 
### The Color of Night

### by Jack Thomas

Copyright 2011 by Jack Thomas

Published at Smashwords

Discover other titles by Jack Thomas at Smashwords.com.

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.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For my parents.

~~~~~

### Part One

### ~

### The Crow

Chapter 1

The students were the same age, the curriculum was practically identical, and everybody had access to the same internet and TV channels as the rest of America. But to Patrick, Hillward High was extremely different.

In fact, almost every aspect of the town was in stark contrast to the city. Whereas Santa Casilda was a bustling metropolitan sprawl of skyscrapers and warehouse retail stores gathered around the intersection of two major freeways, Hillward was a sleepy town nestled about a one- or two-mile stretch of highway, woods and mountains to the north and open fields to the south. There were no buildings with more than two stories, and even the ones with two were rare. There were no furniture stores or electronics retailers or malls, and in fact not a single restaurant or shop that even belonged to a franchise or chain.

But if Patrick had to choose one major difference between the two places, above all else it would be that Hillward was quiet. There was no rush of endless cars streaming from dozens of surrounding streets, no screaming road-ragers, no clanking and whirring machinery constantly worrying at some part of the road or constructing another new building... It was the only place Patrick had ever lived where there was any sort of true silence to be had. Even of the few wooded areas that his old city did house, not one was large enough to take you from the ever-present sound of the freeway—that inescapable, distant roaring sound much like that of the ocean.

There were cars in Hillward, but when one departed from Deer Creek—the main road through town which reclaimed its status as a highway on either end—they were sparse. Screaming children were normally only found at the single joint elementary and middle school during recess and after classes dismissed for the day. And though the time Patrick had spent in this town had been very short, he was impressed by the fact that he had yet to see a single bulldozer or any sign of construction. There was a sort of hush that lay over the town like a blanket. The quiet seemed more of an actual presence than the constant sound of the city ever had.

His old high school housed a student body of well over a thousand kids, and with such numbers it was only natural for a student to complete his senior year having only learned a small fraction of his fellow students' names. Small cliques formed throughout the school, and unless some enterprising soul did something particularly attention-grabbing, you wouldn't find much reason to learn the names of anyone outside your clique or your classes. The outcasts were especially isolated, and the rare ultra-populars attained near-celebrity status. It was hard to find a person who didn't dress in their nicest and most fashionable clothes every single day. All the girls wore perfume and the boys cologne, perhaps to make their existence a little harder to ignore; it was easy to get lost in the sea of jabbering heads as they all clambered to their next class. Everyone cool listened to the same popular music, and anyone who didn't were members of those especially quiet cliques who fiercely opposed the Populars, distancing themselves from the rest of the school as if it were a society in itself, the views and ideals of which they would not stand for. _They_ all listened to the same "unpopular" music.

One very interesting thing that Patrick noticed when he arrived at Hillward High was that even though school had only been in session for a few weeks, everyone already seemed to know each other. In the halls he heard kids who were obviously of different grades calling to one another and talking jovially. He supposed that in a town so small it must be much easier to get to know the students around you, but still it made for some odd sights; a sophomore even talking to a freshman was strange, and the two knowing each others' names was downright bizarre.

The room in which Patrick sat held about half of the entire junior class of Hillward High, and this was oddly unsettling. The large, chaotic, and impersonal world around him had been replaced by an environment in which the majority of the people had grown up together—a group almost small enough to be called a family. Somehow this made him feel more isolated than he had even felt during his freshman year at his old high school.

It didn't take long to begin noticing the differences in the students themselves. While there were still a handful of those who wore sports jerseys and terribly tight pants and freshly purchased sneakers or flats and had their hair bleached and highlighted or died black and slicked over at an odd angle, most of them dressed much more comfortably. Everywhere he looked he saw worn out skate shoes with duct tape holding them together, patched up hoodies, very "broken in" pairs of jeans, t-shirts that looked like hand-me-downs, and at least one pair of sweat pants. Patrick wore a new set of jeans, a green t-shirt and skate shoes in an attempt to look neutral during his first day in this foreign world, but somehow ended up feeling more out of place than he would have liked.

Not that anyone was giving him much attention anyway. Everyone was caught up in their own conversations or worrying at last-minute changes to their homework. Two people, however, caught Patrick's eye.

The first was a guy sitting a few seats to his right and one row up. He stood out at first because he wasn't talking to anyone. He sat slumped in his chair, staring at the front of the room with disinterested, half-lidded eyes, as if these first few minutes in the classroom had already proven much too boring to handle. The other feature that made him stand out significantly was his size; when Patrick got a good enough look at him, he guessed the guy would probably stand close to a head above everyone else were he to rise from his seat. He looked old enough to be out of high school and well on his way in a career of college football. He sported broad shoulders and huge arms, as well as somewhat of a barrel-neck. If Patrick's grandfather were still alive, he would have said the boy was built like an ox, or at least could clobber one.

When Patrick's eye began to wander nervously once again, he noticed a girl sitting in the front row, close to the door. Like the barrel-necked guy, she stood out because she was sitting quietly by herself. She didn't seem unhappy to be in class however, and waited patiently for the teacher to arrive, occasionally flipping through her binder and checking some note or making a scribble on what seemed a random page.

And while he was hesitant to admit it, Patrick also found her to be kind of pretty. She had very straight long, blonde hair, and wore plain small-rimmed glasses. Her dress was blue with flowers on it, and it was complimented by a long white blouse. She was dressed like someone much older than she was, and he supposed that this was what he found so refreshing about her look.

While he was thinking this, she turned and met his eyes. Reacting on an instinct developed over so many years at a large and very impersonal school, Patrick immediately looked away as if it had been an accident. But in the very last split instant before he turned he saw her mouth stretch into a big smile. By the time this image had registered in his mind he had already turned. He considered looking again and smiling back at her, but too soon the moment had passed and he was left staring at the front of the room, feeling very awkward and not daring to turn back in her direction.

Hardly a minute later the teacher walked through the door. She was an older woman, very homely and friendly looking. She had curly grey hair and wore a blue button-up shirt with a matching skirt. Her small, round glasses gave her the perfect grandmotherly look, especially when perched in front of her round cheeks and small, cheery eyes. Patrick had learned earlier that her name was Mrs. Spotts.

The class didn't begin to quiet down until she had walked to her desk and begun taking her teaching materials out of her bag. When she started talking the few remaining students who were chatting finally fell silent.

"Good morning, everybody," she said with a voice that was very cheerful and seemed much smaller than she was. "I hope you all had a good weekend." She took one final book out of her bag and moved in front of her desk, folding her hands in front of her.

"Before we start our lesson today, I think the most important order of business is to introduce our new friend, Patrick Reed."

Everyone turned to look at Patrick—some smiling, most rather neutral. He didn't look to see if the girl in the dress was smiling.

"Patrick just moved here yesterday from Santa Casilda. His father is Hillward's new Irrigation Supervisor, so the next time you enjoy any locally-grown produce from the grocery store, be sure to have Patrick relay your thanks to him."

No one reacted to this, but Patrick gave a light chuckle and a smile for her sake. Everyone then looked back to the front of the room and the lesson began.

Mrs. Spotts seemed like she would be better off teaching elementary school; she spoke very simply and her lesson was on some very basic principles of English. Patrick decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she would be a little more in-depth once she was confident that all her students were refreshed in the subject. Summer did have a tendency to cause one's brain to atrophy, he supposed.

When the bell rang the students filed out of the class hurriedly. Patrick gave Mrs. Spotts one more smile in passing, which she returned, and followed the majority of his class to a room across the quad, next to the single basketball court.

He had already met Mr. Poulton—a balding, bearded middle-aged man with thick black-rimmed glasses. He gave Patrick a nod and started his biology lesson before everyone had even been seated. He was a stern man with a voice that was exceptionally easy to tune out, but Patrick paid attention for fear of being called on. (He had learned throughout his academic career that those in the very front row were always the most likely to be called on randomly, and unfortunately had arrived to class at the tail end of the crowd and had secured a perfectly rotten front-and-center seat.)

The class was uneventful, and afterward the students were given a fifteen-minute break. Patrick found a bench to sit on (a rare luxury in his mind) and began rooting through his backpack in search of the piece of paper which instructed him where to go for each of his classes. He started to get a little nervous when it seemed to have disappeared, but he assured himself that it was a simple matter of asking someone who was in one of his first classes if they knew where the next one was. But when the bell rang the students scattered, and before he could find anyone who looked familiar almost everyone had left the quad.

Finally he saw the older-looking guy from English strolling slowly down the covered sidewalk to the hall doors with his hands in his pockets. As Patrick fell in step his assessment of the guy's height was proven to be startlingly accurate.

"I think I'm supposed to be going to history," Patrick said, more than a little nervous. "Where are you headed?"

The guy glanced down at him for about a second, then looked away as if Patrick had said nothing at all, appearing as disinterested as ever. After a moment of awkward silence the hulk reached the door and flung it open. As he walked into the hall Patrick stopped and watched him go, a little dumbfounded. But before the door could close all the way he grabbed the handle and made his way inside. He just barely caught sight of Andre the Giant disappearing into a classroom and he followed. When he got to the door and saw the number, something in his memory clicked and he knew he had found the correct room.

As Patrick walked inside he saw that the teacher had arrived and that everyone was still settling. There were a few extra chairs this time around and he managed to nab a seat near the back where he was most comfortable. As everyone found their seats the teacher began to speak.

"Hello, everyone," he said, leaning against his desk and folding his hands in his lap. "I sincerely hope the day is treating you well. I trust most of you have met Patrick, way back there." He motioned toward the back. The few classmates who hadn't shared a class with Patrick yet turned to look, and a few others did as well out of impulse.

"Unfortunately, Patrick," he continued, "you missed the 'What I Did Over the Summer' essay, but you're just in time to begin your research for the 'What I Want for Christmas' essay."

The joke got a brief but good laugh out of the class, Patrick included.

"And that will be in APA format. Picking up where we left off yesterday on the most _painfully_ interesting subject of early prehistory, it is my honor to speak to you a little about what I like to call—nay, _love_ to call—the Last Glacial Maximum."

A few minutes into the class Patrick remembered finally where he had put the paper that held all of his class info and retrieved it from his binder to find that this teacher's name was Mr. Vincent.

While he presented the material in a way that was rather interesting, inserting witticisms and pop culture references where appropriate, nothing Mr. Vincent said was nearly as interesting as the man himself. It was soon apparent that he was merely in his thirties, though upon first glance he looked at least ten years older. He had deep lines around his eyes as if he did a lot of smiling or sleeping—or both. And despite the bags under each one, his eyes held a certain brightness. His thick hair was probably kept just within the lowest standards of professionalism, with several locks sticking up from the rest of the brown mass which was probably supposed to look somewhat neat. When he turned Patrick could even spot small patches of grey. It reminded him of a friend he had once whose father's hair started turning grey when he was in his twenties—a concept which he had always found fascinating.

Mr. Vincent wore a black button-up shirt which he clearly wanted nothing to do with judging by its wrinkles and slightly upturned collar. His slacks and shoes were acceptable but had clearly seen quite a bit of use, which very much opposed the philosophies of the freshly pressed and packaged teachers of the city.

His speech was quiet and deliberate, and his voice was very low. When he had to move he did it slowly, but he mostly resolved to sitting at or on his desk. If Patrick had to make an immediate judgment about him, he'd say that Mr. Vincent was a generally lively man who woke up far too early for his liking on this particular day. Patrick wondered if a regular lack of sleep could turn your hair grey.

The period was soon over and Patrick shuffled out of the room with the rest of the class, exchanging a nod and a smile with Mr. Vincent. The rest of the day was as uneventful as biology had been. He had an algebra class with a short, slightly senile yet fairly nice older gentleman named Mr. Baker who insisted upon being called Fred; political science with an entirely unpleasant and rather heavyset middle-aged woman named Mrs. Gomes; a hilariously cliché PE teacher named Mr. Rolls whose qualifications obviously included watching way too many sports movies; and a boring lunch on a bench in the quad to top it all off.

*****

The day seemed to last for two or three, and Patrick was extremely relieved to walk home. His house was only a short way down the road from school, and the slow walks were a nice change of pace from the mad rush his mom had to make daily to get him through traffic to a school fifteen miles across town. This gave him time to reflect and to further take in the quiet that he was quickly growing to appreciate. The neighborhood was calm, with maybe a dozen or so small, peaceful houses on the right side of the road. Only a handful of kids were walking home this way, most of them heading the other direction up the street or taking the bus to their homes on the farther outskirts of town.

The street was paved but very cracked, and the dotted yellow line had faded to nearly nothing. On either side were dusty shoulders, with grass and weeds a few feet further than that. Patrick's shoes were covered in white dust after only a minute, but it was certainly worth the change of pace. He had never even thought about it before, but he now reflected that he could go the rest of his life without seeing another boring sidewalk and be quite happy.

