen. The blanket goes around us and we huddle closer together, making a tiny warm space with our breath under the covers.

Our clothes, when we had found them lying in the snow, were frozen into stiff shapes that we had to shake out, chattering our teeth and breathing clouds into the air. Giggling. We were laughing at each other's nakedness, the weird way our clothes had frozen and how mine were mangled. My undershirts now flap against my skin where the seams ripped, the buttons gone. The laces in my boots had snapped, and now I kick them easily off my feet and curl my toes up under the blanket.

Without words, Kayla and I draw closer, pressing ourselves against each other, warmth rising. She smells cold and clean, pure and wild, that faint lilac scent musky and inviting. Our lips touch – hers are wet and warm, mine chapped and cold. The scents are stronger, piney forest and earth, a flower ready to bloom. Her fingers find the gaps between my clothes and my skin, and guide my hands to do the same. My rough hands travel over her smooth body, hovering over the cold places until they warm to my touch.

It becomes a game, a push and pull. I am hesitant to hurt her, and she takes advantage and pins me to the bed. Her hair tickles my face, breath clouding the cold air between us.

Smiling, she leans in.

When she is only an inch from my face, I lurch up and nip her on the nose. She growls, smiling, and her mouth presses against mine.

A new kind of hunger takes over me, and all it craves is her skin on my mine. I want to be inside of her clothes, inside of her. My shredded pants are too tight. As if sensing this, she rips at my shirt with her hands, and with her legs wrapped about my torso, she uses her feet to push my jeans off my hips.

My mouth finds that small cut on her neck, made by a claw and not teeth. It tastes like copper and salt. She pulls back and looks at me. Then she grins, grabs two fistfuls of my hair, smashes her forehead to mine.

Her hands move down my face, my neck, over my shoulders, and grip my arms.

(you killed them you killed them for me)

I tighten my grip on her. Press my face into her neck. I want to hold onto this feeling, this idea that someone might care about me, and never let it go.

### * * *

We are still lying in each other's embrace when Candi arrives home, announcing her entrance with a gust of cold air and a slanted ray of sunshine.

"Well, don't you two look cozy," she sneers.

Kayla and I move apart guiltily. I sit up, wrapping my buttonless shirt around myself. "This is my cousin, Kayla," I tell Candi.

"I'm sure she is."

I can't look either of them in the eye as shame heats up my face. Instead I busy myself, putting on my sweatshirt and jackets and gloves. Kayla reads my mind and begins dressing and packing up as well.

We are a mile along on the cold road when Kayla finally says, "It was time to leave that place, anyway."

I don't know what to say to her. I don't know if she's as ashamed as I am. What was I thinking last night? Kayla is my cousin. My cousin. I kissed her. I...

Her hand slips into mine.

"This is meant to be," she says. "It's everyone else who says it's shameful. Not me. Not you."

She means that if we both think it was okay, then it was. But I'm not sure I do think it was okay. I was on a high from fighting and I was cold and needed warmth.

Kayla's hand slips from mine. "Besides, who cares what some prostitute says, anyway? Like she's got a strong moral compass."

At first I imagine Kayla has said this to hurt me. My fists curl up inside my gloves. She doesn't know, I tell myself, forcing my fingers to straighten out. She doesn't know about all those nights I spent in the company of others. Of course, I don't remember most of those nights, and the only payment I ever got for anything I did was money I stole on my way out the door, or a shared meal, or a hot shower.

It's much warmer out today than it was last night. Still, it can't be much more than twenty degrees out, and my clothes are drafty. I follow Kayla without much thought. We're headed in a different direction than the way we went last night. We aren't following the trail of the wolves that attacked us. I can smell that trail leading off into the northeast. A shudder runs through me

chase hunt kill

but it fades quickly enough, although Kayla turns to give a quizzical look. I don't look at her but briefly, and train my eyes on the snow-crusted ground.

(Kayla?)

(Yes?)

(Can you hear every thought I think?)

(...)

(I'll take that as a yes?)

"No," Kayla says without turning toward me. "I can't hear everything."

Our boots crunch crunch in the snow. I walk fast enough to catch up beside her.

"So what can't you hear?"

She looks at me sideways. "It's not like what you think."

"No? You can tell what I'm thinking right now?"

"We're not telepathic," she explains. "We're linked."

"That clears it up," I mutter.

"We're linked. You and I. This link... I'm not entirely sure how it works. I can tell how you're feeling, and sometimes what you're thinking, especially if you're thinking it at me."

"Okay... so why is it just you and me who are linked? Is it a pack thing?"

"Not exactly."

And even though she doesn't say it, I can hear it:

(it's a mate thing)

I fall back behind, and try not to broadcast my thoughts to her, but since I don't really know how not to broadcast my thoughts I can't be sure she isn't hearing them. What I'm thinking is

(mate? like sex?)

I flash back to the disgusted look on Candi's face, when she saw the two of us in bed together.

(is Kayla my mate? did I do this? could I have stopped it?)

After a long time of walking and silence and thinking, my thoughts turn from Kayla to the bigger problem. Why did this other pack attack us? Why did Kayla stop me from chasing them and killing every last one? I could have done it. I felt that power in those short moments when I was a wolf and fully aware. It would have been safer to kill all of them.

### -48-

We stay on the road, near civilization, where wolves are unlikely to attack. It is bitter cold and more than once I think of how I could have a warm fur coat instead of these flimsy layers of fabric. We walk all day, stopping only to relieve ourselves and to share the rest of my sandwich from the night before. At nightfall we step away from the road and dig ourselves a hole in the snow. There is no shelter around for miles. The landscape reeks of desolation.

Kayla and I haven't had much conversation all day, and our telepathy seems to have run dry as well. My mind feels as blank as the sheets of snow covering the flatlands around us. In the hole it is only marginally warmer and we curl into each other for warmth. I breathe into her hair, which smells more of stale sweat and cold than lilacs now. I can't imagine the stink I must be emitting.

The shivering sets in after only a few minutes.

We cling tighter. I think

(wouldn't this be better with a fur coat)

She sighs.

(maybe, but if we are wolves, surrounded by clothes, and we are found, it could end badly for us)

The darkness is so complete that only the cold pressing against my eyes tells me if they are open or shut. I can't imagine anyone finding us here, in the middle of nowhere.

Kayla's breathing slows into a steady rhythm against my neck. I realize that I am rubbing her neck, right where her wound has healed into a tight white scab. I should have protected her. Even as a wolf, I should have protected her.

I stay awake all night, trying to protect her.

### * * *

The next day on the road I am sluggish. It is an effort to pick up my feet above drifts of snow. Midmorning, we catch a ride. The driver is a woman with rough red cheeks and flaming auburn hair under her cap. I have never been picked up by a woman before. For some reason it makes me feel safe, and I lean against the window and fall asleep within minutes in the heated cab, my breath fogging the window.

"Daniel." A rough shove at my shoulder. "This is our stop."

My eyes creak open. The sun is mostly gone; it is late afternoon.

"Thanks," I mumble to the driver, who gives me a wry smile in return as I lurch out of the cab and back onto the road. I squint around. Neon lights, rumbling motors, scents of gasoline and fried foods.

Truck stop.

"Do we have any money for food?" I ask, knowing we don't.

Kayla just looks at me.

We start off down the road into the twilight. My stomach growls and I hope Kayla doesn't hear. _Her_ stomach isn't growling. I feel like a failure at survival, despite the three years I spent on my own.

Three days on the road like this. I can't sleep but fitfully, determined to somehow protect Kayla from whatever lurks in the dark. My nose detects no trace of those other wolves, yet my body refused to relax into sleep. Three days of letting Kayla find food for me during the day–stealing from gas station convenience stores, digging through dumpsters, scraping leftovers from plates at a recently abandoned table at a diner one night. A fistful of French fries, a half-eaten chicken tender and the bun from a hamburger brought to me in a napkin, because I couldn't even muster the energy to walk in there. "You're too conspicuous, anyway," Kayla told me. She meant I looked like walking death, and the other diners might smell me coming.

Three days, and three long, cold nights.

On the fourth night I leave her.

### -49-

This isn't a good idea.

I tell myself this, but as I'm asleep on my feet, I keep forgetting. This isn't a good idea. This isn't a good idea.

I can't stay with her. I'm not the hero she wants me to be. I'm better off on my own. Kayla can take care of herself. She was just fine when she caught up to me, back on that country road in the late summer. Well-fed. Strong. Me, I was half-starved and half-suicidal. Now we're both half-starved, and slowly freezing to death. I haven't been able to feel my toes for the past two nights, which I haven't minded since it means my toes haven't felt cold.

She doesn't trust me as a wolf, either. I can't blame her; I don't trust myself as a wolf. Yet we both know we'd be almost home by now if we traveled as wolves.

All my weaknesses are killing us.

In the flakes of snow pouring from the sky, I shuffle through waist deep snow. I'm so tired that I'm not sure which direction I'm traveling. Away. I'm headed away.

This is not a good idea.

Just a few miles more, a few yards, a few feet. I can do this. I can disappear. Whatever hope Kayla is hanging on my shoulders will disappear into the white. She'll realize she doesn't need me as much as she thinks she does. She won't be able to follow my scent through the storm. She'll be forced to go on without me.

Trees. A meager forest. I move among the branches, grateful for their cover. Maybe I can find a sheltered spot to lie down. Sleep pushes on my eyelids and makes everything feel like a bad dream. I'm falling, or maybe I chose to lie down here. I hit the snow and it's like icy feathers tickling my face. Spread eagle in the snow, my eyes drift closed. Before the lights go out, I think one last time,

(This is not a good idea.)

### -50-

Something is tickling my face. It's wet, and dripping, and sliding down my cheeks and rolling into my ears. I shake my head because opening my eyes seems like it might be too much work. That's when I realize I can't feel half my face. It's buried in snow.

I open my eyes.

At first all I see is white, but after I push my face away from the ground, I can see the sky, bright blue, through the canopy of pine branches over my head. Snow is melting and dripping into my face.

It's a struggle to get up, pushing myself up only to have the snow collapse beneath me. I try rolling once – only once – the movement sends a spike of pain up my leg and leaves me gasping for breath for a few moments.

I fell, I think. I vaguely remember falling. My leg could have twisted or something and I might not have felt it with the cold.

I manage to twist around to get a look at the damage.

To say that it's a little more serious than a twisted ankle is an understatement.

There's blood. Not much – not like when I black out and become wolf – just a little on my pants and on the snow around where the steel trap has clamped on my leg.

Back to face down. Breathe. Try not to vomit into the snow.

(it looks like it's almost severed my leg)

I'm alone. Kayla is far behind now, and my trail is buried under the snow. Could she hear me if I yelled?

(would something Other hear me?)

There's nothing around but a blanket of white, unless you could the trees all standing around, watching my misery. Imagine if I had stuck with Kayla, her lugging me all the way back to Montana with my busted leg. Better that I'm alone, I suppose.

Options. There are always options. Maybe I'm not some warrior hero, and maybe I'm not real good at taking care of my well-being, but I managed to survive for three years. I can survive this. I think.

First things first: I can't do a whole hell of a lot lying face down in the snow.

(this is gonna hurt like a bitch)

I don't have a stick to put in my mouth like they do in the movies to stop themselves from screaming or biting off their tongues or whatever, but I have a scarf. I bite down.

Fast, or slow. One rip of pain, or a slow burn with less probable damage. Maybe I'm stupid, but I'd rather not tear my leg open to the bone

(if it isn't already done)

by flopping over. I struggle to my knees. I arc myself in a Twister-crazy move so my upper half is flipped but I'm kind of supporting myself on my right leg and with my free arm I'm struggling to twist the trap along with my leg. It sticks in the snow and I have to rock it

pain pain pain

Finally it gives and flips and I collapse and there's still a giant howl of pain muffled by my scarf which echoes a little bit.

I pant until I can breathe without whimpering.

It takes a while. Hard to tell how long. Maybe half an hour.

Now that I can sit up and see

(still looks gory as hell)

I try to think of how to get out of this. The trap looks pretty strong. I've never tried to pry open a steel trap, but this one's got a good grip on my leg. I'd rather not work at prying it open and then lose my grip and have it snap back on and snap my leg off in the process. Plus, even if I got the trap far enough open to get my leg out, I'm not entirely sure I can move my leg. The foot part feels really numb.

All around me is white snow. Nothing to use as a tool within arm's reach. Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. I think of that family, the one that got trapped in their car in a snowstorm. A father, a mother, and a baby. The mother kept the baby alive by eating snow so she could breast feed. The baby lived. The father lived. The mother died. The snow lowered her body temperature so much that she froze to death.

So, I won't eat the snow.

(but I'm so thirsty)

I don't know how long I stare at my leg caught in the trap. The sun has moved across the sky, the shadows have shifted. I should feel cold, but I don't. I'm numb. I lie down and stare up at the clouds as they scroll across the sky.

When darkness falls, I allow myself to fall asleep.

### -51-

In the distance, someone is watching me. I can feel their eyes on me. I can hear their breathing, heavy like they've been running or hiking for a long time.

A heavy mist hangs in the air and coats my skin with moisture. The storm is over and now the air is warm. I struggle to sit up, having forgotten about my predicament. The pain crashes over me and darkness follows in a deafening roar.

When consciousness returns to me, before I open my eyes, I can feel the cool shadow of someone standing over me. They have a gun; I can smell the gunpowder and the steel. I play dead and wait for their move, all the while trying to unravel the clues my nose is giving me.

A male. He smells of clean sweat and wood and smoke. Because he isn't moving I can't tell his size or age. But male, and not a small child. Presumably he was the one who set this trap. I imagine the trap is to catch animals for food, and he must be perplexed to have caught a human, unless the trap is meant to catch trespassers. I am ready to assume the former when he pokes me with the muzzle of the gun.