He looked up at the trees that peppered the neighborhood. The first thing he had noticed about the town was that the trees were surprisingly tall. They grew in peoples' shaggy lawns, between their houses, and on the side of the street, all swaying gently in the breeze, looking as if they could easily be as old as the town itself. They granted Deer Creek with a pleasant amount of shade, making the area seem cozy and tucked away. It was comforting somehow...

Patrick let his gaze fall back to the road, and up ahead on the other side he immediately spotted the girl in the dress. Her book bag was slung over her shoulder and she was walking at a leisurely pace along a yellowing fence. Hardly a moment after he noticed she was there, she turned right onto the next street and disappeared behind a house.

At this Patrick stopped walking and stared at the spot where she left his view. He was experiencing an odd sort of attraction toward this girl, and he didn't fully understand it. He knew it wasn't the beginnings a crush; much observation had taught him that they led to nothing but fighting and crying... Yet somehow he found himself looking, thinking about the big smile that had been directed at him and not returned. A small flush of remembered embarrassment passed over his face.

His attention was caught suddenly by a car driving down the street from behind him. He turned to see Andre the Giant glancing at him casually from the driver's window of some sort of beat-up classic car. Just as the guy passed he flicked a cigarette butt out the window. It landed a few feet in front of Patrick, and he looked up from it to watch the car disappear down the road. He stood for a few more moments, trying to make sense of this gesture but finding no answer. Then he continued walking the few remaining blocks to his house.

Patrick's house was at the end of a short driveway just off Deer Creek. It was the biggest house he had seen in town so far (though that was largely owed to its unnecessarily high ceilings, which he found to be a silly waste of space). The roof was black and the wooden walls a dark brown, made darker by the constant shade that wrapped around the property like a blanket. Just behind the house were a few acres of woods that stretched out behind all the buildings on the surrounding streets—a lake of trees in the middle of the neighborhood. Patrick passed by the other end of it when he walked to and from school. He planned on exploring it eventually, but at present he just wanted to get home and do a little unpacking.

*****

Later that night he sat down to dinner with his family. Richard, his father, was telling a story about his hilarious friends at work. Patrick wished that he could make friends quite so quickly. His mother, Jodi, listened while occasionally laughing or taking a bite of her roast beef, the aroma of which temporarily dulled the unpleasant smell of new paint and an unfamiliar house. His eleven-year-old sister, Lizzy, was making a rather interesting tower out of her peas and mashed potatoes. His parents were too engrossed in his father's story to notice.

"So Jeff just kind of looks at him," his father was saying between chuckles, "looks at him with this _reeeaaal_ intense look, and he starts to say something back, but he tips over his coffee and it spills all over the desk. We all completely lost it."

His mother laughed before a forkful of potatoes could reach her mouth; it was sharp and loud, yet Patrick always found it endearing. His father took off his glasses and wiped a smudge off one of the lenses as his own laughter slowly died down. Lizzy's tower had grown far too high for her to be listening. It was a little funny that someone spilled their coffee, but Patrick had been thinking about school during any explanation as to why this was a particularly hilarious thing to happen to this Jeff person, so he only smiled.

His father noticed and turned to him.

"What about you, Pat? How was school? You're pretty quiet tonight."

Patrick pried his eyes from his sister's art piece and picked up a dinner roll.

"Oh, it was okay. It was good to see that I have a few nice teachers."

His father chuckled at that.

"Only a few, huh? I'm pretty sure that other school we had you at was run by zombies. Those meetings were just _agonizing_!"

"Remember Mr. Fitzpatrick?" Patrick asked, a grin creeping onto his lips.

His father threw his head back and laughed loudly. His body type was very different from Patrick's; he was much thicker in the arms and chest, and he had gained a little weight over his few decades of family life. He was much more suited for such laughter, Patrick thought.

"He'll certainly never forget _me_ , you can be certain of that! Try to give my son an 'F' because we got stuck in traffic for five minutes too long... Gave him the ol' academic one-two, I did! He may have had a PhD, but I've got my doctorate in _yellin_ '!"

His mother giggled, having had her share of unpleasant memories involving Mr. Fitzpatrick. She had a body type more like Patrick's—lean and somewhat short—but she laughed and made friends like his father.

Everyone looked simultaneously at Lizzy as she slowly lowered her fork, tine end up, into the pinnacle of her mashed potato tower. It was complete with pea battlements, roast beef drawbridge and a gravy moat.

"What about you, Lizzy?" his mother asked. "Make any friends yet?

"Yeah, one's named Jodi, like you." She began to lick the potato from her fingers.

"Oh, that's gross," his mother objected. "Use a napkin."

"And these other two girls, Jessica and Aralaysia, sat with me at lunch," she continued, picking up a napkin and wiping her hands.

"Aralaysia?" his father chimed with a smirk. "Sounds like a farting disease."

Lizzy dropped her napkin and laughed loudly, and her father joined her. Patrick chuckled a little more quietly, and his mother only smiled, shook her head and said, "My goodness," (though Patrick knew her well enough to know that she thought it was funny, too).

"And there's another girl in third grade named Citriana," Lizzy continued after she caught her breath.

"Citriana!" his father said with much excitement. "Better not invite her over for dinner or I might try to drink her after a spicy burrito, because she sounds _extremely_ refreshing!"

They all laughed again, his mother included.

"I'm pretty sure they're sisters, too," Lizzy added.

This fueled several more remarks from his father and the four of them laughed throughout dinner. Patrick tried to join in on the jokes where he could, but his mind always seemed to return to his day at school.

*****

Later that night as he sat at his desk and finished an English assignment, Patrick wondered if the next day would bring a little more comfort and stability or if his mind would be all the more clouded. He hoped dearly that he wouldn't have any additional awkward encounters with his classmates, though he knew with a grave sort of resignation that such experiences were merely a part of his nature.

When he finished his homework he clicked off his desk lamp and walked over to his bed. He crawled under the blankets and switched his alarm clock to _on_ , but just before settling he looked out the large window beside him.

Patrick's room was on the second story, and he had a good view of the wide backyard. It was almost completely dark, but what little moonlight managed the journey to Earth brought the far end of the yard into view. He could see where the packed dirt stopped and the mossy soil began—the edge of the woods, as defined by the oddly deliberate-looking line of trees that stood between the two areas like a row of guards. He still wanted to get around to taking a look in there, and the crazy thought of going now and walking in the dark crossed his mind for a moment...

But he immediately dismissed it. He was far beyond being scared of monsters, but the thought of walking through pitch black woods in the middle of a strange new town sounded entirely unpleasant. Maybe he would do it Saturday morning, or even Friday after school if he didn't have too much homework.

Patrick lay down and pulled his blankets up to his neck. It took him an uncomfortably long time to fully slip into unconsciousness, and even as he did, that big, sincere smile still haunted him.

Chapter 2

Mr. Vincent was no less quiet, slow, and deliberate on the second day, disproving the theory that he had simply been particularly underslept on the day previous. He was also no less fascinating, and this time Patrick found himself pondering about the man's life rather than focusing on the lesson he was giving.

He still hadn't dared to look in the direction of the girl with the dress. He knew he was probably making more out of it than he should, but somehow that only increased the embarrassment he felt, making him feel kind of stupid and childish. He hadn't made another attempt at contact with the tall guy either, though he didn't really intend to after the strange encounters he had already had.

Patrick was engulfed in his own thoughts for the majority of the day, and he almost missed a few homework instructions because of it. He managed to survive until three thirty however without any strange or uncomfortable happenings, though he figured he probably owed that to simply not talking to or making eye-contact with anyone.

Despite the relatively low-stress day his walk home was once again a relief, and he reveled in the quiet of the street. It took him nearly a minute before he realized that he hadn't seen the girl in the dress walking down the street ahead of him, and he was a tad startled when he turned to look back toward the school and found her walking parallel to him on the other side.

He jerked his attention back to the road in front of him as a hundred butterfly cocoons hatched in his stomach. He tried his best to focus on the ground, but curiosity soon won out (as it almost always did, he reflected) and he found himself sneaking another look. But somehow, Patrick tapping into that special and eternal well of bad luck that it seemed only he possessed, her head turned at the exact same moment as his and their eyes met again, as they had in English class. Even in his constant awareness of this bad luck he somehow never saw these things coming, but when he spotted her smile he seized the opportunity and gave her one back, albeit a slightly awkward and unnatural one. He had never been good at forcing smiles.

Patrick was extremely relieved when the brief transaction of facial expressions was completed successfully and she disengaged their eye-contact.

He had a moment of silent celebration, but it was cut short when he saw her turn her head once more out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't prepared for this, so he kept his gaze ahead. He was forced to turn to her again however when to his horror she started to cross the street.

He was immediately faced with the question of whether to stop or keep walking. He apparently chose the latter, probably owing to his legs simply not being able to stop what they were doing. As she crossed the breadth of the street and fell in step with him, he noted that his eyeballs suddenly felt unusually full of blood.

"Hi," she said cheerily. "I'm Rachel."

Patrick was dumbfounded for a moment, but forced another smile and quickly gathered himself.

"I'm Patrick," he said carefully, so as to prevent his voice from cracking.

"So you really moved _here_ from Santa Casilda?" she asked, turning her head in front of her again. Patrick followed suit, now faced with the challenge of deciding when exactly to look at her. _Does anyone else have these problems?_ he wondered to himself.

"Yeah, my dad got offered a management position here, so he moved me and my mom and sister."

"Kind of an upgrade and a downgrade at the same time," Rachel said, looking at him with a smile.

He looked back at her for only a second, and struggled with finding a response.

"It must be so different living here," she continued, closely inspecting something on her book bag. "I bet you're totally hating it, huh?"

"Actually, it's really nice. It was hard to move away from my friends and everything, but I'm kind of enjoying the quiet. The city is just so... _loud_." He thought briefly of the construction that never stopped, all the machinery that never seemed to sleep. "Everything's moving all the time, and there are barely any trees."

"Yeah, I don't think I could ever live like that. Still, it must stink not having all those awesome shops to go to, right?"

Patrick was finding the conversation a little easier with each second, but still feared it could all come crashing down at any misstep.

"They all get pretty boring after a while. Sometimes when one opens up with something new it's fun for like a week, but window shopping only takes you so far when you don't have any money."

Rachel laughed. Apparently what he had said was kind of funny, so he smiled.

There was a brief silence, and they each stared intently in a random direction. Patrick scrambled to find something to say, and blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, not wanting her to feel compelled to leave.

"I really like Mr. Vincent," he said, glancing at her for a moment, extremely relieved that he found something coherent and relevant to talk about.

"Oh, I do too," she responded with a smile. (Patrick wondered if she was as relieved as he was.) "He's definitely the most fun to listen to, though Mrs. Spotts is really nice, too."

"Yeah," Patrick agreed, "she always gives me such a big smile every morning."

"I think she's been teaching here for a really long time. She must really love kids."

"I don't know how anyone could have enough patience."

There was another silence, and Patrick was forced once again to think of something to say. There were pretty much only three things he had been thinking about for the last few days and he had brought up one and was talking to another, so he thought he would attempt to get some clarity on the third.

"What's with that really big guy in most of our classes?"

"Oh, that would be Dean." There was a definite drop in her voice, as if he might drive by as he did the day before and hear their conversation.

"He looks like he shouldn't even be in high school," said Patrick.

"I don't think he _is_ supposed to be. He got held back last year, and maybe the year before that, I'm not sure. So he should either be a senior or in college by now..."

After a pause Patrick said, "He seems like an... able fellow." He wasn't exactly sure what he meant by that.

"Well, he just doesn't seem to care about school much," Rachel continued. "He doesn't cause too much trouble in class, though I think he's done some pretty bad things over the years. I couldn't tell you what they were, only rumors and whatnot. He doesn't listen to the teachers when they tell him things... He doesn't talk to anybody, really. But he shows up every day, and just sits in class. I don't understand why you wouldn't just do a little work for a couple years and get through it, rather than just staying in the same place for so long and accomplish nothing."

Patrick looked at her for a moment, and she continued looking ahead. Judging by the attentiveness she seemed to exhibit in each of her classes, this concept obviously opposed her own philosophy of academia.

"That _is_ weird..." he said, and he looked back to the ground. He only now realized that they had been walking very slowly.

"Well, my house is down that way," Rachel said suddenly, turning to him with a smile. "I'll see you tomorrow." She waved cheerily and walked quickly across the empty road and down her street, clutching her book bag to herself (perhaps a little too tightly, he thought).

Patrick barely managed a "Yeah, see ya," before she was gone. He would've liked nothing more than to stop walking and watch her go, or even to call her back and offer to hang out sometime, but he didn't dare to attempt either and he soon lost sight of her behind a dirty fence.

Patrick's mind was a flurry of excited thoughts as he walked the last few blocks to his house. He went over the conversation again in his head, making sure that he hadn't said anything horrible without realizing it.

*****

When he reached dinnertime without his mind leaving the subject for even a moment, he felt silly all over again. As his parents discussed the surprising deli selection at their local market he found himself thinking about her over a scarcely touched plate of spaghetti.

He had never been affected by a person in such a way before. No matter how hard he tried to think of something else their conversation kept replaying itself in his mind. And the butterflies decided to take flight again every time he thought about how she crossed the street just to talk to him. He wasn't used to people engaging him so forwardly, and he was so glad that _she_ was the one to do it...

She obviously held some important spot in his mind, but he wasn't exactly sure what that meant yet.

"Honey, I don't think you're going to get much more on there."

Patrick looked to his mother with a slight start and realized that he had been spinning noodles onto his fork for the last minute or so, accumulating more than a normal-sized mouth could comfortably hold.

"Sorry," he said. He shook most of the noodles off his fork and ate what remained.

"How was today?" his father asked.

"Uh, same as yesterday," Patrick said, trying to pull his attention back from space.

"Hm." His father speared a meatball with his fork. "You'll make friends soon enough. Then it'll be a lot more fun." He stuck the meatball in his mouth and chewed happily. It was no secret that Patrick wasn't quite as good at making friends as the rest of the family, and he took no offence to it.

The remark obviously did nothing to get his mind off of Rachel, and he only managed to give them a "Yeah," before returning to spinning his fork. His parents continued talking and Lizzy was struck with sudden inspiration, deciding to see how large an accumulation of noodles she could amass on her own fork.

*****

Patrick's mind finally began to settle (a little) as he did his homework. When he finished his algebra and switched off his desk lamp the image of Rachel's face flashed across his mind, but he tried to push it out for fear of difficulty getting to sleep. He slipped his legs under his blankets and started to lie down, but once again found himself looking across the backyard to the edge of the woods.

The trees were barely visible, standing ominously like the black wall of some mysterious and forbidden world. He hadn't had any thoughts to spare for the woods throughout the day, but now in the still dark of his room the allure presented itself again. He wanted so badly to see what they looked like and how far they went. They were nothing more than a few acres across, but what was the terrain like? Was there anything interesting to see inside? Maybe a pond, or some cool trees or animals?

He suspected that the exciting events of the day were increasing his sense of adventure; the thought of treading through those woods so late at night seemed just a little less insane now. Part of him wanted to put on his sweater and a pair of boots and just jump right in, throwing caution to the wind and solving the mystery there and then.

But it was frightening. He couldn't see anything beyond the dimly moonlit trees closest to the yard, and he knew that beyond them it was doubtful that there would be much direct moonlight at all. Would he even be able to see? He could fall somewhere and hurt himself. There could be dangerous animals. He tried to convince himself that he was more deterred by the realistic dangers than by the outright spookiness as he lay down and closed his eyes. Sleep came a little more quickly than it had the night before.

Chapter 3

Rachel wasn't at school the next day.

Patrick had woken feeling very positive, like he might make a friend today. He thought he might catch her on the way to school, but the street was quiet as usual—only two short kids walking beside each other further up the street. It seemed that she always got to school much earlier than him, so it wasn't something to worry about.

In English class he sat closer to the front. He wanted to give her a chance to sit by him without looking desperate. Keeping a seat open beside him certainly wasn't very difficult, it only being his third day at Hillward High.

But when Mrs. Spotts arrived and gave everyone a warm greeting, it seemed that Rachel was running unusually late... and when the teacher finally started her lesson and got a few minutes into it, it was apparent that Rachel probably wasn't coming at all. This casted Patrick into a glummer mood than he even would have liked to admit to himself.

All hopes of at the very least having another nice conversation were shattered and Patrick was forced to endure another dragging day of people-watching. Even Mr. Vincent's lesson wasn't interesting enough to hold his attention for long, and the end of the day seemed to come several hours later than he would have liked.

The bell rang and Patrick gathered the books he needed to complete his homework from his locker. He hardly even noticed Dean lighting up a cigarette and strolling toward the parking lot. Mr. Poulton saw him and began to shout something across the lot, but Dean was in his car and driving away within seconds.

Patrick walked through the cloud of dust left by the faded red car and headed gloomily down the street. He realized that he was reacting much too strongly to Rachel's absence, and was all the more embarrassed for it. The smart thing to do would be to forget the whole thing and just see what tomorrow brings. She was most definitely going to be back in a day or two. And he couldn't rule out the possibility that she didn't even _want_ to talk to him anymore, and that she was just being friendly before.

This thought made Patrick's stomach drop, and for his own sake he chose to disregard it. He did maintain however that he was being downright silly.

His train of thought was suddenly halted when he looked up and found a crow staring at him from a fence post.

Patrick was suddenly struck with a strong feeling of peculiarity and for reasons unbeknownst to himself immediately stopped walking.

The crow wasn't cawing or pecking at the ground or threatening to fly away; it was merely staring directly at his face, the little black marbles on either side of its head unmoving. It stood on a rotten wooden post at a break in the rickety fence separating the road from the trees. Beyond it a narrow and overgrown path led into the woods. He regarded the crow curiously, waiting for it to take flight, or make any movement at all.

But it didn't. It only stared at him, almost as if expecting something. It was only a bird (and not a pressing adult or an intimidating classmate), but the steady eye contact was making him uncomfortable regardless. Coming to the conclusion that it was most likely sick or disturbed, he broke from its unnerving stare and continued walking. He felt its gaze on him as he walked by, and could only get a few yards down the road before turning again to see what it was doing.

It was still looking at him. But after another strange moment it turned and flew straight into the trees and out of sight.

Patrick stood for just a moment longer, then continued on his way home, not exactly sure _what_ his mind should be hanging onto anymore.

*****

Dinner came and went quickly. Lizzy was already comfortable enough at her school to stay the night at a friend's house. Patrick's parents were fairly deep in conversation, so he ate his chicken quickly and went upstairs to do his homework. He had hoped to have a little extra free time after school, but with dinner and yet another load of boxes to unpack and homework that was hard to focus on, the time was anything but free and went by almost instantly. He spent the last few hours of the night struggling with the simple task of choosing a topic for an essay and writing an outline. His mind's refusal to focus frustrated him, and he recalled with a grim sort of humor the elation he had felt the day before.

Once he had completed everything, his parents had long gone to bed. The world was quiet once again and he switched off his light, happy to grab some mindless sleep before another day of mystery.

Patrick sat on his bed and looked out his window, as he had been developing a habit of doing.

There the woods sat, just as they had every night; the same trickle of moonlight, the same dark, looming branches. Patrick found his mind quieting when he looked at them. He had wanted to explore them the moment they first arrived at the house, yet for some reason it seemed impossible to find the time during the day. He could wait until the weekend as he had originally intended...

But they were so close. Forty feet from the edge of the house, if that. He could be there within minutes, aggressively seizing what had been eluding him since his arrival. At the moment it was the one unresolved aspect of his life that he felt he could actually do something about, and that resolution was in view.

He considered again what could go wrong and came to the conclusion that it couldn't possibly be that dangerous. He doubted there were any invisible gaping chasms or rabid badgers waiting in those trees... The worst thing that could happen would be cutting himself on some outstretched branch, and that would only require some disinfectant and a bandage.

But the darkness...

It looked pitch black. He might not even be able to see where he was stepping. And though he was hesitant to admit it, the thought of wandering into that darkness was just outright scary. It would be frightening enough _with_ a flashlight, and they were all probably still packed away in the enormous stacks of boxes that filled the garage. He would practically be blind, depending entirely on the few beams of moonlight that happened to slip down through the branches.

He was surprised by how close he was actually coming to making the attempt, but as usual reality eventually set in and he decided it was just too unnerving an idea. But the split second before he could lie down something black caught his eye.

A little blurb of darkness under the trees. Patrick's first thought was that it was some animal, but then he decided it was probably just a rock.

Then it moved.

He thought the motion might have just been imagined—nighttime and darkness had a tendency of making any shadow or object appear as though it were moving—but then the little dark thing hopped on black legs out of the shadow of the trees and into the moonlight.

It was the crow—the one from his walk home today.

He immediately realized the silliness of this thought however, as there were probably hundreds crows living in Hillward. But still... this one seemed to be staring at him like the other one did. From all the way across the yard he could tell that its little head was pointed directly at his window, and this brought back that creeping sense of unease.

After a few peculiar moments it jerked its head away and turned, hopping straight into the woods and disappearing.

He acknowledged the fact that the animal was a crow, and only a crow, but his small superstitious side seized the image and rocketed the mystery surrounding the woods to an unbearable level. Patrick stared at the spot where the crow had hid in the shadows, feeling now that the barrier of trees had become more of a personal challenge than anything. He thought of how incredibly brave he would feel if he accomplished this task. Maybe it would give him new inspiration to talk to Rachel again—or to talk to _anyone_ for that matter.

A spark of some strange sort of drive that must have been insanity was struck inside him. Without considering it any further he jumped out of bed, put on his favorite green hoodie and dug his boots out of his closet, careful not to make too much noise. He didn't take the time to change out of his pajama bottoms.

He crept downstairs and across the living room. Soft moonlight shone through the sliding glass door, which was without shades or curtains. He unlocked it with a soft click and began the slow process of opening it. On the first day in this new house he had discovered that if the door was opened too fast the friction created a loud rumble that practically shook the whole side of the house. As such he slid it open with extra care, and a few moments later found himself crossing the yard. It seemed a much greater distance across than it had from afar, and with every step the trees loomed further over him and grew all the more menacing. Soon he was standing face to face with the woods.

It was only a small wooded area—probably not even large enough to be called "woods". Darkness, in the end, meant just about nothing as long as he was careful. Chances were, there were no dangers that weren't also present during the day—apart perhaps from the presence of skunks, which very certainly wouldn't kill him.

Yet this challenge seemed momentous. He knew it was entirely irrational, but he felt a very real fear when he looked into those trees. Everything inside him told him to go back up to his room and go to bed, and wait for the daylight to go exploring. Maybe even get up with the sun and do it before school—just anytime but _now_!

But the desire to give up was outweighed by the huge sense of accomplishment he would surely feel if he completed this task. If he could do this, he could do anything. Maybe if he could breach this invisible barrier he could begin to break the ones that plagued him in his everyday life.

His only real comfort was that he could see a few feet in front of him into the woods. From Patrick's few experiences camping with friends he knew that no matter how dark it got outside, it could rarely get so dark that you couldn't see anything at all. Sort of like driving at night; you can only see what's right in front of you, but you can make the whole trip that way.

So, with one final deep breath, Patrick let his legs take him into the space where he could see and that odd spark past it to where he couldn't—deep into the woods and the darkness.

When he left the moonlight behind, a very different breed of butterflies began to flutter around his stomach—the kind that made him feel uneasy, and made his shoulders want to tremble. Every slow step was a massive effort, yet he continued to stare into the black woods ahead, knowing that looking back and seeing his comfortable house through the trees would make the temptation to run at full speed back to his bed unbearable. So further and further he walked down the vague path, goose bumps racing down his arms and back in waves.

At first he couldn't make out any shapes; he could only see what was immediately in his path. After a minute or so however his eyes adjusted slightly, and the sparse moonlight further illuminated the woods in front of him. His intense nervousness didn't lesson though, and the butterflies only got worse the deeper he went—the further he got from his house and the streets and other people. The only sounds he could hear were the crunching of leaves beneath him and the chirping of crickets. Each was uncomfortably loud in his ears.

Eventually he stopped, trying to hear beyond the chirping insects. There was no wind. No shuffling. No mysterious footsteps. Just cricket calls, echoing in the distance.

A sharp _CAW_ came suddenly from behind him and he jumped and spun toward it, his heart beating a mile a minute. His first instinct was to run, but he held onto his nerves a moment longer and his eyes finally focused on a small, dark figure standing in front of him.

Patrick stared at the crow, breathless and holding his chest, almost wanting to kick it for scaring him so badly. Once again it seemed to be staring at him.

Then, Patrick's vision began to blur.

An entirely foreign and indescribable sensation washed over his entire body. His heart hammered faster than ever in his chest and he began to panic as he found the ground rushing up at him. He landed on his hands and tried to push himself back up, but his limbs felt strange—felt _wrong_ —and he couldn't seem to move properly. He craned his neck to look for the crow, but it wasn't there, and the feeling engulfed every part of him. It was like pressure, but also like some massive release—somehow like being crushed and pulled apart at the same time. It was like heat and cold, like dying and dreaming and pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shout but couldn't control his voice, and he found himself lost in this overwhelming sensation of complete helplessness, like falling—so much like falling.