I roll over and snap at his leg with my teeth. He steps back, although he was out of my reach anyway. I glare up at him and growl. He is a much younger man than I expected. A teenager. He has acne along his jaw line and shaggy blond hair under his red and black checked hunter's cap. It's hard to tell looking up at him, but we might be the same height. Only his eyes, wide with fear, make me think he's younger than I am, maybe fourteen.

"Hey, calm down," he stutters, holding up his hands and point the gun at the sky. "I'm not gonna shoot ya. I thought you was dead, is all."

The pain, or the hunger, must be triggering my temper. All I want to do is maul this kid. I suck a deep breath through my clenched teeth.

"Um... my dad is back at the cabin... um, well, let me try to do this." The boy leans the gun against a tree trunk and hunkers over the steel trap. "This thing got you good, huh?"

I growl.

"All right, then." He grasps the two halves of the steel jaw and pries them apart. "Don't move now, don't wanna slip here. Usually I kill the animals afore I open the traps. Hey, watcha doin' out here, anyhow? There's no trespassin' signs all over. My dad hates trespassers."

I wait until the trap is open and then use both hands to lift my leg out. The steel teeth stick in the muscle of my leg and the boy looks worried as I work myself out. It doesn't help that black spots keep dancing in front of my vision. Once my leg is free and clear he lets down and the trap snaps shut with a metal clang.

"Okay, now, I guess I'll have to bring ya back to the cabin. My dad won't be happy at all, but you're gonna have some trouble walkin' outta here, huh?" He stands over me and offers his hand. "Come on."

I stare at his hand. I don't especially want to go home with this kid or meet his father, but the boy is right. I seethe through my teeth, then take his arm and try to haul myself up. Somewhere about halfway to standing I pass out again.

Next thing I know, I'm sliding along on my back, watching the clouds and tree branches overhead pass by. The reek of dead animal fills my nose no matter which way I turn my head. At first I hear only the sounds of the kid huffing and puffing and the sled runners scraping over the snow. Then I hear a door slam.

"What the fuck is this?" A rough voice, followed by boots crunching through the snow. "What the fuck is this?"

"I found him in one of the traps—" The kid's sentence is cut off by a slap.

I snarl as I try to sit up. "Don't hit him," I growl. I barely recognize my own voice.

The bearded man in the flannel coat turns to look at me. "Are you fucking kidding me?" He strolls over to where I'm lying on a heap of animal carcasses and grabs me by the neck. "You fucking trespass on my land, get your fool self injured, and think you're gonna tell me what to do?" He examines me as he slowly crushes my windpipe. He takes in my secondhand clothes, the hollows in my cheeks, my dirty face. My hands are too cold and can't pry off his grip.

He releases me and I fall back on the sled, gasping for air. "I didn't think so."

"W-what are we gonna do with 'im, Dad?" the boy asks, rubbing his face.

"We're gonna do the Christian thing and take him inside and get him cleaned up, Zeke. He don't want our charity, too bad. When he can walk outta here on his own, he can feel free."

### * * *

The inside of the cabin is blessedly warm, heated by a woodstove that has a large stack of split wood beside it. Zeke helps me up and onto a worn brown couch next to the stove. "Thanks," I mumble as he puts pillows under my head and covers me in a blanket.

It's a small place, though probably bigger than it looks. The kitchen is spare and clean, except where a slab of meat lies on a cutting board, the butcher blade still stuck in. There are antlers and guns mounted on the walls, and a glass cabinet full of firing arms. I wonder about this pair living out here on their own, but not for long. The comfortable bed and warmth make me feel sleepy, and since my leg isn't moving it doesn't hurt so much now. I let my eyes fall shut and soon I am asleep.

I wake up to the sounds of metal clinking against metal and some movement beside me. "Get that water off the stove," the man says to his boy. He returns to the small table he's set up near my leg. He takes a stained blue towel and without even looking at me lifts my injured leg up and slides the towel underneath. I grit my teeth and grip the blanket in my fists. The man sees my reaction but shows no concern.

"Good, you're awake." He turns back to his table and then holds out a bottle to me. It is unmarked, filled with an amber liquid. "Drink this."

I take the bottle. "What is it?"

"Whiskey, homemade." Zeke returns with a pot of boiling water. The man gives Zeke a brown bottle and a rag. "Clean off as much of the blood as you can."

I uncap the whiskey and sniff it, then watch the man as he threads a needle. "Shouldn't I be going to a hospital or something?" I ask. "I mean, you're not a doctor."

The man looks at me. "You got health insurance?"

I shake my head.

"Money?"

"No," I say.

"Then you can't afford no hospital. You'll be gettin' the finest health care the Whittemores have to offer. Now drink up. That's all the anesthesia I've got."

Zeke touches a cloth soaked in iodine to the cut on my leg and I jerk away from the sting. When the man glares at me, I press the mouth of the bottle to my lips and take a swig.

It tastes like fire mixed with turpentine going down and I hold my fist over my mouth to keep from throwing up. Yet when Zeke attempts to clean out my leg again, I take another swallow, and a third.

At that point Mr. Whittemore takes the bottle away from me. "That's enough of that. You don't need to be drunk off your gourd."

I'm not drunk but soon the fire diffuses from my chest and I feel slightly numb. I lay my head back against the pillows and watch as Mr. Whittemore starts sewing up my leg. It hurts, but I feel detached from it, like I'm watching it happen on television. I can't feel my face and I keep rubbing my nose to reassure myself that it's still attached.

It's taking a while; I guess my leg's tore up pretty bad. I get to thinking about why my wolf didn't come out at any point. I suppose if I changed while I was still in the trap, Zeke would have shot me, thinking I was just some wild animal. Maybe my head would be on the wall. But why didn't I change when Mr. Whittemore choked me? I was angry enough, watching him smack Zeke around like that, when nothing was even Zeke's fault.

I wasn't any less hungry than I was that night

(that night I killed that baby)

no weaker, unless you count my leg. Was it my leg? Would I still have the same injury if I changed into a wolf right now? Maybe that's the reason. Mr. Whittemore should consider himself lucky then. Any other situation and I might have ripped his face off.

I consider the rugged man carefully stitching my leg back together. The resemblance to my father is minimal – they both have

(had)

beards, but Mr. Whittemore has light, reddish hair, while my father had dark, almost black hair. My father was huge – or maybe he just appeared that way to me when I was thirteen and terrified of his fists. Mr. Whittemore is burly and smaller in stature. He doesn't even really act like my father, even if his rough way with Zeke brought up some bad memories. The way he's sewing my leg right now is precise, almost gentle. He and Zeke work together without words, helping a stranger, a trespasser.

My father never would have done that.

### -52-

I spend nearly a week on that couch, and the Whittemores never complain once that I'm taking up all their sitting space. There's no television so I sleep a lot and pretend to sleep even more to avoid conversation with Mr. Whittemore. I wait for him to tell me to get out of his house, but he never does. He goes about his business like it's no big deal to have a strange kid on his couch, eating his food.

I figure the Whittemores usually eat their meals at the kitchen table, like normal people, but on account of me they eat on trays in the living room. Zeke and his dad talk about their day in monosyllables or not at all. The sound of silence and chewing is comfortable, not awkward, and I find I like it. The fact that the food is hot and fresh and plentiful makes it more so.

At night Zeke and I play cards. His dad prefers to do something useful like skin animals or clean his guns, and I can tell he'd rather Zeke be hard at his schoolwork or reading one of the old leather-bound books on the shelves. Once or twice I catch a glimpse of something in his eye when he watches us talking and laughing. He's glad Zeke has a friend. Isolated out here, I guess Zeke doesn't have much opportunity. Neither have I these past three years.

My leg turns shades of black and green and purple. Pus seeps out under the stitches, which I clean off with the alcohol. By week's end it feels solid enough for me to walk on it. I attempt it one morning when Zeke and his dad go out to milk their goats.

It's wobbly at first, and I feel my muscles shaking. One testing step, hopping most of my weight onto my other leg. A twinge, not so bad. Another step, putting more weight on it.

I exhale. I'm not sure if a normal person with no wolf blood would heal this fast, but I sure am grateful. It sets my teeth on edge when I think of how that metal trap scraped my calf bone.

I hobble into the kitchen area. Mr. Whittemore already brewed coffee for himself, but breakfast isn't served until after the morning chores. For the first time, and maybe only because I'm finally wide awake after a week of dozing on the couch, I wonder what happened to Mrs. Whittemore. Mr. Whittemore usually does the cooking, and neither he nor Zeke have ever mentioned a mother. There are no photographs anywhere in the house. Just animal heads and horns and guns for decoration, some plaque award-type things that I never bothered to look at, which I assume are related to the hunting. Awards from where, I don't know. So far as I can tell they keep to themselves. No church, no school. Mr. Whittemore doesn't go to work. They have their animals and jars of food in the cupboards. I open and look for the first time.

Vegetables and fruits in clear mason jars, each labeled with a permanent marker in a man's hand. Beans, pickles, tomatoes. Some essentials in boxes that were store-bought, baking soda and salt. I close my eyes and inhale. There is food stored elsewhere, in a pantry or basement, potatoes, onions, carrots, root vegetables. Grains. A small amount in the kitchen, in one of the bottom cupboards, under the sink. I take a few potatoes and onions and start peeling. I don't throw the peels away. I know the waste is kept for compost in a bin outside. Eggs in the generator-powered fridge, and bacon.

By the time Mr. Whittemore and Zeke are finished with their morning duties, I have breakfast on the table. Mr. Whittemore is surprised but keeps his face blank, no hint of a smile. Zeke's smile is enough. "I didn't know you could cook, Dan," he says, slapping me on the shoulder as he takes his seat.

"Or walk, neither," Mr. Whittemore adds.

I limp back to my seat. "Leg's getting better."

I wonder if he'll ask me to leave once the limp is entirely gone, or once spring sets in. I can only hope my ability to help out will earn me more time.

### * * *

It is night and the full moon is streaming in through the living room window, right across my face. Those old legends about werewolves and the full moon can't be true, but I feel a pull to the outside and I am there, night air cold on my skin. I should be cold. I should want to go inside. Instead I pull off my clothes, the sweatpants that belong to Mr. Whittemore, the thermal shirt that is Zeke's.

I should be covered in goose bumps and shivering. Instead there is steam rising from my body.

That bright orb in the dark sky calls to me and I answer, the howl erupting from my very soul, and I am racing into the trees, not a man but a wolf, a creature who only wants to run and chase and fight and live and survive.

The pain in my leg is a dull throb at the back of my mind.

I run and run, stretching, moving as I haven't in the past week. Snow flies under my feet. I dodge trees and rocks. A pressure in my brain darkens my vision momentarily – the wolf pushing for control. I push back, and my sight clears. I've stopped running. Suddenly my human side with its gift of reason presses to the forefront.

traps beware of traps

I stand stock still in the snow, looking around. How would I be able to tell if there was a trap? The night I got caught it had been snowing, and the trap was under a layer of snow so I couldn't see it.

Smell. Zeke would have left a trail of scent that any animal could smell. And didn't traps have bait? If I smelled any hunks of dead meat, that meant a trap was nearby.

I don't smell anything like that.

What I do smell:

pine woodsmoke moss maple ice fish

Fish?

I follow my nose for a mile or two to a small lake. It comes up all of a sudden to my wolf eyes, even as the fish smell had been growing stronger this whole time. The water is frozen through, and though I see a small ice fishing hut in the middle, I don't dare tread on the ice. The weather has been warmer this week – not really warm, but enough to set the snow to melting and dripping down from the gutters of the Whittemores' house. Not safe.

A small movement catches my eye, the tiny scuff of a paw in the snow and I'm running through the brush

meat rabbit chase

I go black in flashes, flinching every time I resurface and see a tree flying at my face, pushing and clawing my way to the forefront of my consciousness. The blind need to

run chase kill

is overpowering. Once I emerge from the blackness and the rabbit is in my jaws, the coppery sweet taste of blood on my tongue, the blackouts stop. I drop the dead creature from my mouth. Its hot blood steams in the frosty air.

Panting, I sit on my haunches and try to reason. My fur melts away and now it's my bare ass in the snow. The light sweat all over my body begins to freeze.

The mess in the snow bothers me. I just killed this rabbit for no other reason than to kill. I can still taste it, the blood. I feel sick.

As the flood of sour bile fills my throat I say out loud, "The wolf is an animal, not a monster." Not a monster. Just an animal. Animals don't have morals or ethics or whatever it is that keeps humans from going on killing sprees all the time. Most humans. Some humans do kill for pleasure (Paul the Perv springs to mind) and we call them serial killers. They are the human monsters.

"I'm not a monster," I tell the moon. Part animal. Part killer instinct, an instinct I need to learn how to control.

My body gives a sudden shiver as it realizes that it is cold.

I could walk back to the cabin naked, risk frostbite and getting lost, and keep control of my mind. But it makes more sense to return as a wolf and practice my control.

Take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Become the Other.

With my humanness firmly in control, I scoop up the dead rabbit in my mouth and follow my nose back to the cabin. The Whittemores and I can have rabbit stew for dinner tomorrow.

### -53-

There's a calendar on the wall open to February, with an old painting of an elk as the illustration. None of the days are marked off. Is it the beginning of February, or the end? Maybe it's March already, if the Whittemores are the types who don't remember to change their calendars over on the first of the month.

The days grow warmer, the sun's rays waking me in the morning. Some days go as high as forty, and Zeke will take off his coat as he splits wood in the yard. I watch from the window as he raises the axe up and brings it down again and again, taking three or four swings to split off each piece. Even though I've taken over the cooking, I feel useless.