Then it stopped.

Patrick opened his eyes. The woods were still dark. He stirred and tried to stand up and found that he couldn't. He was low to the ground—like he was crawling, only it was the highest he could go. His arms and legs were wobbly, and he had the intense desire to throw up.

Then he took a deep breath through his nose, and the world around him lit up.

He could see almost nothing, but every other sense was a massive blur. His head filled with intense and indescribable sensations. Color assaulted his mind's eye and tastes filled his mouth, and it was almost too much to handle. This brightness surged with each inhale of cool night air, and his only theory as to what was flooding his mind with these odd colors was a crazy one.

It was almost as if they were _smells_.

The sound of the crickets was now almost deafening, and he could very clearly hear his own quickened breathing. He heard the crunch of the leaves echo through the woods when he took a step, heard the unbearable shrieks of the hunting bats above—heard their leathery wings beating the air. As he turned, dozens of other smells he couldn't even begin to describe invaded his mind, barraging him with sensations he couldn't understand. They were on the bark of the trees, all over the leaves, in every hole and on every rock on the forest floor, making freeways of scent that crossed through the air and around every turn, each one calling to him, begging to be consumed.

He began to walk slowly and shakily forward (or crawl—he couldn't tell). His mind reeled, and it was difficult not to topple over. He trudged around the trees, his sense of direction failing him completely. He couldn't stand, he couldn't run, he couldn't escape this place and this darkness that was so full of colors that didn't exist. Panic was steadily tightening its hold on his heart, and he was starting to think he would wander in these woods for the rest of his life when he saw something loom over him.

In his jumbled senses Patrick couldn't quite tell how much of the object he was seeing and how much he was smelling. It was tall, he knew that. Tall and dark, even darker somehow than the pitch-black woods. The smell was different. It was an older smell, more musty and rotten, more sharp and strange. He stopped and looked to it, breathing deeply and listening, listening for anything. He couldn't move at all now; he could only watch the thing and wait, wait for something to happen or something to come. But it only grew darker and taller, and as he focused more closely on it so it grew in his mind and his sight, smelling of something different, something old...

Then he woke up.

Chapter 4

Patrick opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the ceiling. The sun was beginning to rise and bluish light poured in through the large window. The haunting remnants of the dream still hung in his brain as the last bits of sleep withdrew from him like a lifting fog. What was left was a deeply uneasy feeling—the kind only a very bad or strange dream can give. He continued to stare at the ceiling as the sun came up and until he had to get ready for school.

He was hardly aware of the world as he walked up the street. The dream was returning to him backwards, the intense and strange events being the most clear and the details that led up to them developing in bits and pieces. It hadn't been like any bad dream he'd ever had; it was so much more confusing, and a lot more unnerving. He couldn't even remember it clearly, yet it hung in his mind as though it were somehow truly meaningful.

Soon he had arrived at school and was left to puzzle at the dream further as the class waited for the teacher to arrive. The other students chatted noisily with one another as Patrick stared at his desk.

The oddest thing about it was that even though the end had been hazy and confusing, the memories of the beginning that had drifted back were shockingly vivid. There were still pieces missing here and there, but he had never had a dream before that was even _almost_ as coherent and logical as this one. Normally something even as simple as walking outside would be interrupted by his third-grade teacher riding a giant snake or by the ground opening up in a surge of flowing lava... But this time it had all seemed so real, up until the second half—the part when those _feelings_ began. It always came back to those impossible sensations that confused his mind whenever he tried to remember them. If it had been a dream, then why could he _almost_ remember what they felt like?

"Sorry I wasn't here yesterday."

Patrick turned to the desk on his right. He hadn't even noticed Rachel sit down, and now she was looking at him.

She was smiling.

"I forgot my dad was taking me to my orthodontist appointment," she continued. "But I got my retainer out, so I'm pretty excited about that."

Patrick smiled back.

"Awesome."

Speaking and making eye-contact with someone was somehow enough to shake the dream from his mind.

"So what did I miss?" Rachel asked as she took her binder out of her book bag.

Patrick had hardly paid any attention at all the previous day.

"Uh, nothing really," he said. "Nothing important, at least."

Finally Mrs. Spotts entered the room and their conversation was cut short. Class went along as usual, and he found himself extremely pleased to have someone to sit by. So pleased, in fact, that the novelty caused the period to zip by, and before he knew it the bell was ringing and all the students were stirring. He put away his binder, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed for the door.

Rachel followed him. Her persistent friendliness enchanted and baffled him.

"So are you done unpacking yet?" she asked as they stepped into the hallway.

Patrick rolled his eyes and made a " _Psh_ " noise, the ease of which surprised him.

"Not even close. We get through maybe two boxes a day, and we've got about a billion more in the garage. My parents are always busy with work or some project or another, and I've got school."

"And who wants to go home and unpack after seven hours here, right?"

"Exactly," Patrick laughed. That came easily, too.

"So what do your parents do?"

"My dad's the new Irrigation Supervisor or something; I'm sure he'd love to tell you the entire title."

"Oh, right, Mrs. Spotts said that on the first day. Doy." She quickly made a forehead-slapping gesture. "What about your mom?"

"She does website design and stuff. She's sort of a freelance programmer, you could say."

"Awesome!" Rachel seemed sincerely impressed by that fact. "I've always loved that kind of stuff. I bet that means she gets to work from home, huh?"

"Yeah. It's great for her because she can work at her leisure, and it's great for us because she can still make us dinner every night."

Rachel laughed at that more loudly than he expected, and he laughed a little with her.

The two finally stepped through the double doors and out into the quad, but before Patrick could follow up with another funny remark Rachel turned to leave.

"Well I've got to go to chem, but I'll see you at break!"

Patrick was for some reason a little taken aback, but gave a little wave and said, "Okay, see ya."

Rachel walked quickly away to the left, and Patrick continued down the covered walkway to the science labs.

Biology was another blur to him, and he barely managed to catch and scribble down the homework assignment. Hoping he didn't miss anything else important and surprised at his lack of attentiveness, he gave Mr. Poulton a nod and headed outside.

He walked to his preferred bench, which was by the woodshop classroom. It seemed to be rarely occupied, and today was no exception. He sat down and watched the students cross the quad in every direction, and after a minute he spotted her walking toward him. The butterflies all twitched a little when he saw her coming, still smiling, still friendly and interested in his company. It was somehow very surreal.

"Hey," she said as she sat down beside him, unshouldering her book bag.

"Hey," he returned with a smile. "How was chemistry?"

"Fun! We're working on polymers and we made this weird foam stuff. What class were you in, again?"

"Biology."

"How was that?"

Patrick wondered if she would ever ask that sort of question when he had an actual answer.

"Not as fun as chemistry, it sounds like."

"Yeah, chemistry's a lot more hands-on, but I definitely like biology a lot more. But you were telling me about your family before!"

"Oh, right. Other than my parents I've just got a little sister named Lizzy. She's always been good with people, and really popular in school."

He wasn't quite sure why he said that.

"But I'm hogging all the conversation!" he said in an attempt to change the subject. "What about your family?"

For the next ten minutes they talked. Rachel told him about her dad, who was a carpenter, and about how her mom had died of cancer when she was really little. Patrick of course felt like a jerk for bringing it up, but she insisted that it wasn't a touchy subject and that he shouldn't feel bad for asking. She told him about how she was an only child, and how she got along really well with her dad, seeing as each of them was all the other had. She had family in Arkansas and Oklahoma and a few aunts in Nevada, but come Christmastime it was just the two of them. She had lived in Hillward all of her life, but wanted to move to a bigger city to go to school in a few years.

Their conversation was incredibly pleasant. Patrick surprised himself by speaking so outwardly to someone he didn't even know, and felt oddly invigorated for it. It was as if the two of them were already friends and just needed to be reminded about each others' pasts.

But all too soon the bell rang. They continued talking as they made their way up the walkway and through the hall to their history class. When it was over they talked to their next class. They met up at lunch and talked even more as they ate on the bench. They laughed as they critiqued each other's lunches, and Rachel came about an inch away from shooting apple juice out of her nose when Patrick compared her professional-quality turkey sandwich on sourdough to his hastily assembled salami on soggy potato bread.

The talk and the laughter only got easier as time went on. He never struggled with finding something to say, he never said anything particularly strange or unintentionally offensive, and above all, there were no awkward pauses.

By the time school was out and the two were walking home the memory of the strange dream had all but left Patrick's mind. Didn't dreams seem so much more profound immediately after waking? They always lost their magic as the day wore on...

There was another very real magic happening now.

*****

On the slow walk down the street Rachel told Patrick funny stories about Mr. Poulton.

"And I don't usually like it when kids are mean to teachers," she was saying, "but I couldn't believe Matt would _say_ that! Just up and called him a jerk, right to his face!"

Patrick laughed, able to recreate the scene easily in his head using what he had observed of the man's extreme characteristics.

"Mr. Poulton was so mad it looked like he wanted to hit him!" she continued, laughing herself. "But he had this... this _look_ on his face and no one even _dared_ to laugh!"

His biology teacher had a very stern face that was much like a loaded cannon, and as such Patrick hoped it was never pointed at him while armed. In light of the story though, that somehow made it all the more funny. The two of them laughed as they walked through the shade of the trees and past the quaint houses, and just as it began to die down the sound of an engine approached from behind. Patrick turned to see a car drive by.

It was Dean. He glanced at them indifferently and sped off down the road, kicking up dust and loose leaves in his wake.

Rachel noticed him too, and though Patrick wasn't sure why, it seemed to temporarily rob the remaining laughter from their conversation. For the first time they walked in silence, the only sounds those of distant cars and children. As they approached Rachel's street they stopped and she turned to Patrick.

"I had fun talking to you today." She was giving him that smile again.

"Me too." He returned it, finding that he was better at it each time. "I'm glad I finally had someone to talk to."

"Yeah..."

There was a quick moment of silence where they only looked at each other, smiling. Patrick's first instinct was to look away or say something to avoid awkwardness, but he was surprised to find that it wasn't awkward at all. It was something else...

Then she hitched her bag higher on her shoulder.

"Okay, see you tomorrow, Patrick!" She waved and walked quickly away.

Something about the fact that she addressed him by his name stuck with him, and his head was all fluttery and light as he continued walking home. He could scarcely see the road in front of him for all the thoughts soaring through his mind. This was an entirely foreign sensation to him, and whether a silly crush or true love or a simple friendship, it didn't matter. Whatever it was, it was something very natural and very special. For now, that was more than enough.

He thought about their slow stroll as he walked home, thought about her smiling at him as he had dinner with his family, thought about sitting by her as he feebly attempted to do his homework, and in his spare time found himself simply lying on his bed, recalling the conversations they had throughout the day. As he slipped into bed for the night he even forwent pondering on the woods in lieu of entertaining excited thoughts of what the next day would bring.

*****

Patrick opened his eyes to darkness, yet he could see everything. It was all crashing together—the trees and the leaves and the dirt and the vivid trail of every animal that had tread past. The cries of the bats rang horribly in his ears, so loud it was unbearable. The crickets were shrill, and a thousand of them were calling at once. There was no wind and no motion at all, but the night was far from still.

Again, his body was unnaturally low to the ground. His hands wouldn't work, and he began to panic under the oppressive noise and the smells; they crashed through his mind and threatened to suffocate him. As he crawled they only got worse and worse until his brain was a tumultuous mass of clashing and writhing color. He was caught in this nightmare world again, this world full of sensations he couldn't even comprehend...

He had to get out. He had to get back to his home, back to the real world, the one that was quiet and still and full of _light_. All he wanted was to get back to that place of brightness where he could see and the things that he saw actually made sense! Back to his bed and to rational thought and simple sleep.

Patrick tried to run, but he couldn't move his body correctly and stumbled to the ground after a few steps. He clambered back onto his feet and tried again, but only managed to keep tripping over his own malfunctioning legs. In his panic he could only claw at the ground and drag himself forward, painfully scraping his elbows and chest as he went. But he couldn't stop; he needed to get out. This wasn't supposed to be happening, there was something wrong with him, he wasn't supposed to be like this.

He ran and hobbled and tripped through the woods. He couldn't see a thing, but jumbled images danced in his mind's eye and he tried his best to avoid colliding with what he could only assume were trees. He hoped at every turn that they would end, that he would see a plane of moonlight ahead... But they didn't end, and soon he got the sinking feeling that he had only been running deeper into the forest. His terror momentarily trumped by sheer despair and hopelessness, he stopped.