At night it's still bitter cold, but as a wolf I don't feel it. I run and work at controlling myself. We've had enough rabbit stew and stuffed rabbit and roasted rabbit and braised rabbit and rabbit jerky (once it was squirrel – I didn't tell them that). I'm getting better. It helps when I'm not hungry. It helps when nothing triggers my wolf instincts that make the wolf lunge forward, leaving me in the dark. It helps when I don't have that weight Kayla put on my shoulders about saving and protecting and fighting. I can run, light as the wind.

Someday, someday soon, I will need to go and take up that mantle again. For now it's good to pretend it isn't there. Maybe I'm Mr. Whittemore's other son, or a nephew, and we're a family living out in the frontier on our own. I've lost both my parents but Mr. Whittemore took me in, and Zeke is my best friend, and this is it. Safe and alone in the wilderness.

Zeke sees me in the window and waves, then jogs over and yells through the glass, "You wanna try it?" He holds up the axe.

"Okay." I look around. "I don't have a coat."

Zeke waves off my concerns. He isn't wearing a coat, and his shirt sleeves are pushed up to his elbows.

I go outside, taking some care with the stairs, and cross my arms over my chest as the cool air hits me.

"You ever split wood before?"

"No." My house when I was growing up had electric heat.

"Here." Zeke pulls off his gloves and hands them to me. "Okay, first you put the log here like this." He sets it on the tree stump. "Now stand like this, then swing and try to get it off to the side like this, not in the middle." I get into position and raise the axe. "You want ta swing as fast an' hard as you can."

I set my sights on the wood, and swing.

"Ho! Beginner's luck." Zeke grins, picking up the two pieces from the ground. He tosses the smaller piece onto the pile at the side of the house and repositions the larger piece back on the stump. I chop that piece in half on my first try as well.

"Well, don't get too hot for yer britches yet," Zeke says, tossing those pieces on the pile. "Dad's the best log-splitter around. You seen those awards on the wall? I figure once I get a bit bigger I'll be some competition for him, but for now, it looks like this is gonna be your job." He salutes me. "I'm gonna go start my lessons."

Splitting wood takes my mind off things. It becomes a steady rhythm, and it isn't so hard as Zeke made it look. The smell of fresh pine takes over my sense of smell, a pleasant change from the strong scent of manure coming from the barn. Time passes along while I'm unawares, until footsteps crunch up behind me.

I whip around, axe at the ready.

My blade points at Mr. Whittemore.

Most people would jump back in surprise or fear if someone had an axe in their face. Not Mr. Whittemore. His brow lowers, his mouth tightens. "Put that down, boy," he growls.

I know I should do what he says. He's been kind to me thus far, and it's not like I mean to hurt him. Yet my fingers curl tighter around the axe handle, and my muscles tense.

blinking in and out of blackness

Control it. I have to control it, that instinct rising up in me that tells me Mr. Whittemore is a threat. I cling to the axe, which seems to be keeping my hands in a human shape. Beads of sweat pop out on my forehead.

"Boy," Mr. Whittemore warns.

nausea stomach roiling

"I–" I swallow. "I'm sorry."

I'm apologizing for not being able to put down the axe. I'm apologizing for what to him looks like rude defiance or a threat when really I'm trying hard not to kill him. His face goes wide in surprise for a split second, then furrows into anger again, a red-face, spitting kind of anger.

"Zeke!" he roars, and I think he's going to punish Zeke instead of me until he adds, "Zeke, get my gun!"

The spots of blackness in my vision make it hard to know how much time has passed. It feels like only a second before Zeke runs out with his pa's rifle in hand.

"Dan, what are you doing?" Zeke cries out, skidding to a stop.

"Shoot him, Zeke." Mr. Whittemore stares me down between the blackouts, until black is all I see.

"What?"

"Do as I say, boy!"

I hear Zeke placing the rifle against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I plead.

"Come on, Danny, just put down the axe," Zeke says. I hear the tears in his voice even if he isn't actually crying. "You don't have to hurt anyone."

"Zeke, you best mind me."

I drop the axe to the ground at the same moment the gun goes off. The bullet rips into my bad leg.

I fall to the ground, on top of the axe.

"Oh, God. Oh, God," Zeke repeats over and over.

"Give me that." Mr. Whittemore snatches the rifle from his son, and then sticks the barrel in my face.

The axe blade is in my side, making every breath like a stabbing knife, sharp pain that almost makes me forget about the bright throbbing in my thigh. My hands are sticky with blood but I can't get up for that round black hole that consumes my vision.

"What the fuck you doing out here, huh?"

"I was just helping Zeke split the wood, sir," I manage to say. My mouth is slick with blood. "I was just trying to help."

"You want to kill me? Is that what you were doing?"

"No..." I cough, there's a tickle in my lungs. "No, sir."

"I'll ask you again, boy. Do you want to kill me?"

I shake my head.

The rifle disappears from my view, not that I can see it very well at this point anyway.

"There's a lot of blood," Zeke whispers.

"Get that wheelbarrow. He can stay in the barn."

Are they going to help me? I'm going to die, I'm suddenly sure of it.

When Zeke and his father pick me up by my armpits and my legs to heft me into the wheelbarrow, the axe slides from my side and I vomit all over myself. I feel something come loose in my leg, the muscle tearing again and I pass out.

A brief moment of consciousness as the wheelbarrow trundles over the yard, causing my head to bang against the metal rim, then black again.

I gasp awake in the darkness, and keep gasping. My side is gaping open, and little sticks are poking into me. Hay. In the barn, in a stall. The floor under me smells like old cow shit and sawdust.

It hurts like hell to sit up, and I black out a couple of times in the process, but I have to get up. I have to get to a hospital or something. I'm actually a little surprised I'm not dead yet. The coppery scent of blood thickens the air.

My eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, maybe a wolf thing, maybe not. There are wooden walls around me, some of them halfway up wood, then metal bars. I'm in a stall. The door is closed. I assume it's locked too. But everything I need is here.

Whether the first aid kit on the floor beside me is Zeke's doing or Mr. Whittemore's I don't know. I imagine Mr. Whittemore leaving me here to die, and Zeke sneaking in with the medical supplies while his father was in the outhouse. Maybe Zeke was prepared to fix me up himself, and Mr. Whittemore found him and beat him and forced him back inside. "You ain't helpin' no murderous trespasser," he might have said. I can't imagine they'd expect me to fix myself, yet there it is. No whiskey this time. The gauze, iodine, needle and thread are all there, laid out waiting for me.

I've got to get my side stitched up first; I can feel the damp of blood all down the side of my body. I peel up my shirt, throat working to keep the vomit down. The fabric comes up with a slick, sticky sound and pulls off whatever clot had been forming there. With slippery, shaking fingers I try to thread the needle with only the moonlight to go by. A few failed attempts later, I roll completely onto my good side and rest.

At least the need to cough is gone, although breathing continues to hurt. It feels like the axe blade is still stuck in there.

Lying there, I finally get the needle threaded, after about twenty tries. I knot the thread, then twist

black black black

Breathe, and take the washcloth. Dip it into the bucket of water some farm animal probably drank out of. Wash away a bit of the blood, enough to see where the cut it.

Oh God, it's deep. Blood wells up out of it. It looks like a terrible mouth in my ribcage, puking up black blood.

I swallow. This is gonna suck without the whiskey.

My hands shake more, trying to hold them at the weird angle. I pinch the edges of the skin together with my fingers, and punch the needle through. Bile rises in my throat. My fingers slip in the blood and the wound gapes open again. The sewing focuses my concentration and takes my mind off the pain somewhat. It's slow going, though, and by the time I finish I collapse back into the hay. Finally the shaking stops enough for me to clean it with the iodine and tape some gauze over it.

Now for my leg.

### * * *

After all that, I can't sleep. I can't pass out. I'm wide awake, sitting up in the dark, my bare back against the rough boards of the wall. I've propped myself up in such a way that it doesn't hurt so much to breathe.

I'm so stupid. If I could've just put down that axe, everything would be okay. I don't know what it was that put my brain in panic mode, maybe the way Mr. Whittemore sneaked up behind me the way no one has that I can remember. I always know when someone's coming, unless I'm dead asleep. My own fault, for getting so carried away with splitting wood. I lost control. Maybe if Mr. Whittemore was a gentle man like old Bobby I wouldn't have freaked. But the first thing I ever saw Mr. Whittemore do was hit his kid, for no good reason.

I hope Zeke is okay, and not paying for hesitating when his father told him to shoot me. Not getting beat because he didn't kill me with his shot.

I need to leave. It's back to like it was before, where no one is safe around me. Why I ever listened to some crazy dog-dream Kayla sent to me, I don't know. It's all crazy. Who the hell am I going to help? Around me, everybody is in danger.

baby bones crunching between my teeth

I squeeze my eyes shut, dig the heels of my palms into my eye sockets but still

blood and bones and a little purple barrette

I throw up again. I manage to lean over when I do so I don't get any more vomit on my clothes. Shivering.

Of course, the Whittemores didn't leave me a knife or scissors or anything. Nothing to kill myself with. Do they hope I'll bleed to death out here? What's the purpose of keeping me? I suppose so I don't run off and tell the police or something. A laugh bubbles up out of my throat. It echoes in the barn, and there's a shuffling and the quiet bleat of a goat in response. I'm not going anywhere fast. I'd have died out in the wilderness.

Why can't things ever stay simple? If only it could have been me and Lila, heading out to Texas. None of this werewolf shit, no one around to make me angry or scared, and Lila – I mean Kayla – would have been there to keep me calm with that weird thing she does. I remember those autumn nights curled up in the hay with Lila in my arms, her fur warming me. I can almost feel her heat with my arms curled around myself.

When the early sun slants in through the barn windows, I drift off to sleep.

### -54-

I wake up in the late afternoon. Everything has a gold sheen on it, the hay and the wooden walls and the dust motes floating in the air. I've listed to one side as I slept, and when I push myself upright a black numbness fades in for a few moments, then clears.

Mr. Whittemore and Zeke must have come out here earlier, to milk the goats and feed the animals. In my sleep I didn't hear them.

There's a plate where the first aid stuff was. A lump of bread on it, and a lumpy brown glob that smells like rabbit stew.

It pains me to move, but I get there, and eat everything in record time. I'm not even bothering to chew and several times I have to pause to swallow lumps of food too big for my throat. There's nothing to drink except the water in the bucket, so that's what I wash it all down with. I get over the disgust I had for the dirty water yesterday; hell, I've eaten out of garbage cans. This is probably more sanitary. I lick the plate clean and place it back in the sawdust.

I raise my eyes to the stall door.

For the next half hour or more my goal is to crawl to the door and pull myself up. While the food in my belly has given me renewed energy, it's also made my stomach swell out and I can feel my sloppy stitches straining to hold my skin together.

I reach up to the bars on the top half of the stall door with my opposite hand so my side doesn't stretch any more, and try to get my good leg under me. Finally I'm standing.

As I suspected, the stall door is locked. Not locked, with a padlock, but with the sliding bar. I edge over to the corner and thread my arm through the bars. Feel across the wood of the door with my palm, find the cold metal bolt. Slide it open.

I stop short of opening the door, suddenly alert. Now that I'm standing I can smell him, over the scents of cow manure and sawdust and grain and the crusted vomit on my pants.

"I see you're awake," Mr. Whittemore says.

He's sitting in the aisle with his rifle across his lap. His steely eyes meet mine.

"Yes, sir," I reply.

"Think you're gonna just walk on outta here?"

I swallow, my throat so dry it clicks. "I was hoping."

(please just let me go, don't have made me go through all that and now you're gonna kill me)

"You think you'll get far?"

My hand that's hanging out through the stall bars retreats. I look down at my leg, visible through the tear I made in my jeans. I could pass for Frankenstein's monster with all the dark rows of stitches holding my leg together.

"No."

(but when I was a wolf my leg didn't hurt so bad maybe if I turn into a wolf the pain will go away and I can run I can run faster than a bullet maybe)

"That's right. So how about you go have a seat and I'll lock this back up and we'll have a little talk and see where we're at."

(if only he was being mean to me but I can smell something on him not anger not fear but protection? if only he was being mean I could change and run out of here)

I back up, use the wall to keep me upright. When my back's against the wall where I sat before, Mr. Whittemore stands up and locks me in. I slide to the floor, careful of my side.

My hands are in loose fists in my lap, shaking ever so slightly

caged rat in a cage trapped

"I live with Zeke out here to keep him away from punks like you," Mr. Whittemore starts. "Zeke ought to have left you there in that trap that day."

I nod, knowing where he's going. "If I was dead, things would be better."

Mr. Whittemore studies me.

"You got parents?" he asks.

There is a long pause, as I'm not sure how to answer him. If I tell him about my father, sure enough he'll stick that rifle through the bars and shoot me dead.

"I ran away – "

"That's not what I asked. I asked if you have parents. You got a mother?"

"Yes, sir."

"Does she love you?"

My eyes itch. "Yes."

"Does she know where you are?"

I shake my head.

"You got a father?"

When I don't answer he repeats himself, then asks a third time.

"No. Not anymore. He's dead." Mr. Whittemore waits, or maybe he's just thinking about what I said, and the words tumble from my lips. "I killed him."

Mr. Whittemore pauses, then nods.

"You don't understand," I say, my voice loud enough to cause the goat in the stall next door to bleat in annoyance. "You don't know what he did. What he– I– he was– I didn't do it on purpose. Not really."

"How long ago?"

I glare at him. "What, are you gonna try to get some reward for turning me in?"

Mr. Whittemore looks at me with that impenetrable face. I sigh.

"Three years ago."

The silence that follows stretches up to the rafters. Mr. Whittemore commences pacing the aisle in front of my stall, his boots scuffing the floor. I wait for him to decide it's best to kill the murderer and ask questions later. I wait for him to call to Zeke, tell him to head up to town to let the police know he's got a wanted killer trapped in his barn. I wait for him to slap a padlock on the stall and leave me here to starve to death.

"I can't even imagine what a man could do to his child to make that child turn against him," Mr. Whittemore says finally. And he looks at me.

Does he want me to tell him all about it? Does he want specific details? Does he want to hear that I was molested or something?

I don't say a word.

"I don't much like strangers," Mr. Whittemore says. "I don't like people meddlin' in my business. I like to do things for myself. When Zeke was born, I got a little crazy about it. Convinced my wife to move out here with me, convinced it'd be best for Zeke to grow up without worryin' that he'd be doin' drugs in middle school and learning about sex on television, and havin' other people tell me how to raise my kid. We get along, Zeke and I. After Pauline passed on, it was hard bein' on my own. But we do all right."

"How did your wife die?"

"Well, it's hard to say, as I'm no doctor. I don't put much stock in hospitals and health insurance and all that. I believe if it's your time to go, then you'd best go. I came close to bringing her to a hospital... sometimes I wish I had."

I watch Mr. Whittemore's face. He really believed that a hospital wouldn't have helped his wife. I suppose it isn't that hard to believe.

"Zeke took it hard. He tried to keep on a bright face for me but I know inside he was hurtin.' Was hurtin' still, until you came along." Mr. Whittemore clears his throat. "Watchin' you with Zeke made me think I did something wrong, raising him all alone, with no friends."

I wonder if Mr. Whittemore can tell I never really had any friends growing up, either. Kids at school weren't all that kind to me. I hung out with Kayla, mostly. The townies looked down on us, thinking we were poor, and even though we were from the rural areas outside of town, we didn't know any of the other farm kids. I figured out early on that they thought we were poor white trash.

He's giving me hope, talking like this. I fight the feeling rising up in me. He won't want me to stay here and be Zeke's friend, not after I nearly killed him with an axe.

"I'd like if you stayed out here until you're healed up a bit," he says. "I'll send Zeke out with some dinner for you."

He must've seen my eyes brighten because he adds, "Zeke will have his gun, so don't even think about trying anything with him."

Mr. Whittemore's footsteps fade out of the barn. So I'm a prisoner here, sort of. I could leave, if I thought I could walk further than the end of the aisle.

I can't bear to face Zeke pointing a gun at me again.

I close my eyes and try to sleep, and keep them closed even when I hear Zeke enter the barn.

### -55-

It gets harder to pretend I'm asleep all the time. All I'm getting is bread and jerky to eat and you can't look convincingly asleep when your stomach is growling in a painful way. Also, I need stuff, like more gauze and soap.

I'm starting to get jealous of the goats and cows and pigs and all the attention Mr. Whittemore and Zeke pay them.

Some mornings when Zeke and Mr. Whittemore come in to do the milking and the morning feed, I watch them. They ignore me and don't even look in my direction except when they come in to leave food, so it's easy to pretend they don't know I'm here. I'm separate from them, a voyeur.

They each know their tasks. Not many words are needed. Mr. Whittemore likes to whistle sometimes. Zeke talks to the pigs when he dumps their feed into the trough. "Eh, Maggie May, give Tiny some room. Bonnie, whatsa matter with you?" His voice is low when he speaks to them, like he knows his father wouldn't approve of naming their food.

I lie on my back, staring up at the roof. I imagine what might have happened if I hadn't left Kayla. I'd probably be home by now, no stitches. Maybe I'd be in the middle of some war. It is beyond my comprehension, the werewolf war she described. So there are different packs, and they each have their own territory. What's the problem? Have they ever tried to sit down and discuss it? I mean, our pack seems to be down to Kayla and me, so really, if they waited like 80 years, we'd both be dead, no need for a war.

At night, I try to change into a wolf. I take off the remains of my pants and my shirt and crouch in the hay. My leg throbs in this position, and I can barely breathe. I just know that if I can become the wolf I can get out of here. I'll heal faster or maybe my injuries will disappear once I'm in another form.

The wolf doesn't save me.

A few days after I found myself locked in a stall, I sit up and wait for Zeke to come with my dinner. He's so used to me being asleep that he doesn't even look at me until after he's opened the door. He jumps back when he sees my eyes open and watching him.

"H-hi," he says.

The gun is tucked under his arm. He has to hold it awkwardly as he puts the plate down on the ground.

"I could use some new bandages," I say.

His eyes flicker to my leg, where he shot me. He nods.

"Um, and maybe you could give me a shovel or something to clean up – " I gesture to the corner I've been using as a bathroom. "You know."

"Okay. Sure." His head bobs up and down. He backs out of the stall and slides the door shut.

His footsteps hurry out of the barn.

I chew the bread and jerky waiting for him to return, which isn't for a long while. The bread is hard and crumbly, and the jerky is chewy, and my jaw starts to hurt. What I wouldn't give for a vegetable or something hot and soft. Mr. Whittemore must have told Zeke that my needs aren't all that important. Maybe he told Zeke to do his lessons first, or check the traps, or whatever. Maybe he slapped Zeke upside the head and told him he didn't give a shit what I wanted. "That kid is lucky to be alive," Mr. Whittemore might have said in his growly voice. "He's lucky I don't believe in murder."

Who knows.

When Zeke finally returns I'm through with eating. I'm lying on my back staring at the roof again. I turn my head toward him.

"I got you some clean bandages and stuff." He puts everything down on the dirty hay and looks at me expectantly.

I don't get up. I don't want to scare him.

"Thanks," I say, staring at the ceiling again.

"Um, do you need help? Or anything?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

He stands, his shadow darkening the air.

"I'm sorry," I say when it doesn't look like he's going to leave. "I don't know why I do stuff sometimes. I didn't want to hurt your dad."

I can hear him chewing on the inside of his cheek. "I wish I'd never given you that axe."

"It's not your fault."

"I shot you."

"That's not your fault either." I swallow. "Sometimes I think I'm a monster." And sometimes I know I am.

"You're not a monster. Dad says there's good in everyone, just in some people it's harder to find."

I laugh, a little bit, through my nose. "Did he tell you everything? Did he tell you I murdered my father?"

"He said you must have had a good reason."

Well. My father's face looms in my mind, all those times he choked me or smacked me, and that last time when he watched me, watched me without helping me or explaining what was happening to me, his eyes gleaming with the intent to dominate or kill if necessary.

"Thank you," I say.

### -56-

The moon is waning. Each night is darker than the night before. Tonight I undo the latch on the stall and quietly as I can, slip out into the aisle.

My leg feels stronger. My muscles are aching for movement, more so than I can do pacing in that stall. I hobble down the aisle. The animals move restlessly, backing into the corners of their pens. I use the walls for support, but only when I absolutely need it. At the end of the aisle I push open the barn door.

I can smell the outhouse, and there it is, a mere fifty feet away. Fifty feet with nothing to hold onto.

There's nothing at this end of the barn, no shovel to use as a crutch, no wheelbarrow to use as a walker. Just me, and a burning desire to take a shit like a human being instead of a dog.

I stagger out, my leg finally starting to feel the strain of walking after being torn apart and sewn together and torn apart again. I'm practically hopping along on my good leg, which only makes the gash in my side start to burn.

Crawling. I'm crawling in the darkness now.

Who knew an outhouse could smell so good. I don't care that it reeks and I have to breathe through my mouth. Finally there's something to hang onto, a seat to sit on.

Glorious relief.

I'm zipping my pants back up when I feel it. I can't say as I smell it – the odor of the outhouse is too strong to allow that – and there isn't a noise. But I feel the presence just as sure as the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.

For long moments I hesitate to open the outhouse door. I wait, listening, until I'm absolutely certain that there is no pack of wolves waiting to attack me when I do open the door.

The return journey across the yard is made longer and more painful as I am unwilling to crawl along like I did before. I take each step carefully, stopping to listen and smell the air. Now that I'm out of the enclosed space I can smell more things, the wood smoke from the Whittemores' stove, the pines, the heavy manure in the barn, the chicken coop on the other side.

I don't smell those other wolves, nor hear them, but I know they are nearby, perhaps watching me stagger along, although I think if they were that close I'd have more than just a shiver of a feeling.

Why wouldn't they attack now, while I'm weak? It makes sense to me.

And then I think of Kayla.

If they were able to track me here, in the middle of nowhere, after my scent would have been erased by a snowstorm, hidden by the odors of two humans, three cows, five goats, ten pigs, a bunch of chickens, and all the subsequent piles of manure, what chance does Kayla have? I left her alone.

Alone and unprotected.

All the way back to the barn. Staggering step by painful step. Senses on high alert, sensitive to every small sound, every new scent that wafts in, every slight breeze that rustles the trees. I get back to my stall. Get inside. Slide the lock into place. Sink into the straw.

Wonder if she is okay.

### * * *

I dream of Kayla, lying beside me. Her skin is cold and it's dark but I imagine she isn't wearing any clothes. The night frost has left its mark on the hay, ice coating each straw. I pull her tight to me, not that I am much warmer. She isn't shivering.

One hand under her chin, I lift her face to see her eyes.

Two black holes stare back at me.

I jerk away, and awake.

The frost tonight is not so bad as in my dream – no arctic ice covering everything with white – but I've nestled myself under the hay for warmth. Even through the stink of the dirty stall, I can smell them. They are everywhere around me.

I'm on my feet faster than you'd imagine, considering my injuries. Those don't matter now. I need to get out of here. I can feel the wolf pulsing under my skin

(not yet not yet)

As quietly as possible I open the door. The scrape of metal rubbing against itself sounds colossally loud to my ears. The rumble of the door sliding open is even louder.

At the barn door I poke my face out, close my eyes, and inhale.

I can smell their stink, that predatory musk. It's close. I breathe in again, and again, until I get a clearer picture: they were here. They were sniffing for me, around the house and the barn. They are outside of the cleared area which is the Whittemore farm, but they are still nearby. The trail, the trapping trail. The one I used to run through back when I was welcome in the Whittemores' house, free to come and go, free from pain.

This must be how they found me.

I slip out of the barn, keeping to the shadows – the moon is bright tonight. I can smell where they've been. I catch at least four or five different scents, one female, the rest male. My ears don't pick up any noise, and I don't have that uncomfortable feeling I did when I went to the bathroom. They aren't watching me. Nearby, but not watching me. I wonder if they are still inspecting the area.

When I reach the house I creep around to the bedrooms and peek inside. Mr. Whittemore and Zeke are asleep in their beds, none the wiser. Good.

In the narrow space between the house and the barn, I remove my clothes and change.

The pull on the stitches as my ribcage expands make me feel like I'm going to split open. I guess my leg didn't hurt as much before because wolf legs are narrower than a human's. I spend my first moments as a wolf trying to breathe, since breathing pulls on the stitches even more. The wound had begun to heal over the past few days, but the scar tissue isn't strong enough to stretch so much yet.

When I can focus through the pain, I get down to business. I have to find these wolves and kill them all before they can rally the rest of their pack against me. Why wouldn't I be able to kill all of them, when I so easily took care of those wolves who attacked me and Kayla? I'm a little weaker, more vulnerable, and I don't have Kayla to watch my back, but I know what I did when I was thirteen. What I've been doing for the past three years. Killing. I'm a killing machine.

I put one paw outside of the alley, and they come.

### -57-

They swarm through the trees and into the clearing, yipping and barking, one jet black wolf howling as if the bugle to call more soldiers to battle. This one is not the leader. No, there is no alpha here, but I sense that the black one is in charge. More than five wolves line up facing me.

Nine. Nine wolves.

I draw my paw back into the shadows.

I wonder, for a long moment, if they plan on talking to me somehow. I wonder if we can settle this without fighting, and if I'd be able to hear the black wolf's thoughts, like the way I hear Kayla's sometimes.

Then two of the wolves come for me, the brindle and the gray.

I jump backwards into the alley. I wait for the wolf to jump up and grab the steering wheel

(....)

Nothing. And in the split second before they're on top of me, I realize that I'm alone in the driver's seat, and I can't count on my inner monster to do the dirty work this time.

The gray

(the female)

lunges at me, snapping her teeth at my neck. I jerk backwards and reflexively lash out with my paws, as if I'm human, a boxer. I'm momentarily confused that I don't have fists.

(teeth use your teeth)

Before I can recover the gray is back with her fangs, and the brindle behind her in the alley leaps over her. He sinks his teeth into my back.

(rabbits pretend they are rabbits)

But the rabbits never fought back, I only chased them. I don't remember those times I fought as a wolf. How did I do it?

When I reach around to bite the wolf who's biting my back, the gray grabs me by the neck.

Their teeth are sharp, as sharp as mine. Their jaws are as strong. And they've probably had years to learn how to fight.

As my breath is choked out of me, I realize that I may have overestimated myself.

It is as a curtain of darkness is falling across my eyes that I hear the tinkling, far-off sound of glass shattering.

Zeke Mr. Whittemore danger

The wolf rears up inside me, matching his skin to mine, and we twist away. The two wolves with their teeth in me fly off, taking chunks of me with them. I dodge their bodies and race into the fray of wolves in the clearing. Snake through those that attack me.

One catches my rear paw in his teeth, too close to my injury for comfort. I snap around and sink my teeth into his throat, shake until I feel blood spray in my face and flood down my throat, then drop the limp body to the ground.

Three of the wolves jump me at once – I am a fury of fangs and fur

rip shred kill

cutting them down, tossing them aside. Running toward the picture window, broken into the living room. I smell fire and fear and panic.

All I want is to get into the house.

I claw my way through the remaining wolves, chase another as he leaps into the building. My paws crunch on broken glass; the darkness of the interior without the moonlight is disorienting.

There are shouts, human shouts, both Zeke and Mr. Whittemore. I lunge down the hallway. I never went into this section of the house when I was allowed to stay here. Zeke's bedroom is closest, on the right, a narrow room. I nearly run past it then skid to a stop and face what is inside.