Crouched awkwardly, he looked into the trees. He wanted to leave, to find his house and his normal life more than anything else, but above all the smells and sounds and colors there was another feeling, separate from the others. There was some other presence here now—something that he couldn't explain. There was a smell that was both new and familiar. And as he peered through the trees he could sense that tall and menacing shadow from before. It stood like a malicious beast, glaring at him from the middle of a clearing. He trembled, that foul, acrid smell assaulting his lungs. Its ancient unseen eye watched him, and he wanted to get away but didn't know how. He wanted to run—this thing, it wasn't like the others, it didn't belong here—but he couldn't move and the forest was closing in around him, and when he opened his mouth to scream a foreign and horrifying yowl issued from his tightening throat.

Soon he was lost—engulfed in a storm of his own fear.

Chapter 5

When Patrick woke up, he was scared.

His eyes snapped open and he sat up in his bed. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his arms and legs.

The sun was up. His alarm clock would be going off soon. Every last remnant of sleep had left—as had the very last of the night—but he didn't dare look out the window.

He didn't eat any breakfast. He didn't grab his lunch from the fridge.

Patrick didn't see anyone on his way to school, though he wasn't really paying attention. He only walked slowly, looking down, his mind a confused and terrified blur. Before long he crossed the yard, walked down the noisy hall, and sat down at his desk.

A deep and primal fear had set itself in him, and even after fully waking and coming to this room filled with noisy people the dream still hadn't left his mind. It was the first time in his short years that he felt something was deeply and seriously wrong—that his life might be threatened. It felt as though something dark and horrible was waiting for him around every turn. As if the validity of everything he knew and thought to be true was in question. He wanted to forget—wanted to think about something else—but he couldn't. It was too real. Too close...

"Good morning, Patrick."

He turned and found Rachel settling down next to him. She was beaming.

Suddenly it seemed the joy he felt the previous day was more of a dream than the nightmare. The laughing and smiling and outright glee all seemed so distant now. All that was left was the fear.

He didn't know what to do or say. He wanted to be cheerful and return her smile, but this time he couldn't shake the feeling.

"Hey," he managed with a smile he hoped wasn't as weak as it felt.

"My neighbor's stupid rooster kept me up all night," she said, opening her binder and leafing through it. "How did you sleep?"

All he could think to do, naturally, was lie.

"Pretty good," he said with a lame little nod.

She didn't say anything else, but as he pretended to look through his own binder he could feel her eyes on him, and after a moment he thought she probably sensed that something was wrong. He wondered if she would inquire and hoped greatly that she wouldn't. What would he say if she did? He couldn't describe something he didn't even understand himself.

But she didn't say anything, and soon the teacher walked in and started class. The question hung over them though, yearning to be asked, and the tension ate away at him. More than ever in his life he wanted to get away from everybody and go home, and he seriously considered feigning some sort of sickness.

But even then, what would he do? There was no way to escape these thoughts and this fear. Maybe being around people was a better distraction.

Patrick hardly heard a word that Mrs. Spotts had to say, and he almost forgot to turn his homework in as he walked out of the classroom. Rachel followed him and despite the lingering question and Patrick's coldness, she fell in step with him.

"Mrs. Spotts is really sweet," she tried again, "but I think her assignments are just a little too easy, don't you?"

Patrick still wasn't looking at her, but he had to say something.

"Yeah," he agreed. He planned on leaving it at that, but it didn't feel like enough, so he continued. "Probably took me about four seconds last night." That was definitely another lie. Caught up in his giddiness he had stared at the assignment for half an hour before managing to start. He wanted to feel that now—experience it all over again—but somehow it felt a little like trying to enjoy a joke at a funeral.

"Yeah," Rachel gave a little laugh, obviously relieved that he had said something. "Me too."

They were quiet for the remainder of the walk through the hall. The rest of the students laughed and shouted loudly and obliviously. The reverberation in the echoing hall threatened to give Patrick a headache.

When they reached the quad, Rachel said, "See you at break," and headed off to chemistry. Patrick was relieved, and continued on to biology.

Again, he hardly heard a word that Mr. Poulton was saying. At one point the man had to sternly dissuade a few guys in the back from talking, but even that was hardly enough to keep Patrick's attention. The more the day wore on the more confusing his thoughts became, and the more stagnant and unwelcome the fear.

When the break bell rang Patrick wished he could find some isolated corner of the campus and sit there for the next fifteen minutes, but found himself heading for his favorite bench anyway. When she came he did his best to smile at her.

"How was Mr. Poulton today?" Rachel asked as she sat down.

"He had to yell at some guys for talking, so pretty normal, I guess."

Rachel laughed, but she didn't say anything else.

They sat in silence, watching the other kids hanging around the quad. After a few minutes he forced himself to say something in an attempt to heal the situation somewhat.

"Hey, sorry if I'm a little... weird, today. I'm not really feeling so good."

"Oh no, what's wrong?" He didn't look at her face, but she sounded genuinely concerned.

"I don't know. Maybe I didn't sleep as well as I thought I did. Maybe I'm coming down with something. Probably nothing, though. I just feel a little weird, I guess. I'll be okay."

The bell rang much sooner than he expected, and he was relieved.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I hope you feel better soon."

The two of them got up and walked to Mr. Vincent's class. Neither of them said a word, and though he originally thought that his claim of possible illness might alleviate some of the tension, the walk was as uncomfortable as ever.

They entered the classroom and headed for the middle. Patrick picked a random spot and sat down, but Rachel hesitated for a moment. It was obvious that she wasn't sure whether she should sit by him, though he pretended not to notice and occupied himself with taking his history book out of his bag.

When she finally made the move, two girls walked in front of her and took the two seats next to Patrick, which were the only empty ones on that side of the room. She walked past them and sat by the far wall, perhaps as though she had meant to all along. Patrick wanted to say or do something, but he couldn't think of what. So he opened his book to the appropriate page, still playing dumb and feeling like a complete jerk for it. He felt Rachel's eyes on him for a second, and then Mr. Vincent walked in.

"Hello, class," he said quietly as he put his things down on the desk. "A few meager hours and you are free to enjoy your weekend, though I hope I can keep your attention for just another seventy-five minutes or so. Then feel free to go completely brain-dead during your other classes."

The students laughed.

"And the reason I would like your attention is that there is nary a subject out there in the realm of academia that is quite as exciting or important as... _cuneiform script_!"

During the lesson Patrick's mind was torn between memories of the dreams and guilt for his strange behavior. No matter how hard he tried to focus on Mr. Vincent he found his mind trailing off, and if it wasn't for the bell he might have stared into space for hours.

*****

For the rest of the day Rachel followed him hesitantly where she could, occasionally attempting to start a small conversation. Patrick tried his hardest to be cheery, but it always sounded hollow and half-hearted. The dark thing that was hanging over his head felt like it was growing bigger, and soon it cast a shadow over them both. It was awkward and uncomfortable, and she was obviously very confused. If only he could communicate that he was just as confused as she was...

When lunch came and most of the students left to buy food in town Patrick sat on his bench as he usually did, thankful for the quiet that fell over the quad. He didn't look up and notice Rachel walking toward him until she was only a few feet away. He sat up and they smiled at each other, but she didn't sit down.

"I promised my friend, Phoebe, that I would eat lunch with her today. So I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Patrick wondered if that were true. Nevertheless, he was relieved.

"Okay, cool," he said lamely. "Have a good lunch."

She noticed that he wasn't eating.

"Where's your lunch? Did you not bring one today?"

He looked at his bag and back to her.

"Oh, no, I'm fine."

"Goodness, here, have some of my sandwich!" She took off her book bag and started to open it.

He should have just said he hadn't started it yet, he realized a little too late.

"No, really," he said, "My stomach's kind of upset. I gave my lunch to some kid," he lied. "It's really okay."

Rachel stopped opening her bag and gave him a curious look.

"Okay, well if you feel like you can, you should eat _something_ later. I'll save some apple slices for you." She slung her bag over her shoulder again. "Come find me if you change your mind, okay?"

"Okay," he said with a smile.

"Talk to you later," she said, then turned and walked away.

Patrick didn't even watch her go. He lay back down on the bench and stared up at the trees. He was too scared to close his eyes.

*****

Patrick expected to see Rachel one last time after the final bell rang, but as he walked down the hallway steps he couldn't spot her anywhere. He wondered if maybe she had some plans after school. Or maybe she was trying to give him some space.

Or maybe in one day he had torn down this friendship just as quickly as it had been miraculously built.

He had originally dreaded the thought of maintaining a decent conversation with Rachel during the walk home, but now that she had obviously taken off alone he found himself feeling more lonely than he supposed he ever had before.

He trudged down the street, his mind a blurry mess, his eyes glazed over and down to the ground. He didn't want to think anymore—was tired of thinking—but it was all that was left to do when he shut out the rest of the world.

A few blocks from his driveway he came upon the fencepost that the crow had sat on the day before. Behind it, the woods. The sight of it was almost unbearable. He could remember the crow staring at him, its black, beady little eyes trained on him in a way most unlike a bird. Then, the hazy memory of the dream, where it stared at him from the edge of the woods, coaxing him inside. Had the crow been a part of the dream too? Now it all seemed more like a very old memory than a dream, he could recall it so well.

Unnerved beyond belief and certain he would attempt to kill a crow with a rock were he to see one, he crossed the distance to his house quickly.

*****

That night he ate his dinner blankly, hoping that no one would attempt to make conversation or ask what was wrong. His train of thought was broken when his father began to speak very loudly and deliberately to the table at large.

"Yesterday... _I_... saw _someone_... walking home with... a... _GIRL_.

Patrick looked up as his mother and sister both gave exaggerated gasps. He couldn't possibly imagine what could make dinner any worse than it was about to get.

" _Oooooooooooh_ , Patrick's got a _girrrrrrrlfrieeennnnd_!" Lizzy all but yelled.

"Why didn't you say anything at dinner _last_ night?" his mother asked, feigning indignance.

"I forgot, you and your hippo poop story!"

"It _was_ a pretty good story," Lizzy added.

"It wasn't a story! Look it up on YouTube, it's just how they poop!" his mother said, waving her arm in an upside-down windshield wiper motion, and Lizzy giggled.

"So, Pat," his father turned to him and said at an uncomfortably loud level, "would you care to divulge a little information? Such as, possibly, a name?"

This was going to be a terrible night.

Patrick wished that he could just stare at his plate and not say anything, and that everyone would simply stop inquiring and continue with their own conversations. But people didn't work like that, Patrick knew all too well, and they wouldn't stop until they were satisfied.

"Rachel," he said after a brief pause. Judging by the hot feeling in his face he guessed that he was probably blushing.

"That's definitely a girl's name, alright," his father said.

"We're just friends," Patrick blurted out before he could stop himself. He had been teased this way all his life and knew statements like these were predictable and made it just that much easier to poke fun.

"That won't hold up if your grandparents find out," his father said.

His mother laughed.

"Grammy will ask you if you're getting married in the fall like she did."

When Patrick didn't laugh or smile or even make eye-contact with any of them, they finally took the cue and stopped bothering him about it, to his enormous relief. He forced down most of his dinner to avoid worrying his mother and went quickly up to his room.

*****

The weekend was a very slow one. Patrick wasn't quite sure whether he was thankful for the lack of school or whether he missed the distraction. He occupied his mind with unpacking, working with his father to arrange and furnish the living room on Saturday and helping his mother organize her office on Sunday, along with helping her make dinner. There was a great unease in his mind and he stayed mostly quiet, not daring to bring up the confusing and frightening dreams to either of his parents. They seemed to dismiss this as normal behavior and didn't pry. He tried his best not to think about it all and failed miserably. He considered going into the woods during the daytime as he had originally intended, but somehow couldn't even work up the courage to do that.

On Sunday night he tried to occupy his mind by organizing the books on his bookshelf, but soon found himself lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. As the long hours of the evening ticked by, Patrick was unable to focus his mind on anything. And as it did with the coming of each night's sleep, the fear began to grow again.

He clicked off his light so no one would come in to say goodnight and listened as his family prepared for sleep and eventually retired. And as the final stirrings of his parents down the hall died down Patrick wondered how long it would be before sleep finally came.

His mind was as weary as ever, but the thought of sleep always scared him more than anything else. Twice he had had these terrible dreams. But they weren't like normal nightmares; normal nightmares faded after time, the ridiculousness settling in fully by the time you got to school. But these... They were alternately so real that they were hard to deny and so strange and confusing that they were impossible to describe. It was like visiting some horrific planet or plane of existence that his mind could barely comprehend. Much different from simply being chased by a monster or caught up in an earthquake or locked in a small room, and so much worse...

Patrick lay in his bed for what felt like hours. He didn't bother looking at the little black digital alarm clock he kept on his nightstand. He only stared at the ceiling. More than anything he wished that he had blinds or curtains to cover his window, and noted that he should ask his mother about it. He could see just a sliver of branches and stars where his vision peeked through the top of the window and past the edge of the roof. All he had to do was sit up and he would see that which had been haunting him for days.

The edge of the dark woods would just be visible in the dim moonlight. Just a few acres of trees—streets and houses on every side. Yet it was as if there was something inside—something physically there within those trees that filled him with so much fear. For a mad moment he considered going in, but the idea was irrationally horrifying; he was too scared to even go during the day, let alone in the pitch black of night. That was how the dreams had started; he considered it one night, then dreamed that he had plunged right in.

But there it was again, that little voice of doubt that arose whenever he called it a dream. It seemed so real that he almost felt as if he could remember the exact thought process he had. It was like he had already made the decision to enter the woods in real life. But now he lay here, too scared to even look out the window.

Suddenly a tiny spark awoke in him; only it wasn't that adventurous spark, and in fact there wasn't an ounce of good feeling behind it. It was almost anger, a somewhat spiteful feeling—that piece of him that refused to accept that so many horrible thoughts and feelings should come from something so simple and harmless. That little bit of his consciousness that floated above his own body just long enough to see him lying in bed as scared and helpless as a child because he was afraid of his nightmares.

He thought about tomorrow. Would it just be Friday all over again? Would he lay awake for the rest of the night just to freak out Rachel for another day? Was he just going to wallow in his fear forever?

Rachel. He could see her sweet smile, remember all the horrible silences, recall every feeling and question she must have had while Patrick quaked silently in his boots like a coward. He remembered how she had offered to give him some of her lunch, and suddenly he was hit by how profound the gesture was. They had only known each other for a few days, yet she was still concerned about him not having something to eat. She was willing to give up some of her own lunch for him. And somehow he had been too caught up in his stupid dreams to notice.

He couldn't do it anymore. He had to end this.

Fighting just about every instinct inside of him and following that mad little spark, he sat up and pulled on his jeans. He left his room quietly, shut his door with great care and crept down the wooden stairs. Every step took great mental effort; his mind pulled back at his feet as they brought him down into the darkness of the family room.

His skin tingled and flushed cold as he walked to the door that led into the garage. As he did, he glanced out the sliding glass door to the backyard.

This wouldn't be like the dream.

He opened the door and switched on the light. He was hit with that odd, heavy smell of garage and forced to shield his eyes from the blaring light on the opening mechanism overhead. There were a few boxes next to the tall shelves on the left, and Patrick walked over and started to root through them. He dug around the first one for a while to no avail, but found what he was looking for right on the top of the second. He pulled out the big blue flashlight and gripped the handle. He clicked it on to make sure it had batteries, and the huge lens shot out a beam that shone white even in the brightly-lit garage.

He clicked off the light, returned the boxes more or less to their original positions, turned off the garage light and exited to the family room. He fetched his shoes from beside the front door and put them on, then walked back down the hall and through the living room to the sliding glass door. He unlatched it and slid it open slowly, again mindful not to cause the house-shaking rumble. It opened and closed without protest, and when he was certain he hadn't been heard by his family he immediately started across the yard. As he walked into view of the upstairs bedroom windows he hoped greatly that his little sister didn't happen to be awake and looking down on the yard at this very moment, though it was certainly doubtful.

Patrick's insides grew tighter as the trees grew closer and he stepped quickly and purposefully, afraid that showing even the smallest amount of apprehension would cause his concentration to break and his body to involuntarily retreat. He stopped at the edge of the yard, almost breathless with fear. Beyond this point the trees were pitch black. In a gesture that he hoped wasn't too quick or shaky he held the flashlight out in front of him and clicked it on. A white beam of light shot through the trees and he held it there for a long moment, as if holding the great beast at sword point, daring it to continue making his life miserable. His courage bolstered, he brought the light down to his side and stepped into the trees.

His hairs were on end, and it felt as though every beat of his heart was pumping ice water through his body, but he pushed forward, one slow step after another. His flashlight felt like a weapon against fear, the beam dissolving all mystery immediately in front of him in a brilliant splash of battery-powered light. But just like a sword, he could only hold it in one direction at a time. While it lit up the space ahead it left his back drenched in absolute darkness. The chill there was without a doubt the worst. Every bit of the woods that the light didn't touch was all the more black, and long shadows rose and fell all around him with every small movement.

Though he finally had a weapon against the shadows, it still felt like being in a small bubble, deep in the middle of the ocean. The darkness around him pressed in like a tangible force, every brightened tree hiding a mystery in the pure black behind it.

The mental effort behind each step was so great that it was physically exhausting. All of his muscles were tense, his heartbeat refused to ease up, and the goose bumps arose with every snapping twig. The occasional falling acorn never failed to make him stop dead and shoot the flashlight off in every direction in a quick panic, and this only perpetuated the racing of his heart.

Patrick wondered how far he needed to walk in order to put his fears to rest. It seemed that he had traveled plenty far already, but some feeling that he couldn't quite identify drove him further. It was almost as though he were actively looking for whatever would prove his search successful when he _didn't_ find it...

He was walking through a clearing, wondering if he had veered at all and if he would be able to make it back to his house without emerging onto some mysterious street, when there was a _CAW_ to his left.

He spun his flashlight toward the noise and froze in terror.

A crow— _the_ crow—sat on a thick, gnarled branch, staring at him with its black, beady eyes. The branch twisted horribly from a grotesque tree that jutted from the ground in the middle of the clearing like a demon's horn.

Patrick could barely breath, couldn't turn, couldn't tear his eyes away from the awful sight before him. It was all true, every fear was upon him again and the dark wood around him was suddenly filled with faceless horrors as his nightmare thrust itself through the heart of reality and everything began to blur and melt together. The crow began to caw and the sound of the crickets grew louder and the sick, old smell of the tree bled into his nostrils.

The sleeping world merged into the waking one and the memories of those terrifying nights returned to him with a clarity that somehow sharpened in the deepening chaos.

Amidst it all, he thought of Rachel.

The sounds and smells of the woods grew, and where his body was freezing a moment ago it now felt both hot and cold, and every molecule in his bones seemed to be vibrating, but against all odds that tiny spark of defiance flared inside him for a moment, and he forced himself to calm down.

He wouldn't be helpless this time. He wouldn't run anymore. He stared at the crow and it looked back at him, still cawing.

As much as he wanted to run, to scramble, crying like a coward out of the woods and into the scarce moonlight, Patrick looked right into the crow's eyes and clicked off the flashlight.

Chapter 6

When Patrick turned off the light and dropped it at his side, there was a quick moment when he thought that it hadn't been fully extinguished. The woods were supposed to be pitch black, yet somehow he could dimly see around him in muted shades of shifting color. That indescribable feeling filled his body, that stretching and shifting and great pressure. He soon found himself on his hands and knees, only they didn't feel like hands and knees at all. He tried to take deep breaths and could only manage short gulps of chill night air. He fought the urge to panic that still had hold of him.

When the feeling stopped that terrifying barrage of indescribable color and sound once again reached its peak, and his mind teemed with sensations he couldn't understand. But this time, he didn't run. He only stood there, hunched to the ground, trembling slightly, taking it all in.

The cries of the crickets jumbled together in a dissonance that was actually painful. There must have been hundreds of them in the woods, but after an uncomfortable few moments he thought he could hear one that was closer than the others. He could almost see the vibrations that its call made in the air, and he focused on it as hard as he could. Soon the lone cricket separated itself from the chaotic din, and as it grew clearer its brothers grew quieter. After a while he was quite certain he could locate its exact position in the brush. It was off to his right, about ten feet, in a fallen branch that lay next to its tree.

He stood for several minutes, picking noises out of the chaos and focusing on them. Exhibiting even this small level of control brought him immense comfort, and soon even the shrieking of the bats in the sky above didn't hurt his ears. He had also stopped trembling.

But of all his senses, the most different and confusing was what he could only assume to be smell. It was so intensified it hardly seemed like a normal sense anymore. Everything around him gave off such a strong scent that it truly was like actual colors were appearing in his brain; colors that he hadn't even seen before.

Patrick put his nose close to the ground and inhaled as steadily as he could. As he did, the space beneath him lit up as though it were plugged in like a Christmas tree. The once familiar scent of dry leaves was nearly lost in its new complexity, mixing with several other smells that were completely foreign. He thought that underneath the jumble of mysterious colors he could smell something that might be the ground, and after several quick snuffs he inhaled deeply once more. As with the call of the cricket, he tried to isolate this particular color in his mind. Throughout the long breath the underlying aroma of earth became clearer and clearer, and by the end the other smells had nearly faded to nothing.

The dirt had such a strange and unique quality. It was somewhat similar to how it had smelled before, but now it was so much... _more_. It filled his vision with a warm color, almost like brown. He felt as though he could actually taste it. It was so deep, and rich, and musty.

Doing this did more than just calm him; he suddenly found himself feeling a little invigorated. He mused that he was out in the woods in the middle of the night sniffing dirt, and that it was the most amazing and bizarre thing that he had ever experienced. These feelings were empowering, and the more he realized just how much control he had over the situation and how visible the world grew when he employed these new senses, the smaller the fear shriveled inside him.

Patrick couldn't see or hear or even smell the crow, though one of the paths of color that cut through the air might have been its trail. Unsure of what to do next, he walked back into the trees. He still didn't know why he was unable to walk upright, but when he moved slowly and calmly he found that he could travel without stumbling. Working to maintain his balance, taking the path one step at a time, he made his way through the dark wood.

He found that it was surprisingly easy to see his immediate surroundings. Even without the flashlight he had no trouble avoiding the trees and bushes and rocks, and in fact was probably more aware of the objects around him than he would have been in the daylight. He could even tell what was directly behind him without looking, which made him feel as though he had a third eye on the back of his head.

As he walked he wondered again and again if he were dreaming, but every time the answer came back the same. These new sensations were completely bizarre and hard for his mind to wrap around, but there was no longer any doubt that it was all real.

Now that he was calm he could pick up the scent that his own body had left before; it was buried under the mystery trails intertwining and zigzagging across the leaf-covered floor, but it was there. He wasn't even sure how he knew that it was his own scent; he thought perhaps it was the same way an animal can tell its young from another's. He had never smelled himself before (not like this, anyway), yet it was familiar all the same. Almost as though its memory had been locked away in his brain until now. It was a warm smell—sort of like red, but maybe closer to green, and laced with the sharp yellowish smell of new paint from his house.

After a few minutes of walking and sniffing he saw bits of soft light shining through the trees ahead. He picked up his pace, steady movement growing easier with each step, and soon he found himself on the edge of his back yard. Once again he was awestruck by this strange new world he had stumbled upon.

There was hardly any color. In fact, there might have been none at all. His house towered in front of him, the empty yard stretching wide from end to end, and all the hues were dim. Even the moonlight that should have bathed the world in a soft blue was pale. But the colors he only half saw with his eyes and fully saw in his mind were so much more vibrant than those they replaced. The color of the dirt and dry grass drifted up from the ground, the hue of the wood that comprised his house stood apart from the trees behind him, and above it all, the sharp, unpleasant smell of new paint drifting from its windows slashed a bright stroke across his vision.

Patrick stepped lightly across the yard, still banking on the assumption that his sister was asleep. To his left, in a little jumbled mess off to the side of the house, were all the things that were removed from the bathrooms when the remodeling was done. No one had gotten around to getting rid of it before his family moved in, nor had they after. There were two toilets, one of which was on its side, pipes, a disgusting looking sink that had broken in two, and an old medicine cabinet that was leaning up against the side of the house.

Some of the wooden bits were falling apart, but the mirror on the cabinet was unbroken.

Patrick looked across the yard to the mirror, knowing what needed to be done but afraid to do it. He didn't know exactly what he was going to see. After a few moments of hesitation he finally paced over and stepped in front of it. Despite all that he had experienced tonight, it was hard to believe what he saw in the mirror.

He looked like a dog. No, not a dog; it was hard to see in the scarce light of the moon. He was...

A wolf.

Patrick's heartbeat doubled. He looked into the scuffed, dirty mirror and a wolf looked back at him. When he moved, it moved. His hands and feet were now padded; fur covered his long snout, peppered with black; a long tail swished behind him absentmindedly. A rush of adrenaline hit him and suddenly he not only felt shocked and excited—he felt _powerful_. _Strong_. He didn't know why this was happening, and there was still a little piece of him that was scared, but the longer he looked at the wolf in the mirror the more his everyday problems and insecurities began to melt away. Suddenly none of it mattered, because something more important was happening now—something unique.

He wasn't a shy high school student anymore.

Tonight an important piece of the world had become his.

Still in awe and filled with a curious energy, Patrick turned around and jogged back into the woods. The wobbliness in his legs was all but gone now, and before he knew it he was running through the trees, sliding through the darkness completely without hesitation.