"Dad!" Zeke calls out, his voice querulous. The white t-shirt he's wearing over his pajama pants has blood on it. I growl, not at Zeke, but at the man behind him holding a shard of glass to Zeke's throat.

"That's right, you'd best stay back," the man says. He has black hair and eyes to match his wolf's pelt, and thick, overdeveloped muscles in his shoulders and biceps.

I glare at him, emanating hatred from my eyes, my lips in a snarl that shows him my fangs. If I move quickly enough, perhaps the black wolf won't have time to slit Zeke's throat before I remove the manhood dangling between his naked legs.

The man grins, a toothy smile stretching across his face, revealing a scar that cuts deep into one cheek. "All I want is to talk. A nice conversation. That's all."

Part of me, the wolf part, still wants to rip him to shreds. The other part is relieved. It's just like I hoped. We can come to a compromise.

I close my eyes and prepare to change.

In the midst of my focus

fur melting away

Zeke screams, and a scuffle breaks out down the hall. For a moment my change is halted, concerned that the other wolf might have gotten Mr. Whittemore. Then I hear distinctly human feet moving across the floor, Mr. Whittemore's familiar tread muted by socks, and I relax into the change. Then

click BOOM

### -58-

I have no time to wonder at these new sounds as I'm already flying through the air and hitting the wall. It feels like a truck going 80 miles an hour hit my shoulder.

"Zeke?" Mr. Whittemore calls. With a sideways view and still reeling from the gunshot to my shoulder, I watch him cautiously make his way down the hallway with the skill of an FBI agent.

He steps over the writhing body of the wolf I'd been chasing, pausing only to put a bullet in the creature's head. "Zeke?"

I don't like the fact that Zeke is not answering.

I stop moving, however, aware that Mr. Whittemore doesn't recognize me in this form and is likely to shoot me too. It's hard to stay still when you feel like your shoulder is on fire and there's a knife in between your ribs, stabbing your lungs. I do my best, closing my eyes and focusing on what I can hear going on in that other room.

The black wolf is whispering in Zeke's ear, so low and soft that Mr. Whittemore obviously can't hear him. I can barely hear him over the throbbing of my heartbeat in my ears. "Not a peep, human, not a peep." The black wolf is moving away from Zeke, releasing him, but keeping the shard of glass pointed at the boy.

As I zone in on the black wolf's movements, his thoughts come to me

Kill the man then the boy and finish off the Other

He'll wait for Mr. Whittemore to enter the room, which Mr. Whittemore will do, cautiously, wondering why Zeke is just standing there ready to piss himself. Or perhaps Mr. Whittemore is smarter than I thought.

"Zeke?" He's at the doorway, still standing in the hallway, his gun at the ready and now pointed at his own son. "Is there someone in here with you? Another wolf?"

I don't hear a reply other than a sound that might have been Zeke vigorously shaking his head no.

"Then come on out."

Mr. Whittemore waits, suspicion beading on his forehead because Zeke isn't moving. Zeke's eyes are flickering toward the man in his room, who is hiding somewhere Mr. Whittemore can't see. Zeke's eyes must be open wide; they make a very soft squishing noise as they roll around in his head. He gasps, and I know from the reek of wolf that the man has changed. It's a sudden scent of musk and heavy fur

... _and lilacs?_

That's when I immediately know that these wolves, and that black wolf in particular, have done something to Kayla. The bitter scent of a sudden rush of adrenaline fills my nostrils too much for me to tell if there are any other clues, the scent of blood for example, and it doesn't matter if they've hurt Kayla or not. It doesn't matter if my arm is falling off or my lung punctured.

My four legs shake as I heave myself up. I will get there. I will kill that black wolf.

I push myself down the hallway, chanting to myself

Kayla Kayla Kayla

My progress is so slow that Mr. Whittemore doesn't even notice me coming.

And then Zeke screams.

### -59-

I'm running on legs that shouldn't hold up. Pain is a distant memory.

I slam past Mr. Whittemore, knocking him over. Leap into the room, and spend precious seconds trying to find the black wolf.

I catch a glimpse of a black tail going out through the window.

Smell blood.

I shouldn't be able to leap through that window, over Zeke's rumpled bed, avoiding the broken glass.

But I do.

I land in the melted snow and mud, slip and try to catch my breath as pain flares in my shoulder. The scent is strong, and I follow.

"Daad!" Zeke screams, his voice deafening me. He's back in his room. I vaguely remember rushing past him, a Zeke-colored blur.

I sprint after that black wolf, who is now so far ahead I can't see him. I wish I'd been able to hurt him, just a little, before this. He's perfectly healthy, well-rested, well-fed. Who knows, maybe if I wasn't injured and had eaten more than bread and jerky for the past week I still wouldn't be able to catch him. But I might have had a chance.

A few miles in, the adrenaline wears off. I begin limping. The scent is getting harder and harder to follow.

Panting, I slow to a stop, wanting nothing more than to collapse in exhaustion.

The black wolf is gone, and with him any hope of finding Kayla.

My options are to keep going, maybe after I lie down and take a nap, or go back to the Whittemore farm, after I take a nap. I imagine showing up, naked and bleeding, and watching the realization dawn on Mr. Whittemore's face when he matches the gunshot wound on my shoulder with the wolf he shot. I imagine slinking back and getting in my clothes and trying to hide my new injury, and my true self.

I decide to take a nap.

Crawling under the snowy branches of an evergreen tree, into the cozy, quiet, warm area created there, I fall asleep.

In my dream, time slows down as I run past Zeke in his bedroom. Instead of focusing only on the escaping black wolf, I notice the blood pouring down the front of his shirt, dark red against bright white. His pale face follows my movements as I go by, one hand clamped on his neck.

I can smell his blood.

It smells of pine and sweat and milk, pure and clean except for a sharp edge to it. A wet dog edge, too clean or maybe dirty underneath the clean. It confuses me, this smell on Zeke, as I'd never noticed it before. So confusing that for half a slow-motion step, I turn toward him.

That's when he peels his hand away from his neck like a band-aid on a gunshot wound, and I see the ragged edges of the bite.

Birds call to each other when my eyes snap open, telling each other to watch out for the strange creature in the evergreen tree. What is it? they ask, hopping on the branches they hope are out of my reach. A wolf but not a wolf, one says. A human but not a human.

I yawn, surprised when my jaw opens wider than I expect. I'm still in wolf form. I test my muscles – sleeping on the snow must have helped to numb some of my injuries, although the stitches in my side still feel pretty sharp. I roll my shoulder, feel nothing. There's blood in the snow and my fur is matted and sticky, but no pain. When I lick the blood away, there's nothing. Like I never got shot. I guess I overreacted last night, the bullet just grazed me or something.

(I flew backwards off my feet definitely got shot how did it heal so fast?)

The sun shines like the high beams of a car when I emerge from the shade of the evergreen. My own scent hangs heavy from last night, a trail back to the Whittemores.

If only I hadn't had that dream about Zeke. If only I could spurn all that Zeke and his dad have done for me.

Following my own scent back through the forest, I try to remember what Kayla told me about werewolves. Did she mention anything about biting, or am I confusing it with some movie I saw when I was younger – much younger – I haven't seen a movie in the past three years. Maybe something I read, although I don't read horror.

It doesn't matter. Zeke got bit, and whether it has an effect or not, he's hurt, and Mr. Whittemore might be too.

The morning is overcast and threatening snow. My shoulder might have felt good when I woke, but a few miles of steady trotting makes it sore again. The shoulder is the least of my worries. I begin to feel a tickle in my chest and cough a few times before noticing the blood spray I've coughed up onto the snow. There is something seriously wrong there.

(a punctured lung)

Definitely something that will be a problem if I don't do something about it. Of course, I can't just waltz into a hospital, no health insurance, covered in my own sloppy stitches, and a werewolf gene in my blood.

I smell the Whittemore farm long before I see it. Death hangs heavy over the entire place. It's too quiet. I can sense the restlessness of the farm animals. They can smell the death too. And the fear. The animals aren't used to being neglected in the morning, and after what they heard last night, they fear for their safety.

No, there's another fear tainting the air.

Zeke

The fear amplifies his scent, the one I'd grown used to over the weeks, the woodsmoke and onions and milk and manure that's engrained in his pores being pushed out through his sweat. My shoulder's on fire and my back leg feels like the stitches are ready to pop out, but I break into a run and head straight for the house.

The carcasses strewn about the yard are those of wolves, torn to pieces. One body lies whole amid broken glass. His neck is at an odd angle, likely paralyzed. When I approach him, one dying gray eye rolls toward me, seeking mercy. I grant him that much.

From the open window I smell Zeke and Mr. Whittemore and two other wolves inside, the coppery aroma of blood, lots of blood. Gunpowder stings my nose, and underneath the pungencies of shit and urine.

I hear breathing. One creature inside is alive.

There is no way I can leap through the shattered window like I did last night, and besides, If Mr. Whittemore is still alive in there with Zeke, I'd be smart not to show up as a wolf.

The change to human takes my breath away. I gasp sharply as my leg swells out and pulls the stitches, forcing me to use the house as a brace.

Inside, the living soul hears me.

He sounds almost like Zeke, smells almost like him. He moves when he hears me, readies himself.

"Zeke," I say when I can manage. "It's me, Dan."

I open the door and head inside.

Zeke's fear has not abated. In fact, it fills the air. I hesitate, confused. "Zeke?"

A scrabbling sound. He still hasn't answered. I listen for what he is doing. Dragging something, closing a door. Hiding something. I saw the dead wolves last night. And it smells like Mr. Whittemore is dead too, although that must have occurred after I chased the black wolf.

Slowly, I make my way down the hall, taking care not to slip in one of the many puddles of blood. I note the dark stain on the wall where I was shot, the nearly black puddle on the floor there.

"Zeke, it's only me. Daniel."

Then I smell it –

wolf

and I connect my dream to reality. "Zeke, I know you were bitten. You're probably confused right now. But I can help you. You don't need to be afraid." I reach for the doorknob.

The room inside is dark, the curtains drawn over the broken window. A pair of legs, heavy workboots laced on the feet, stick out from under the bed. I don't see Zeke but I sense him, waiting, in the closet. I keep my face half-turned in that direction as I edge toward the body.

I know Mr. Whittemore is dead, but what I still can't understand is why Zeke would hide his body. And so I need to see it. Pulling him out nearly pulls out my stitches, but then I see.

"Oh, Zeke."

Mr. Whittemore's face is half-eaten, and it looks fresh, blood dripping, no flies yet. His nose and one cheek are entirely gone, leaving slick white bits of bone showing, his teeth forever in a bare grimace.

"I killed him." Zeke's voice is guttural, nearly unintelligible. "I couldn't help it." A choked bark.

"Zeke..."

What can I say to make him feel better, when I murdered my own father? When I killed and ate a toddler?

"I'm a monster!"

I look at the closed closet door. "Zeke, come out."

"Nooo..." But the knob turns, and my friend emerges.

His face belongs in a freak show, his nose black, his mouth stretched wider than is human, his teeth sharp. Pointy wolf ears poke out from under his mop of dirty blond hair. His hands are huge, the fingers ending in black claws.

(have I ever looked like this?)

"I didn't mean to kill him," Zeke yelps, and covers his face with his paws.

### -60-

I explain to Zeke about werewolves, what little I know. I try to talk him through the change

(try to get him back to human)

and I transform several times to give him the image he can use to visualize the process for himself. Nothing works.

"Kayla didn't tell me people can become werewolves by being bitten. I guess it's different than if you're born a werewolf."

Zeke, who at this point is beyond frustrated, punches his hand through the wall. "Why, why, why?" he howls.

"I don't know, but look, everything will be okay. We can find Kayla, and she can help us."

"Nothing's okay!" Another hole in the wall. "Why did you have to come here? Why did you have to ruin everything?"

There's no answer for that. I hang my head. Stare at the destruction around me. All my fault. Yes. All mine. I brought this mess here.

"I'm sorry," I say hoarsely.

Easy to slip down into that black hole of everything's my fault, I'm a monster, everyone I know dies. Much harder to swallow and continue. "We need to go. Pack some clothes and food, let the animals go. We need to leave before night falls."

"Go? Go where?" Zeke demands.

"Just get ready."

I trudge out to the barn and open the stalls. The animals cower inside – they can smell what I am. I leave the barn doors open. Eventually they will look for food. Better they be attacked by some wild animal than starve to death in their stalls.

Using one of Mr. Whittemore's rucksacks, I fill it with bread, cheese, and salted meat. Get dressed and wait for Zeke, who has shut himself in his room. He is crying in there.

I knock. "Zeke, let's go."

"I can't go out there like this," he sobs. "I look like a monster."

"Come on, we'll figure something out."

I find him a big red checkered hunting cap with ear flaps, some mittens, and a big scarf that I arrange to cover the wolfish half of his face.

"We'll be fine as long as we don't get too close to people," I tell him. It's not quite a lie.

Zeke leads us to the roads. It's about three miles of dirt road before we hit pavement, another three before we see any kind of sign.

"Cottonwood Lake," I read. "Where's that?"

Zeke shrugs.

"I mean, like, what state are we in?"

He stares at me before answering. "Nebraska."

Still in Nebraska. Shit.

"What's the closest town?"

"We usually go down to Hyannis. It's not real big, though."

"And the nearest highway?"

"We're on it, Route 61."

Scanning the empty road, I feel my heart sink. We won't get a ride on this road. We should've taken Mr. Whittemore's truck, if only I knew how to drive it.

"Route 2 runs through Hyannis. It don't look much different than this one, but lots more people drive on it."

"How far to Hyannis, then?"

Zeke burrows his nose into his scarf. "About thirty miles."

### * * *

The walking sucks, with the snow drifts piled up on the side of the highway and the frost heaves and pot holes that make even the road treacherous for walking.

We won't make it to Hyannis today. Maybe not even tomorrow. And when we do get there, we'll still be walking. Unless...

(you don't know how to drive but maybe Zeke does)

I think on this as I gather wood for a fire. Most of the wood is wet from the snow, but luckily I packed a box of matches. Instead of helping, Zeke sits in the one dry spot in the clearing and stares at the area where I'm piling kindling and brush. With his hat pulled down over his brows and the scarf up over his nose, his facial expression is completely hidden.

My stomach is growling by the time I get the fire going

by myself

and I sit next to Zeke, not too close, and open the backpack. He doesn't move as I turn the bread, cheese, and meat into a sandwich.

I'd love to tear into it and devour the whole thing myself.

Instead, I hold out half to him. "You want some?"

He stares into the flames.

"Come on, you have to eat. You haven't eaten all day."

No response.

If Zeke is going to have an attitude, fine. Zeke hasn't been eating jailhouse rations for the past two weeks. I take as big a bite as my jaws will allow.

"So," I say after I've eaten, "the best way to stay warm is to use each other's body heat." I clear my throat. "I mean, we don't have to spoon or anything... but it will make sleeping easier. If we're warm, I mean."

Zeke's eyes slide in my direction. Maybe it's the fire reflecting there, but I can guess what he's thinking.

"Or, we can just be cold," I sigh.

I create myself a sort of shelter from the wind, using some fallen trees and branches and packing snow and dead leaves against it. The last I see of Zeke before I close my eyes he is still sitting there, staring at the dying fire.

In my dream I am back in the forest, running after the scent of that black wolf. More and more I can smell the lilacs over the black wolf, but even the lilacs begin to fade. I try to run faster – I'm still injured, and it hurts to run faster – yet the scent grows weaker and weaker, even as my body grows weaker and it's a colossal effort to lift my paws, and the snow seems to be thicker, as high as my chest. I have to find Kayla. I have to find her.

By the time the sun shines into my eyes, waking me, I feel thoroughly exhausted. For a few moments I can't move my arms and legs and I wonder if I'm back in my dream. Then I feel the pinpricks of sensation seeping back into my limbs. I lie there, looking up at the bright sunlight through the tree branches until I can move again, however sorely.

"Zeke?" He's sleeping practically in the embers of the fire. "Zeke, time to get up." I nudge him with the toe of my boot.

A growl rises from within his scarf.

a challenge

I swallow.

"Come on."

"Leave me alone," he snarls, and now his weird half-wolf muzzle emerges from its hiding place, where I'd almost forgotten how freakish it looked. I step back and he rolls, rises into a crouch.

a challenge fight force him to submit

The nausea and dizziness roll over me. "Knock it off, Zeke," I snarl back, shaking as I try to keep myself human.

From the look in Zeke's eyes, I know he is not in control. My hands clench into fists as my vision blurs. Zeke isn't in control, and if I don't keep myself in control, I could wake up to find Zeke torn into pieces.

(or maybe he'll tear me into pieces)

fight dominate he must submit if he wishes to be part of your pack

I swallow, take some deep breaths, all the while keeping eye contact. I stand over him. "Zeke, calm down. No one needs to fight. We're friends, right?"

He definitely growls at me this time. A thick blob of drool leaks out from his deformed mouth. His teeth look very sharp.

"It's probably the wolf in you that's making you act this way. You just have to control the wolf part. Try taking some deep breaths."

He shifts in his crouch, looking even more wolfish than before. This trying to talk him down definitely isn't working.

he will only listen to his alpha wolf make him listen

I need to protect him. It's my fault he's a monster now. If I end up having to fight him, it's only another setback to finding Kayla, to keeping my promise to protect her.

"Zeke," I growl at him. "I am the leader here. I will take care of you. And if you attack me, I will kill you."

I didn't mean to say that last part, but now that it's out, I realize it's true. He needs to make a choice. If he chooses to be my enemy, I will end up killing him. A simple fact.

His gaze flickers downward in recognition that I am his leader.

"Good. Now get up. We need to get moving."

### -61-

It's strange how Zeke's demeanor changes after I threaten him. He's still hard to read, with his face all covered, but he comes along and follows directions without the weird moodiness of yesterday. Around noontime I pull him deeper into the trees alongside the road and ask him to wait. In seconds I shed my clothes and turn wolf.

A family of rabbits has dug a burrow nearby, and I sniff it out, then kill two.

When I return to Zeke, relieved that he hasn't run off, he is starting up a fire. He stares at me while I transform, then quickly averts his eyes.

"It's weird," he says finally. "I could smell what you caught. I figured cooked rabbit would taste better." He throws more wood onto the flames as I zip up my jeans. "Have you always been... this way?"

I unsheathe my knife and start preparing the rabbits. "I guess. I mean, I was born this way... but I didn't know it until I turned thirteen. That was the first time I changed."

"Didn't you know you were different, though? Before?"

I shrug.

Zeke comes over and starts on the other rabbit as I'm skinning the first. "I can smell things I never thought had a smell. I can hear things that must be miles away like they're right next to me." He looks at me. "You must have known."

"I had no idea," I say.

I almost can't believe it myself, but growing up I was so isolated. My parents and Kayla, they all had the same powerful senses. It didn't seem abnormal. They never told me I was abnormal.

(would've been nice if they had, maybe then I wouldn't have spent three years running from myself)

Only the kids at school, but they were mean about everything.

what did you say danny you think i smell like shit well smell this

The swirlies in the boys' bathroom, one time getting upended into the trash can in the cafeteria. The constant headaches from the too-loud chatter of a hundred children all at once, the scraping of chalk on the blackboard, the stink of the dumpster behind the school.

look who smells now but you always smelled like trash didn't you danny you and your drunk-ass dad down there in that trailer your whore of a mother

My grip tightens around the knife and I rip out the rabbits innards with enough force to spray its coagulating blood across the snow.

(it was a long time ago)

(none of that was as bad as what dad did)

It's all in the past, and besides, they didn't pick on me very often. Mostly because I could hear them coming and hide. I thought they bullied me because I wasn't a townie or a rancher. I thought they bullied me because my family was white trash.

Definitely not because I was a werewolf.

After we've eaten, put out the fire, and started walking again, I offer Zeke my idea. "Do you know how to drive a car?"

"I drove my dad's truck a couple of times. Like two feet forward, or backing up."

I nod. "That's good."

"What, you don't know how to drive?"

"No."

"Really? I figured you were old enough to have your license already."

"Nope, just turned sixteen a couple months ago."

"So... if we were to steal a car, you could drive it?"

"Driving on a highway is a lot different from backing the truck up in front of my house." We walk on for a few more minutes. "Besides, you'd need to find a car with keys. I don't know how to hotwire a car. And it'd have to be an automatic. I have no idea how to drive standard."

"It won't be that hard."

By nightfall the big green highway signs tell us we are nearing Hyannis. There's some traffic on the road, but not much. No one slows down for us, anyway. No one wants to pick up two hitchhikers.

"Let's go down into a neighborhood," I suggest. "We check cars in people's driveways. There's gotta be some trusting person who leaves their keys in their unlocked car."

We hit the houses where the lights are off. It's pitch black out now, most people in bed. Zeke takes one side of the street while I take the other. It gets to be a routine. Open the door as quietly as possible. Check the ignition first. Then the visor, then under the floor mat, then the glove box. Then close the door as quietly as possible and move on to the next car. I find a set of keys in a Dodge Ram truck, then notice the stick shift. Zeke hasn't signaled me yet, so I guess he's having the same luck as I am.

We're about halfway down a street called Manderson Ave. when I smell the dog.

It's on Zeke's side, kept in on a screened porch. We must be downwind, because it hasn't scented us yet. From across the street I watch Zeke go right into the driveway and open the car door. He must not have smelled the dog, or maybe he doesn't realize the sort of effect our kind have on dogs.

I shut the door of the Honda I was checking and lope across the street.

"Zeke," I whisper as loudly as I can.

He sees me coming and looks around, presumably to see if the owners of the house are still asleep. All the lights are still off, and so he shrugs at me and continues searching the car.

Maybe it's my footsteps slapping against the pavement, or maybe it's the muffled "Yes!" coming from within Zeke's scarf. Maybe the scent of us two together. The dog launches out of sleep and into a barking frenzy.

"This one has keys!" Zeke says, not even whispering as a light goes on upstairs.

I don't say anything. I shove him into the driver's seat and climb over him.

He takes the hint and closes the car door, puts the key in the ignition.

Then he stares at the steering wheel.

"What are you waiting for?" I hiss. The dog is leaping up against the screens on the porch, its nails scratching. White strings of saliva fly out from its snapping jaws. "Let's go!"

I'm not sure what Zeke says, because most of it is lost in a growl. His mittened hands are clenched into fists.

"No, no, let's just go," I say. "You don't need to fight that dog. Come on. Just turn the key and go!" Inside the house, heavy footsteps are coming down the stairs. Soon the owner is going to stop being pissed at his dog for waking him up and start being pissed at the two delinquents stealing his car.

A growl rises from my own throat as I pull Zeke over to the passenger side hard enough to knock his head against the window. I settle into the driver's seat and turn the key. The car – a messy compact – grumbles to life. I stare at the shifter. Reverse, I need to reverse. There's a red R, must be reverse. I slide the shift to the R.

Zeke roars with vocal chords that are no longer human.

I hit the gas, managing to keep my hands on the steering wheel despite the fact that they are trying to change into clawed paws. As the car spins backward into the street, the pads of my hands slip.

A tearing sound fills the air as Zeke's clothes split.

"Go go go," I tell myself. If I can get Zeke away from that dog's sound and scent, maybe he will calm down. The numbers on the shifter aren't corresponding for me. There's no G for Go, no F for Forward. What is N? What is D, and D2? I try N.

Nothing happens.

"Why the fuck is there a gear that does nothing?" I yell, slamming the shifter clumsily to the next one down, D. The car lurches forward. "Yes!"

Zeke is scrabbling at the door handle, doubly awkward with his mittens and the paws inside of them. Most of his clothes are still on him, though split to accommodate the change. His face has elongated into a wolfish muzzle, but there's no fur. I tear my gaze away from him to hunt for the button that will lock all the doors, it doesn't seem to be there. And I'm still driving, sliding across the icy road much faster than I want to be.

Finally I find the button, and just in time, too – I'm at Route 2, sliding into the road, my foot pressing down on the brake. Bright lights, a long blaring horn, Zeke slams sideways then on top of me, then he rights himself. The car slides off the road and into a low snow bank. Stops. Finally.

I take a moment to breathe and get myself together. The windshield has fogged up and is slowly clearing with the heat blowing. "Okay," I say. "Okay."

I look at Zeke.

"You'd better get a little closer to human," I tell him. When he stares at me blankly, helplessly

(I don't know how to do this)

I growl at him. "Change back!" I bark. The slightest hesitation from him, a shifting of his eyes and I'm on him, holding him with my stare. "Human. Now."

With our eyes locked together, his pupils dilate. Beneath my hands I feel his body shifting. I return to the driver's seat, still maintaining eye contact.

"That's better."

I take up the wheel again, relieved that the snow bank has kept the car from rolling away.

"How did you do that?" Zeke asks. His voice is clear now. I glance at him – there's no trace left of the wolf in his face. "It's like your voice... did something. Activated the change. You told me to change and I had to do it."

I say nothing. Keep my eyes on the icy black road ahead. It did feel like that, like a pull on my brain, a push of energy, giving him my power to control the transformation. Kayla never mentioned anything like this, although she did something similar a few times. Calmed me down so I didn't change. Some kind of psychic injection of calmness.

It's interesting but I can't think too much on it. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel. It hits me: I'm driving for the first time.

### -62-

I wake up with a start, my breath frosting into the air. It only takes me a moment to remember that Zeke and I pulled into a WalMart parking lot late last night and fell asleep. Zeke's still conked out, his seat reclined and his fist curled under his chin.

Of course, then I also have to recall that Zeke is now an orphan no thanks to me, and that I'm driving a stolen car that by now has probably been reported to the police.

With that in mind, I start up the car and get the hell out of there. Zeke mumbles something and falls back to sleep. What a stupid idea. We thought it'd be for the best parking at a 24-hour WalMart, where people wouldn't wonder why a car was parked there all night. But now the sun is up and everyone in the world must have seen us sleeping. And WalMart parking lots have security cameras. We should've found some deserted road and parked there, where no police cruiser would happen to drive by and see two teenagers crashed out in a car and run the plates.

We were damn lucky not to get caught.

I find myself on a highway, Route 2 East. Of course, the opposite direction I want to go. I don't dare try to figure out how to change direction and continue driving at exactly the speed limit while cars zoom by. Don't want to attract any attention to ourselves.

"I'm hungry," Zeke says a short time later.

"Got any money?" I ask.

"No."

"Me neither."

We're quiet for a time, until Zeke's stomach's rumbling gets too loud. He switches on the radio, and punches through the radio's preset buttons. Classic rock, heavy metal, pop rock, commercial jingle, more classic rock. "Dad always liked listening to the news." It's impossible to mistake the sadness in his voice. Finally he stops on a station playing Led Zeppelin.

"Leave it," I say. I always liked Led Zeppelin, those few times whoever I hitched a ride with liked classic rock. The songs all felt like they were about travelling, roaming, wandering... sort of like me, I guess.

About twenty minutes later a yellow light appears on the dashboard. "What does that mean?" I figure it out as I say the words. "Crap."

"What?" Zeke leans over to look. "Oh."

The gas gauge's needle points right at the red letter E, and the yellow light is in the shape of a gas pump.