Eventually he slowed down and began to sniff the ground. He marveled at the variety of scents laid before him and anxiously considered which to sample as one might hover over a box of chocolates. There must have been a hundred different smells in this one small clearing alone, and he could probably spend hours sifting through them. Instead, he bit into what he guessed was the scent of an animal and ran after it recklessly.

After a few moments the trail split into several directions and Patrick paused to consider which to follow. He tested each one, checking for differences. Eventually he decided that one of them was more vibrant than the others—more rich and deep, and somehow _alive_. Figuring that it must be the freshest scent of them all, he took off again with his nose to the ground.

He might have been chasing after a dangerous animal, but at the moment he didn't care. The sense of adventure was too strong in him, and his curiosity knew no bounds. He half walked-half jogged with his nose pointed down, stopping occasionally to relocate the trail whenever he veered off course. He was just tracking some forest creature, but he felt like he had just developed superpowers. It was as if he were looking into another world and discerning this otherwise invisible path of movement, almost like looking back in time—or maybe following some psychic line that no one else could see, like he could remember reading about in a few different books.

He stopped suddenly when he heard rustling on the other side of a nearby bush. He only hesitated for a moment, then dashed around it. Suddenly he was face-to-face with some small animal, only a blurb of light colored fur to his eyes. He could hear the scuffling of its feet as it backed away slowly, making little grunts and going rigid in the face of threat. It definitely didn't sound like a cat or smell like a skunk, so Patrick concluded that it must be an opossum.

_So_ that's _what an opossum smells like,_ he thought to himself. It was very pungent, almost a tannish-yellow, but in that certain way unlike any color he'd ever known.

Finding the opossum excited him, and he paced back and forth in front of it, barking and occasionally trying to sneak a closer sniff. All the while the little creature only backed away slowly and tried to look as big as it could. Eventually he drew far enough away that it found the opportunity to scamper off into the bushes. The temptation to continue after the little guy was great, but he decided to let the poor creature go.

Patrick ran around the woods sniffing everything possible and trying to track other animals for what must have been hours. He was absolutely elated, filled with an energy that was primal and powerful, but also made him feel as giddy as a child on Christmas. After a time one smell began to merge with another, and the color in his vision blended strangely. He was smelling the base of a tree, then he was following the scent of a different opossum, then he was scraping at a small pile of dry leaves with his paws...

And then, without knowing quite how he got there, he found himself once again in the center of the clearing. And there, towering above him was that monolith from his nightmares. It was a tree unlike any of the others, and the oaks and cedars drew away from it as though it were cursed. The resounding cries of the crickets and bats painted an image of it in Patrick's mind, and the specks of moonlight sharpened it slightly. It was a twisted and grotesque monster of a thing, its branches jutting out in every direction as though it were eternally writhing in agony. And apart from the animals and the earth and the fallen leaves and other trees was that smell—that smell that was so ancient and out of place, that almost seemed to hint at some deeper story that he couldn't perceive. The sickly stink of the wood bit at his nose and his lungs, but this time he stood before it without fear. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore.

This new world of his continued to blur, the sights and sounds and colors of the woods slowly becoming more vague and dreamlike, and his consciousness drifted slowly away from them until he woke up in his bed.

Chapter 7

The next day was undoubtedly the greatest of Patrick's life thus far.

Despite what was most likely a minimal amount of sleep, he awoke instantly and at peak energy, fueled by something that was bigger than himself and altogether special.

When he stepped outside the deep breath he took was more fresh and invigorating than any he could remember, rich with the smell of soil and yellowing leaves. The sun had yet to peek over the tall trees and the early morning moisture still clung to the air, magnifying every smell and waking sound.

Patrick jogged the breadth of the driveway to stretch his legs then slowed to a confident stroll when he got to the road. There were two other kids walking to school that he could see. They were only parallel little blobs of hoodie too far up the street to recognize, but it was clear that neither of them were Rachel. He never seemed to catch her on the road in the morning and he wondered why. Knowing her, she probably liked to arrive at school early, leaving plenty of breathing room for getting there and finding a seat and most likely looking over the previous night's assignments. It was a funny thing, seeing as she lived barely a quarter mile away, but Patrick found her professionalism endearing.

He smiled to himself. Today he would see her, and today he wasn't afraid. No, quite the opposite. There was a newly-gifted confidence in him now, one that would probably be impossible to conjure by himself under any other circumstances. Barring another random orthodontist appointment, he would see her.

And indeed, when Patrick walked through the door into Mrs. Spotts' classroom, he saw her sitting one row back from the front and a few seats to the right. Only a few other students had arrived, so Patrick had no problem securing a seat next to her. As he walked up to her desk he wondered with a little giddiness if she avoided the very front to accommodate him should he decide he was done wigging out for a while.

He didn't plan on it. Not today.

Patrick sat down as casually as possible, but couldn't help but smile upon seeing her look of pleasant surprise.

"Hey," he said, taking his binder out of his backpack.

"Hey!" she returned, with slightly more exclamation than she probably intended judging by the immediate clearing of her throat afterward.

Before he could say anything, she asked, "Are you feeling better?"

There it was again, that genuine concern. Patrick once more felt oddly touched when her words from Friday came floating sweetly through his mind...

" _Goodness, here, have some of my sandwich!_ "

" _I'll save some apple slices for you._ "

It was all Patrick could do to stop himself from grinning like an idiot.

"Yeah, totally. Must have been some bad eggs or something Friday morning." The issue hadn't been very funny, but he tried to shrug it off as a comical experience anyway. Maybe to take some of the edge off of the guilt he had felt.

"Oh, no problem," she replied with a little laugh. She tried to find the humor in this as well, but she was clearly relieved.

Before she felt obligated to say anything more on the matter, Patrick pushed forward, leaving it as far behind them as possible.

"I'm not sure how well I did on the assignment last night," he said as he flipped to his homework folder.

*****

Lunch that day was fifty minutes long, just as it was every day of the week, but to Patrick it felt like it went on for ages.

The unpleasantness of that awful day had practically disappeared, and the progression of their natural friendship kicked back into high gear. Patrick now had every bit of confidence he could ever need. Conversation went smoothly and the laughs came easily. The chronic awkward pauses which had plagued Patrick's attempts at friendliness his entire life were officially gone. What could be more inconsequential a thing when you knew what he knew—when you had experienced what he had experienced last night? Suddenly these social interactions were nothing at all. How could this have ever been so hard?

Patrick originally thought himself too preoccupied to eat, but when he withdrew his floppy turkey sandwich and began to eat it absentmindedly he found that it agreed with him much more than he had expected.

The two laughed and talked about whatever silly thing they could think of. They did quiet imitations of Mr. Rolls, their resident Hollywood football coach (which was rapidly becoming a favorite pastime of theirs, much as insisting that everyone "suit out" for PE was for dear Mr. Rolls). They giggled madly at each others' impersonations as the gloriously long lunch stretched for what absolutely must have been several hours.

Being with Rachel was simply wonderful. The world had never been so vibrant and meaningful to Patrick, and he had never felt quite so alive.

_Ah, the emotional roller coaster that is adolescence,_ he mused to himself as their lunch drew to a close and they walked to their next class.

*****

Patrick was so caught up in his joy that he hardly had time to notice how haggard Mr. Vincent looked today. He had appeared very tired during world history, and even now, several hours later as he taught Mrs. Gomes' political science class while she attended some sort of appointment (which was a small blessing, as Patrick grew to dislike the woman more with each passing day), the man was no more energetic. His eyes also might have been a tad more sunken than usual, but it may have just been Patrick's imagination.

They listened to the lesson, Patrick wishing with all his might that he could still be talking and laughing with Rachel. Yet somehow sitting next to her, entertaining the thought that she was feeling the same thing and knowing that they would have plenty of time to do it all later was enough to keep him in his seat. That feeling was broken though, when he thought about tonight.

A whirlwind of butterflies took flight in his stomach and he felt his extremities tingle as his mind drifted back to the forest. These were different butterflies than the ones that reacted to Rachel though, the tingling feeling different than that particular warmish chill that went through his arms, that sudden dizziness that flitted through his brain the first few times they shared eye contact. This feeling was laced with pure excitement, much more immediate and demanding of action. The sensation was localized almost entirely in his gut.

_It will happen again tonight,_ he thought to himself.

The idea of thrusting himself once more into that world that was so different from his own, to breach the borders of the unknown with such power, such confidence, filled him with the only joy that could match that which he was already experiencing. And the two joyous concepts together left him feeling better about the future than he ever had. Anything unrelated to the new turns his life had taken was entirely meaningless and practically nonexistent. Homework, nosebleeds, unpleasant relatives, stubbed toes, acne, awkward conversations, horrible things in the news... None of them were left after last night. Had they even really been there before? They now seemed rather impossible in such a world as this.

The thought of shedding his own skin and becoming a creature of another world again, _intentionally,_ at his very will, almost made him shake in his chair. It was all he could do not to jump up and run to the woods right this second.

He would have to wait, though. He would have to wait many long hours before class was through and dinner was eaten and his homework was done (though how he was going to be able to focus on such a thing was beyond him) and the sun was finally down and all the residents of his house and his town were finally asleep. That would be his time. That would be when this other world became his.

He didn't know why it was happening. He didn't know how it could happen. But for some reason, that didn't matter either. The sheer magnitude of the concept seemed to completely overshadow the mystery lying behind it. He couldn't even begin to imagine what would cause any of this, so he put it out of his mind. Maybe answers would come tonight. For the moment he didn't really care.

Somehow Patrick lived through Mr. Vincent's class, and the rest of the day as well, Rachel walking with him and sitting beside him in every remaining class they shared.

When they walked home together Patrick's mind was a jumbled mass of very strong emotions. Part of him wanted to walk with Rachel forever, wished the quiet street would stretch on for a hundred miles. The other part of him wanted to cast off his backpack and tear away into the woods, slipping into this other self that he wanted so desperately to grow acquainted with.

Rachel's smile kept him securely anchored to her in a slow stroll.

"A little bit of Mr. Poulton's comb over was sticking up today in geometry," she mentioned as they walked down the steps onto the school's front lawn, the student body flowing down with them and breaking apart at the bottom like a river coming finally to the ocean. Everybody seemed to be in a mad hurry to get home, but the two of them couldn't get themselves to move any faster than a zero mile-per-hour drift—so slow that either of them could naturally stop moving at any time to accentuate a point, then continue without even noticing. And to Patrick, that was just perfect.

"It was like that in biology!" he returned, stricken with intense amusement.

" _Really?_ " she almost shouted. Her smile was enormous. "Those were hours apart! It must have been like that _all day_!"

"It bugged me so much!" Patrick started to giggle.

"Me too!"

"I just wanted to tape some scissors to a yardstick and reach up there and cut it off!"

Rachel laughed loudly at this. He hadn't heard a full-on belly laugh like this from her yet, and it was wonderful. It was silly; not at all controlled or dignified. It was sincere, just like his father's. He laughed himself at the thought of saying something Rachel found so funny, then ran it through his mind a second time and realized that it _was_ funny, and the two doubled over laughing, stopped momentarily where the grass met the dusty shoulder of the cracked street. They both made little reaching and snipping gestures with their hands, which fueled the laughter further.

Patrick had the sudden urge to put his hand on Rachel's shoulder for support while he laughed and came startlingly close to doing so, but thought better of it. As they sobered from their brief spell of hysterics, drying their eyes and trying to stifle straggling giggles, Patrick wondered if she had ever felt a similar urge.

They turned right and continued their casual stroll toward their houses, still smiling at the image of Mr. Poulton's defiant tuft of hair.

"So what did you think of your first week here?" Rachel asked once they got moving again, albeit slowly. She had probably wanted to ask that question at the end of Friday, but didn't get the chance for obvious reasons.

The question held firm the smile that had already threatened to weld itself to his face. He turned to her and she looked back, her lingering grin turning into a smile just as big as his.

"It was a lot better than I thought it would be," he said, locking eyes with hers (an action which, up to this point, had always been very difficult). He felt silly, like he were some guy in a movie, trying to be as obvious as possible that Rachel was the reason it was such a great week.

But he meant it.

*****

Dinner that night was undoubtedly the most pleasant he had experienced in the house yet, but Patrick couldn't seem to appreciate it for the growing urgency in his stomach, the butterflies that were trying so hard to get out. Through the kitchen and out the window above the sink he could see the last yellow rays of sun sinking into the trees. He bobbed his right leg on the ball of his foot compulsively.

Just as he had at lunch, Patrick didn't originally seem very interested in eating; but when his mother brought the tray of pork chops into the dining room and set it in the middle of the table, the smell seeped in through his nostrils and down his throat into his stomach, temporarily parting the butterflies and calling to the gaping chasm that had apparently found home there.

The smell of the food pulled him back into reality and he caught the last bit of a conversation his parents were having.