"So, uh, we've got no money," I reiterate from our previous conversation. "Any other suggestions?"

"I guess we could steal some gas." Zeke shrugs. "I know how to siphon gas, if we can get a hose and maybe a funnel."

Where on earth would we get a hose? "Or we could steal another car."

"We could rob a gas station, like hold someone at gunpoint and make them fill our tank."

"How about we call a tow truck, then steal that?"

Zeke and I trade a few more suggestions before we can't think of anything more ridiculous and our immediate dilemma sinks in. We drive in silence.

"How long after the low fuel light comes on before the tank is actually empty?" I ask.

"No clue."

When the car runs out of gas a few miles later, we have no choice but to get out and start walking.

"It was a good idea, while it lasted," Zeke says.

"Thanks."

For a time I wonder if it would be better if we turned wolf and crossed the miles that way, the way Kayla always wanted to do, the way Kayla and I did during those dark days I barely remember until I woke to find I'd eaten a child. For the first time I wonder what the point of leaving that injured, helpless creature there was. Kayla said the other pack left the little girl there as some kind of bait, and clearly it worked – I showed up, didn't I? – yet the other pack didn't attack us. Were they watching, just trying to get a good look at their competition?

If so, what did they see? A monster, or a pathetic starving piece of shit with no respect for human life?

Maybe Kayla was lying. To make me not feel like a monster.

It's better for us to be human, Zeke and I. Maybe I can control Zeke and maybe it was just a fluke, but if Zeke got out of control what would I do, when I can barely control myself?

Just as I think this, Zeke growls, "I'm hungry."

Shit.

I look around at the desolate whiteness surrounding us. Even if there was a rabbit prancing along right at that moment, no way I could hunt it down, not with all the traffic on this road and no trees. "Look." I point to a sign up ahead. "Truck stop, four miles. Think you can wait that long?"

Zeke mumbles what I hope is an okay.

I'm hoping for a diner where we can chew and screw, or maybe do some dishes to pay for our meals if they're feeling generous and Zeke hasn't killed anyone yet. What I get, as I go on almost 24 hours without food, is a rest stop with a couple of vending machines.

We break into a run and assault the machines with little regard for the two truckers whose big rigs are idling in the parking lot and the family belonging to the beige minivan. The rest stop is basically two restrooms with a roof bridging the space between and protecting the vending machines. Zeke's muttering gibberish and growls and I hold back, alert to see how human he appears, ready to grab him if he begins to look too wolfish. He smashes the glass front of one of the machines and grabs bags of chips, cookies, I can barely see what he's taking because it seems like he's grown bigger, taking up the space that was once the glass front of the machine.

"Okay, Zeke, I think you've got enough," I say.

His head whips around and all I see are teeth bared at me.

Just then, a mother and her school-age daughter walk out of the women's restroom. I see the way the mother pushes her daughter behind her, how they cower against the wall, fearfully taking in the two teen boys who have destroyed a vending machine. Maybe she doesn't see Zeke's wolfish face pushing out, but she knows something's wrong and once she runs to her car with her daughter in tow, she'll dial the police on her cell phone and then we'll be caught.

"Zeke, let's go."

I head out the other side of the rest stop building, toward the back of the parking lot. My brain feels a pull when I turn away, but I pull back and then I hear Zeke's footsteps echoing mine.

Hunkered down behind some thorny bushes, I try to eat some of the packaged food. It's too salty – my throat is dry, and I end up coughing. I wait, listening for the sound of sirens after the minivan peels off, but there's nothing.

"Wait here," I tell Zeke. Not that it matters. He's in a feeding frenzy and I can see wrappers going down along with the chips.

Back at the rest stop I listen for anyone else in the bathrooms, but the two truckers from before must have gone. I head into the bathroom.

When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, it really surprises me that the woman didn't call the police. I've got blood on my temple – not my blood, either – and myriad bruises and cuts on my face. I shove my face into the sink and gulp water until my mouth gets too cold, then try to scrub the blood off. Ears alert for approaching footsteps, I untuck my shirt and lift it to look at my ribs.

The bandage is dark red and stiff. I pick at the tape and slowly peel it away to check out the real damage. With everything going on, my injuries have been the last thing on my mind. The stitches held up pretty well, considering the changes my body went through. The thread broke in the middle and unraveled, leaving about an inch of half-healed skin. I touch the white scar tissue lightly. Still sore, but healed. I just hope the inside has healed as well as the outside.

I don't want it to get infected, so I wash it carefully and stick some of the tape I salvaged from the soiled bandage to a folded up square of toilet paper that will serve as a clean dressing. Better than nothing.

Next, my leg.

With my foot on the sink and my jeans rolled up, I can see that my leg's looking even better than my ribs. Completely healed, and only the faintest of white lines where the teeth of the bear trap bit. I yank out these stitches as well and wash my leg. Good as new.

I gulp some more water and start to wash my hair in the sink before remembering Zeke out there in the woods eating snack packs of Lays and Doritos and Chips Ahoy. He's never been hungry like I've been. I imagine he's ravenous. And who knows if he might black out and start killing people like I might have at his age.

Drying off my hair with a fistful of paper towels, I rush back out to where Zeke was.

He's gone.

### -63-

The smell lurks in the air, so heavy I'm not sure how I didn't smell it before, when Zeke and I were eating. They must have been here watching us even then. My shoulders slump and I stare at the mess of cellophane and wrappers on the ground. All I had smelled was the food.

snap out of it

They can't be far. I was only in a bathroom a few minutes. A quick glance around tells me the rest stop is deserted. I take off my clothes, scowling at the cold air as I stash them behind a tree, and

change

The scent is clearer now, painfully clear. Zeke's unwashed body odor drowns out that piney milk smell I once associated with him. But there's that black wolf smell again, that wild musky smell. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I don't smell any others.

I don't smell lilacs, either.

I follow the scent. It's strong here where Zeke and I sat, spreading wider than where we had crouched. Zeke must have put up a fight. I circle until I find a trail leading away. Strong, so strong I can run and still follow it. Winding into the trees, then back toward the rest stop. It stops before the rest stop. Exhaust and motor oil fills the air.

As a wolf I can't see as well as when I'm human, so I change to make sure. A narrow dirt road, more of a dead end, coming from the rest area parking lot, the perfect place to hide a car. A car was here. I can see the tire tracks from when it drove off in a hurry.

Footprints of several people scuffling around are here too.

Trudging back to where I've hidden my clothes, I puzzle through this. The black wolf came back, and took Zeke away in a car. I have no idea where they're headed. Or why the black wolf didn't stay to take me on.

It occurs to me that it was the black wolf who bit Zeke in the first place, so maybe Zeke and this other wolf have some kind of connection. Maybe I can't be Zeke's alpha if he was bitten by someone else.

It occurs to me that I should have changed back into wolf form instead of hiking back through the snow, as my feet are now completely numb.

I get there soon enough, half running to keep warm, and start pulling on my clothes. I don't know if I can track down Zeke, but I do know that if I can ever bet back home, at the very least my mother and my aunt can help me out. And Kayla, if she has been killed by those other wolves already.

No time to think about it. I slip-slide-run into the parking lot, look around. A man in flannel and a down vest is coming out of the bathroom, heading for the big rig idling next to the building. "Hey," I call, slowing down when I see that I've startled him. "Hi. Can you give me a ride?"

"A ride?" The trucker's gaze flickers back and forth. He's trying to come up with an excuse not to. I'm so used to getting rides only from people who stop that I'm rendered speechless for a few moments.

"I need to get to Montana," I say. "Please." I finally catch his eye and plead with my own.

Montana please important Kayla Zeke need to get there

He scratches up under his cap, where the hair is sparser than the gray ruff around his ears. "That's a far piece off. I'm only going as far as Rapid City."

"Great! That would be great! Thank you!" So he didn't come out and agree to give me a ride, but my enthusiasm must have eased his fears of serial killer hitchhikers, because after giving my second-hand clothes and lack of any supplies a once-over, he nods and walks toward his truck.

We've been on the road cruising north for a time before he says, "My name's Roy."

"I'm Dan."

"What's in Montana?"

I remember a time when someone asking me all kinds of questions would have made me dizzy and murderous. I can control the wolf now. I don't have to hide now. I have a mission, a purpose. No more running away.

"Home."

### -64-

In Rapid City Roy drops me off when he stops at the end of the off-ramp. "Thanks," I say, hopping down. I walk back up to the highway, and keep walking until finally the exhaustion catches up to me. I need food. No one's gonna stop for me on a highway this big, a highway peppered with signs prohibiting hitchhiking.

I veer off, away from the road. This is all barren, covered in snow. Rolling hills upon hills of white. I slog through over the crest of a hill and collapse. I'm not sure I can control my wolf when I'm this hungry. I'm not sure there's even any animals to hunt out here. Not many other options.

My clothes I leave in a heap on the ground.

Sharp, the smells are sharp, crisp. The faintest whiff of prairie dog and I'm racing across the crust of snow, sniffing and digging and crunching down bones and fur that I then have to cough up. Then I keep running. I'm tired but my wolf isn't; I give him enough free rein that he goes into autopilot, finding north with one of those animal instincts humans lost along the way. Finding home.

I've got a few hundred miles to go.

### * * *

My paws hurt. When my wolf gets tired I take over. Running and running and running. In my waking dreams I see Kayla. Though her lips move, I cannot hear her speak.

I collapse after the second sunset. The paw prints leading to my location in the snow are bloody. In the darkness no dreams come, but I feel a presence in the darkness. Is it the black wolf, come to torment me in my sleep? The exhaustion doesn't give me any energy to worry.

A prickling scent awakens me in the late morning. It feels as though only moments have passed but night has passed into early dawn. I stretch, shake off the sleep, then crouch low to the ground while I try to discern the scent.

Smoke, from a distant chimney. The sky is a stark blue with no hint of any fire burning nearby.

A family must be warming themselves by their fireplace some ways off, behind the trees. I turn to continue north, when the prickling becomes less about the smoke than another scent behind it. A feeling.

Not a chimney. I inhale. Not a little fireplace fire. Something big is burning. An entire house, a forest? I can't explain the jittery feeling chattering over nerves. Though my stomach is empty, I close my eyes and let the wolf guide me.

danger help save run protect the pack

I rise up and we run together, my wolf's fear fueling us. My pack – Kayla, Zeke? I imagine them bound and gagged, at the mercy of the black wolf and his alpha, that unknown enemy. Running running running – beating the ground like a war drum, spurring me on.

And on.

And on.

In the wilderness there are no signs, nothing to say "Wolf Point – 5 miles." I run and run, the pounding of paws on earth becoming the rhythm of my breathing and my heartbeat. I stop only to eat and to rest long enough for my paws to heal.

The landscape blurs beneath us. I smell a familiar scent – a train – and suddenly I am transported.

Tracks run through Wolf Point. Every night I used to fall asleep with the lonely train whistle filling the night, the smell of rusting iron, the screech of metal brakes...

These would be the same for any railroad.

(the chances that this is the same track)

it is the same

(can't be sure)

home it leads home

I follow the wolf's instincts. We run alongside the tracks, in the level land beside the rails. Trains roar past, sending a flurry of icy wind against my matted coat of fur.

More and more familiar smells assault my nose, a combination of the exhaust from pickup trucks, cow manure, the roadside trash, the mushy slop from the school cafeteria, the fried oil of the local bar and grill, hiding under the thick greasy stench of fire.

Now I'm tearing through cow pastures, startling bovines drifting off to sleep in the twilight. I'm racing down familiar roads, cutting across lawns. I follow the fire, but I know where it is. Hoping I'm wrong. The whining sirens reach my ears and the adrenaline pumps in my veins.

Across a road, narrowly avoiding trucks and their blinding headlights. Up that long dirt road that winds up into the hills, away from everyone else, strobes of red and blue pulsating against the sky. The sirens' wail is deafening; without my hearing I find myself shrinking back into the trees, slowing down, approaching cautiously. The scent of humans is all around, and I can see them, clustered around the smoking wreck that barely resembles a house.

So many times I've imagined my return home. Trudging up the driveway, my mother framed in the screen door, sometimes happy, other times angry or sad. But always the house was there, and my mother always waiting for me.

Instead, my house is empty.

### -65-

Lurking in the shadows, I watch the ashes of my house crumble into a pile. The firefighters have given up at this point. Maybe they never cared to begin with. Maybe by the time they got up here, it was too late, and all they cared about was preventing a forest fire. No one is here, crying for the loss of their home, no neighbors to explain anything. The firemen and cops stand around, occasionally spraying at embers, talking in small groups.

Darkness descends, creeping in from the trees and stealing over the charred remains of the house. I wait for the fire trucks to lumber off, for the police cars to wander away and attend to more pressing business, leaving behind ribbons of bright yellow caution tape to keep the onlookers at bay. And there are onlookers, backcountry people from further up the mountains, hungry for a taste of someone else's misery or a possible usable object from the ashes. Once the officials leave I watch these people pick through the remains of my old life. The ashes must still be too hot, for they stay on the edges and drift off.

After so many days and nights of running, I am at a loss. This was my goal, my only destination, and now that it has turned into a dead end, I'm not sure what to do next. The exhaustion settles over me like an iron blanket, and I lie down in the frosty leaves and fall asleep, the scent of smoke as my blanket.

### * * *

In the morning I blink awake, shaking off what I first believe is snow on my eyelashes and fur. Then I realize I am covered in ash. Black smudges mar the snowy ground and mark my pelt.

Where to go from here? Somewhere a war is being waged, a war in which I am supposed to be the heroic warrior who saves his beloved and his faithful sidekick. Too bad I can't even find the battle ground.

The black scorch mark on the earth hasn't left much of a trail for me to follow. I can't tell if my mother was here when the fire began, or if she escaped. Surely there would have been a trail leading away if she had, but I can't find one – the smoke is clogging my nose and making it impossible to scent anything. I nose around the wreckage hoping to find something, some relic of my childhood to carry away

(how would I carry it I'm a wolf now)

There's nothing. A howl of sadness erupts from deep within me, echoing through the mountains. It trails in my wake long after I've left Wolf Point, headed south.

### -66-

The heating vent blows directly on my head. It's a welcome respite from the cold outside and I can only hope the waitress turns a blind eye long enough for the crust of snow and ice to melt from my gloves, and for the shivering to stop. I only had enough change for a cup of coffee, which I try to drink fast enough for the waitress to offer me a warm-up.

The diner, some nameless joint with the neon "R" burnt out on the sign, has the sense of passing through. Not quite a truck stop. The other customers look road-weary, not like townies or regulars – there's no town near enough for townies. The waitresses are harried, worn down, like they just want to earn enough money to get out of this place. I'm not even sure where this place is. Some town in South Dakota. All the town names blur together.

It's been a month since I returned home. A month since I abandoned any hope that I might be a hero to somebody. For a while I thought I'd live as a wolf, and spent weeks in some other consciousness, letting the wolf take care of me. It got to be very lonely. Not that I'm less lonely as a human, but I thought it might be nice to be around other people and feel warm. Especially after I had to wander around in the cold night air scavenging clothes out of a big metal donation bin in a strip mall parking lot, and raiding a number of drive-through windows for lost change. It took me almost all night to come up with enough for this cup of coffee.

You can't imagine how nice it is to be surrounded by the sounds people make, the rambling conversations and the clink of silverware and the frying of food, and the flickering light of the TV bolted up near the ceiling. No sound but there are closed captions and I read the transcript of whatever's on, even when I try to look away. During the early afternoon there were soap operas the waitresses stopped to watch, then some afterschool cartoons. Now it's the evening news. A steady stream of babble to keep my mind off of other things.

The smell from the grill back in the kitchen makes my stomach growl, and I know I won't be able to sit here much longer.

"Hey, turn that up," calls a waitress who's sitting in a booth right behind me on her break. Her voice jolts me out of staring at my coffee.

My waitress, for now behind the counter, finds the remote control and suddenly sound blares into the diner. As soon as I hear the topic of the news story I freeze.

"...received more reports of wild dogs attacking people. Jack and Charlotte Early, an elderly couple from Frazer, were out walking Monday evening when they spotted a large pack of wild dogs." A tremble enters the hand wrapped around my lukewarm coffee mug – Frazer is the next town over from Wolf Point. The camera focuses on a woman labeled as Charlotte Early. "They looked almost like wolves," she says before the shot returns to a young woman with straight blond hair sleekly cut above the shoulders of her black trench coat. She is labeled as Justine Willis, Field Reporter. "The couple called the police department, but by the time animal control officers arrived, the dogs had left the area, leaving behind one victim – an unidentified man in his early twenties, who was presumably out running." Cut to a shot of a hospital. "The man was brought to Trinity Hospital in Wolf Creek in critical condition. At some point during the night, however, the man disappeared from the hospital."

"Spooky," said one of the waitresses.

The waitress behind me shushes her as Justine Willis, Field Reporter reappears on the screen.

"This is the fifth victim of a wild dog attack in the past month..." The fifth? I'm sure they're not including the "wild dogs" that followed me and Lila through Nebraska, either. My mind races to conclusions about what the wild dogs really are and what they're doing out by Wolf Point.

"...Brian Boysen of the Montana Animal Care Association offered some precautions." A middle-aged man with thick brown hair squinted at the camera. "First, never approach a wild animal. These animals might look like dogs, but domesticated dogs will not be traveling in packs. Usually wild animals will be scared off by loud noises. If this does not work, and the animals approach you, back away slowly, avoiding eye contact. By all reports, the victims have all been runners who most likely attempted to run away. Running will only trigger the animal to chase you. Above all, remember there is safety in numbers." Justine continues over a blue screen showing a phone number, "Please contact animal control if you spot these wild dogs."

The diner buzzes with an interest I can't figure out. I'm pretty far away from Wolf Point, at least 50 miles. What are these people worried about? I, on the other hand, have reason to worry. The werewolf war is going to come to everyone's attention if these enemy packs keep attacking humans. Then I remember how Zeke got bit, and I begin to think that maybe the other werewolves are trying to up their numbers by making new wolves.

I have to go. Like, right now, I need to run and find Kayla because I'm sure they still have her. Who knows what they're doing to her.

I'm getting up to leave when the waitress behind me says, "My neighbors got attacked, and I called the police, and it never even made the news. I bet the news people don't even know about it."

"The Baileys, right?"

"No, their last name was Oliver, this younger couple. No kids. They went out for a walk like they do every night, and I heard the dogs barking and all, I saw them out my front window just attack them and that's when I called the police."

"Well, I heard some woman with the last name of Bailey got attacked out your way. Laura Bailey. She lived on Wells Road, that little dirt road off yours?"

"When was this?"

"Last night."

"Shit."

I sit back down. My ears are on overdrive. More people attacked, more werewolves, a whole army of them. How many of these people survived the attacks? How many of these victims know what they are now?

More voices join the conversation. Everyone seems to know someone who knows someone who got attacked. The numbers pile up in my head. Someone asks why the police haven't done anything, and suddenly I'm wondering if there aren't werewolves among the police, if this army of new werewolves isn't now linked to the police and the military, and what the hell is a lone wolf like me supposed to do about it?

"Are you okay?"

The voice cuts in and I snap back to the reality of the diner and the spilled coffee in front of me. I yank a fistful of napkins from the dispenser and mop up the mess.

"I'm fine," I tell the waitress.

I throw the soggy napkins into the trash on my way out.

### -67-

I should be able to smell them, even in human form. It took me forever to find the road they were talking about, Wells Road, it wasn't on any map but the guy at the gas station knew where it was, and here I am, out where some lady got attacked by wild dogs just last night, and I'm not smelling anything. It hasn't snowed since last night, hasn't snowed for a week, no chance for the elements to wash away the scent. Looks like it's finally warming up into March. The dirt road is long and I'm tired and on edge and staring at the half-frozen puddles watching for a paw print or scuffle mark or anything to indicate their presence, because I can't smell a damned thing.

I should be able to smell them. I pass two houses buried deep in the trees and then the dirt road trails off into nothing, and I yell, kick a tree, then sit in the snow to nurse my foot. Where are they? How are they hiding?

My head bumps time against the tree trunk. Why can't it be easy? Why can't I find them? Everyone's gone. Kayla, Zeke, my mom. Maybe they're dead. And if they weren't, what could I do to save them?

Bump, bump, bump.

The forest is still, no birds chirping. Water dripping from the trees and soft clumps of snow falling. I think I can sit here forever, my ass growing numb, I can melt into the forest and become it. I close my eyes.

(Daniel)

It's a whisper. I imagine I can smell Kayla, her lilac-wild scent, her hair falling over her bare shoulder.

(I'm here)

I sit up straight, eyes scanning between the trees. In a few moments I close my eyes and listen hard. Take deep breaths, filtering through everything I smell for that one hint of lilac.

(where are you I can't find you)

Softly the answer comes, almost too quiet.

(I'm here)

I stand up and begin taking off my clothes. I drop them unceremoniously into the snow. The change trembles in me, or maybe that's the cold. Before it comes, I kick my stuff behind a tree. Then I'm a wolf.

It's like putting on a pair of glasses. Suddenly every sound and scent is ten times clearer.

Of course, it's a bit too late.

The black wolf emerges from only twenty feet away. I stare him, feeling my lips curl back to reveal my fangs, angry that he was hiding so close, angry that he has some way to hide from me, angry that Kayla is around and I'm sure it's this one, the black wolf, who has taken her and harmed her.

He snarls back at me.

Two more wolves walk out from behind bushes and trees where I was so certain, only seconds ago, that nothing and no one could possibly be there. From behind me my senses snap with the sound of more wolves crunching over the snow, exhaling meaty breaths into the cold air. Three – no, five – make that seven wolves behind me. All walking toward me. Tightening the noose.

I'm surrounded.

I could try to fight them, and my wolf wants that. I could rip them to shreds. Surrounded like I am, I won't get too far fighting them all at once. This isn't like the attack outside Zeke's barn, where only a couple could come at me at once. This isn't even like when I killed my father and uncles – there were only three of them. Ten against one. I might fight better than most of them, but it will be hard to fight with so many wolves on my back. And I can't assume I can fight better than most of them. They know something I don't, this invisibility stuff.

There's only one other option.

I hesitate, not knowing which way to run. I want to run back the way they came, however they got here, but without a scent to go by, it's impossible to know.

Well, it's probably not down the road, the way I came.

I dart at the wolves at my left shoulder. They've been waiting for this, and gather their haunches to leap at me, but as soon as they jump I slide, stiff-legged and belly on the ground, beneath them. They thought I was going to fight. Now the chase is on.

Darting through the snow, narrowing avoiding trees, branches whipping my face and making my eyes tear, I can hear them panting, leap, racing after me. Now I know how those rabbits and squirrels felt as I chased them. Blindly running away, unable to stop and think of a way to outsmart the predator behind them. I can't look for a scent.

trees branch duck jump dodge bush jump faster faster faster

Their scent grows closer, hot and heavy on my heels. The adrenaline of panic has worn off and pain stabs my lungs with each breath, my muscles burning with each step.

And then for a split second I get a whiff of lilacs, and I nearly stop short.

Teeth cutting into my leg forces me to buck off my pursuer and keep running. Behind me, however, I hear noises other than those of pursuit. Short growls followed by sharp whimpers that cut off so fast they leave an echo in the cold air of the forest. I smell more wolves now, though I can't see them.

I dig into the snow and run as fast as my tiring muscles will allow, and finally I feel the wolves behind me backing off. I'm outrunning them!

Daniel

Her voice, so clear in my head, stops me. I pivot on my front legs, whipping around into a crouch, ready in case that black wolf is behind me, somehow tricking me with Kayla's voice and scent.

Instead of the enemy pack behind me, racing to catch up, a different set of wolves – three of them - stand panting at intervals along the way I came. Their sides heave, and blood streaks their fur. A couple of wolf carcasses lay cut open, their glistening red innards steaming into the cool air. I'm not sure how I know these are different wolves, and not enemy wolves, but I do. Something about their scent is _pack_. They smell as familiar as Sunday dinner.

_Kayla?_ I send out, looking for her toffee-colored fur.

The wolves move toward me, but one makes her way to the front of the pack. I yell, "Kayla!" which comes out as a yelp because I've forgotten that I'm not human, and run to her, my wolf fur melting off along the way until my bare limbs are floundering in the snow. I throw my arms around the ruff of her neck and hug her until her pelt fades away and we're grasping one another, skin to skin.

"What just happened?" I ask. "Did you kill all of them?" There are only four wolves including Kayla, against all those other wolves. Against ten other wolves.

"We managed to ambush them while they were chasing you," Kayla explains, smiling and breathing hard. "We knew they were setting a trap for you, so we got here first. It worked out perfectly. They never knew we were here. We were able to start at the back of the pack and pick them off, one by one. Some got away, but we killed two and injured at least five others."

"The black one?"

She shakes her head. "He was the leader of this attack, the most powerful one of this group. He sensed our presence, and took off before we even got close."

"I couldn't smell them," I tell her. "They didn't have a scent at all until I turned wolf."

Kayla nods. "Pack magic."

Finally I turn my attention from Kayla to the other wolves surrounding us, keeping a respectful distance. "This is our pack?"

"All that's left." Kayla gazes at the others, and they take this as a signal to reveal their human forms.

"Mom!" I cry. "Aunt Julie!" As for the third, I don't recognize him. He doesn't look like my dad, or my uncles. He looks to be a few years older than me, maybe in his early twenties, with curly blond hair and eyes of such a pale blue that at first glance I wonder if he's blind. But he's looking directly at me, not in a challenging way. More like he's waiting for me. Finally, when it becomes apparent that he will not be the first to speak, I ask, "Who are you?"

"My name is Remy Loupe," he states. And again waits.

Loupe was my grandmother's maiden name. I recall what Kayla had told me, about my great-grandfather, Fallon Loupe, and the four children who managed to escape his killing spree. Remy must be the son or grandson of one of the other survivors.

I nod, and Remy drops his eyes. Tension I hadn't been aware of dissolves from the air. I sense that he was not the leader, even among three women. It's strange to me that he is willing to allow me, someone much younger and less experienced, to have a higher place in the pack.

Daniel

Kayla has returned to wolf form, and quickly the others follow suit. I'm still sitting on my bare ass in the snow. I look into her deep brown eyes.

You don't need me to be your leader, do you?

I made a mistake, putting this all on your shoulders. You are strong – but together we can be stronger.

For some reason, this makes my shoulders droop with relief. I melt into wolf.

Together... I like that idea.

It's hard to tell if she's smiling, but I can feel her happiness radiating into me. I don't have to be some impossible superhero responsible for saving the world. I don't have to protect Kayla, and she doesn't have to protect me. We can look out for each other.

We head off toward home, Kayla and I, shoulder to shoulder, surrounded by our family.

###

### Other Books in the Wolf Point Series

About the Author

Kate Spofford lives in New Hampshire and works as a young adult librarian. In her spare time she writes novels and trains for the circus. For more information, visit her online at http://www.katespofford.wordpress.com.

Published by Kate Spofford at Smashwords

Copyright © 2013 by Kate Spofford

Cover design by Kate Spofford

Cover background image by Margus Saluste (<http://www.sxc.hu/gallery/msaluste>),

used with permission

Cover foreground image by Amir Kurbanov, used with permission

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did

not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to

Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

of this author.

First eBook Edition: September 2013