"Something about their usual guy not being available," his father called to his mother in the kitchen, and a moment later she appeared with a pot of steamed vegetables. She set it on the table and the lid was instantly removed by Lizzy, the veggies assaulted before the woman could even sit down.

"Said something about maybe some pictures as well, so I gave him the link to your portfolio," his father finished as he rubbed his beard with the back of his hand (or scratched the back of his hand with his beard, Patrick could never tell which).

"That's excellent!" his mother said as she pulled up her chair. "I could certainly use the work. RevelCo is postponing their update until next Spring."

As Lizzy had with the vegetables, Patrick beat everyone to the pork chops, lumping two onto his plate and grabbing a dinner roll. He almost started digging into the meat right away, but plopped a meager serving of veggies beside the roll first to avoid grabbing the attention of his ever-vigilant mother.

"Rough times, I guess," she said as she buttered her own roll. "Glad to see you're hungry, Patrick!" She flashed him a brief smile, then spooned broccoli and carrots onto her plate. Of course he had gotten her attention anyway. He didn't mind though, curiously enough. Let them ask their questions. It didn't matter at all today.

He smiled back at her as he started to cut one of his pork chops. He sliced off a sizeable chunk and brought it to his mouth, but before indulging he said both to his mother and the table at large, "I had a really good day today."

Patrick sensed the tiniest pause in his parents' movement—the most barely noticeable little unheard gasp. It seemed he had developed quite the reputation for only giving information that was specifically coaxed out of him. _Teenagers,_ he thought to himself in a mock-version of his mother's voice as he shoved the juicy meat into his mouth.

His parents went on dishing food for themselves, trying to pretend that they hadn't paused at all.

"That's great to hear, Pat!" his father said, sounding genuinely pleased. "Might I _dare_ ask just what might have made this such a good day?" There was more than a little insinuation in his voice. This somehow made Patrick smile behind his mouthful of pork, where a red face seemed much more appropriate.

"Is it because of your _girrrrrrlfrieeeeeend?_ " Lizzy inquired. There was no genuine malice behind what she said, but on any other night (particularly one at their previous home) he would have jabbed her in the ribs with his elbow. He didn't even feign an attack in jest, however—just cut himself another piece of meat.

"Rachel and I are developing a healthy friendship," he started as he did so, speaking in a calm, matter-of-fact voice and only allowing the faintest of smiles to stay on his lips so as to not suggest or confirm that any actual romance was going on, "and I am getting used to my new surroundings more quickly than I anticipated." For a moment he was back in front of the school with her. He remembered with a little jump in his stomach how close he had come to putting his hand on her shoulder.

"' _Healthy friendship_ ,'" Lizzy said mockingly as she began to slice the little green ends off her broccoli with her fork and knife as if they were tiny bits of pork chop.

"I'm so glad to hear that, Patrick!" his mother said with a big smile, putting down her silverware and taking a moment to look right at him. He noticed that they used his name a lot whenever they were proud or happy with him. They didn't speak Lizzy's name half as much when they were happy with her, he thought. Patrick wondered if that said something about his relationship with them... but if it did, he couldn't think of what it was now.

"I didn't—," his Father paused, clearly running a check on what he was about to say. He apparently realized that it was obvious what it was going to be anyway, so he continued, "Well to be honest I didn't really think you'd get adjusted so quickly, Pat. I mean, of course I knew you could do it, but I thought it would take..." He seemed to gauge different amounts of time in his head for a moment. "Well, a little longer than this," he settled with and stuck a hunk of pork in his mouth, probably happy to rid himself of the possibility of saying anything discouraging. His transparency brought an odd comfort to Patrick. In such a world of secret thoughts and hidden meanings, it always had.

"This is really great, Mom." Patrick gestured both to the remaining meat on his plate and the wad in his mouth. He wasn't trying to change the subject; it was just really good tonight.

"Thank you," she responded with another smile. "It's hard to believe how much better the meat is around here. The beef is almost all grass-fed. Can you believe that?"

"Ooh!" his Father's head bolted up at those words. "We should have burgers tomorrow!"

"The produce is better, too," his mother continued. "Isn't that right, Lizzy?"

His little sister had skewered several chopped bits of carrot on her fork, making two parallel stacks that went from the tips to the bases of the tines. She was attempting to grab the entirety of one row with her teeth and slide it off.

"Uh huh," she managed through her currently occupied mouth, having withdrawn from the boring turn the conversation had taken.

Talk went on normally for the rest of the evening; his father told a story about how one of his work buddies had a coyote bust into his chicken coop and kill all of his chickens a few nights previous, which segued into a story about some particularly interesting road kill that almost made Lizzy shoot carrots out of her nose.

*****

After dinner Patrick rushed upstairs under the pretense of a large load of homework, which was actually gloriously small. Just a simple hunt-through-the-book-and-answer-the-dumb-questions biology assignment, and a quick set of algebra problems.

Algebra wasn't incredibly hard for Patrick, but he much preferred geometry. This of course, like so many things, led to thoughts of Rachel. She was taking geometry this semester, and much preferred algebra. She also preferred biology over chemistry, and Patrick vice-versa, so at least next semester they would each be happy in both categories when they did a perfect swap. (Well, sharing every single class would obviously be preferred to anything else, but it couldn't always be perfect, Patrick thought.)

The small bit of homework took longer than it should have, but even by the time it was done it was only eight o'clock. His family wouldn't be going to bed for another few hours at least. There was nothing for it but to wait, though. There was no way to get out of the house unnoticed while everyone was awake, and he couldn't get his mind to focus on anything else.

Desperate to pass the time more quickly, he walked to his bookshelf and plucked a random graphic novel from the top. This one was 'Power Up' by Doug TenNapel (his very favorite artist) and he took it to his bed and plopped himself down heavily. He turned to the beginning and held the book over his head, but after five minutes he hadn't made it past the first page. Every time he tried to read a word bubble he would find his eyes drifting off into the art, focusing on a random line or blurb of ink and then blurring, his mind wandering uncontrollably.

When he dubbed reading an officially failed experiment, he dropped the book on the nightstand and simply lay on his bed with his hands folded on his chest, staring up at the ceiling. The texturing of the paint above him made little pictures, albeit mostly nonsense ones, but it had the same effect as the book. One blob of paint that stood flat against the primarily rough surface looked a little like a boot, another like a turtle with a cat's head, and soon his eyes rested on the little tail, lost focus, and he found himself recapping the day as a whole.

How he could have done this for so many hours seemed fairly amazing to him. Smiling at the image of Mr. Poulton with a turtle's body, staring down at him from the ceiling with several exasperated little tufts of hair sticking up on a head that would most certainly not fit into his shell, he was surprised to turn his head and find that his digital alarm clock read 10:53.

He sat up and cracked his back, feeling a little stiff but not at all tired. He stood and walked out of his room, attempting to see where his family was in regards to sleep preparation. Peeking over the top of the stairs he could just see the back of his Mother's head as she sat on the couch, probably reading. By chance his father walked by just at that moment and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. He had already changed into a ratty old shirt—the kind he always preferred over normal, fully-intact shirts any time after eight o'clock. She glanced at him as he walked away and stood up, reading a few more sentences as she rounded the couch, finally placing her bookmark and heading to the kitchen.

His instincts had been good, he thought to himself. They were just now getting ready for bed. The excited feeling in his stomach turned into a tumult.

_Just a little longer_.

He forced himself to be patient and play it cool. It wasn't as though anyone could ever possibly suspect this sort of activity, but he didn't want to draw any more attention than he had at dinner anyway. He walked down the hall to the bathroom. Through the crack in the door he could see his sister brushing her teeth in the reflection of the long mirror. Patrick thought it a pretty good idea to follow suit, seeing as he was very good at forgetting such things when distracted. It had probably been days...

He pushed open the door and walked inside. His sister kept brushing her teeth with hardly a glance at him as he got his own toothbrush (his was green and Lizzy's was purple) from a little ceramic holder which he was pretty sure held pencils at some point in his life. He put a dab of paste on it and set to work.

The two of them watched themselves in the mirror, side-by-side. His sister was a good foot shorter than he was, and was very lean, like him and their mother. Her face was fair like their mothers as well with the same slightly upturned nose and pronounced nostrils. She also had rather large eyes with the very beginnings of darkish rings under them. If she grew up to look anything like their mother they would somehow look very becoming—very wise. He had always thought so.

If Lizzy had inherited anything from their father however, it was his dark brown hair. That, and his boisterous demeanor.

Although relatively thin like his sister, Patrick found that he shared most of his facial features with his father. He lacked the broad chest and upper body build, but he had the same slightly high cheekbones, the same sort of forehead (his grandmother called it the "Proud Reed Brow," but Patrick always thought it more inquisitive and thoughtful) and a somewhat larger-than-average nose (not a hook nose—just a little bigger). His hair was a sort of sandy-blonde, like his mother's.

Patrick had only really begun to notice these sorts of things in the last year or so. He wondered when Lizzy would, if she hadn't already.

When his little sister had finished and rinsed and drawn a capful of Listerine to her mouth, she paused.

"So do you like this girl, or what?" she asked casually, then threw back the mouthwash and began to swish. There was no teasing in her voice. It was a question, plain and simple.

(Definitely their dad; or more accurately, Grampy.)

Patrick finished brushing and leaned down to spit. He then filled a little cup with water and held it in front of his face for a moment.

"I don't know," he said. In the midst of everything he really didn't. Then he took a swig of the water and rinsed his mouth.

Lizzy gave the slightest roll of her eyes, emptied her mouth into the sink and left the bathroom.

Patrick pondered this question on the way back to his room and as he lay on his bed. For the moment his mind seemed a little more calm.

_Did_ he like Rachel? So far it had been enough just to find someone who was so similar to him—someone to make him feel comfortable in this strange new town. He hadn't thought much beyond that yet. He knew the question would come, and indeed it had already been flying around them like incessant seagulls trying to get at a scrap of food. His family asked the question, even when they weren't asking. His teachers and all the other students asked the question even when no one was talking to anyone at all. The question was just there every moment the two spent together, begging to be answered, crying to be fed. But he had refused to answer it, because he shouldn't have to. There was nothing wrong with befriending a member of the opposite sex; there shouldn't be so many assumptions and expectations being thrust at him.

But he couldn't ignore the question for long, because no matter how many times he told himself it didn't matter, it was a completely valid one. And one that he would probably have to answer soon.

He thought about the urge to put his hand on her shoulder. It would have been a completely plutonic gesture; one to simply suggest that he was comfortable enough with her to touch her shoulder casually. He had merely decided against it due to the risk of her taking it the wrong way or becoming uncomfortable.

But _was_ that the reason? Maybe he didn't do it because deep down the thought of touching her was like reaching out to the unattainable—as if it would have counted as physical affection toward a figure of significant interest. Two friends wouldn't hesitate to give each other a chummy pat on the back, right? Unless that is, of course, if they weren't just chums...

The house had gone quiet. He strained his ear toward the door and didn't hear a thing. He clicked off the lamp on his nightstand and walked quietly to his door, opening it a crack and peeking through.

His parents' light was out. He poked his head through a little further and saw that Lizzy's was out too. He withdrew from the hallway and shut his door. He forced himself to sit back down on his bed. He would have to wait a little longer, just to make sure they were all completely asleep. Half an hour. Half an hour just to be _absolutely safe_.

He waited for twenty-four minutes and fled quickly and silently from his room. He made his way downstairs without a sound, his eyes already adjusted to the dark from sitting in his room with his light out. He practically ran to the sliding glass door, fumbling on his shoes along the way. He didn't think he would need his jacket. The question of what exactly happened to his clothing when he changed definitely threatened to stir up some odd thoughts... but he ignored it for the time being and continued out the door. He slid it shut behind him as slowly and quietly as he could. The act required such patience, and the friction created by it and the savage need to get going, _now_ , threatened to pull him apart. He did it however, and without the door making the feared rumbling sound that would surely wake his entire family.

Patrick turned to the back yard considering how he wouldn't need a flashlight this time (though he recalled that even if he did, it was sitting on the ground wherever he had dropped it the night before) when the sight of the woods before him suddenly gave him pause. All his impatience and need to _hurry hurry hurry_ was put on hold for a moment as the pitch black edge of the trees spoke to him unexpectedly.

They were still menacing. They still told him to keep out—that he would be blind in them, subject to all the horrors of his imagination.

But he knew better. Those woods were _his_. The world that in this state of being told him to bug off was actually where he felt most comfortable—where he would find his second home. All he had to do was find out how to get there.

Patrick walked once more toward the trees. The sensation that came over him was odd; approaching a place that seemed so threatening, but in full confidence that there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of within—that he would be the powerful force in the world. It was like walking into the gaping mouth of some enormous, drooling, shark-toothed beast, knowing in your very soul that it would never dare bite down.

He walked into the beast's maw without pausing at its border. The gnarled trees that were its teeth threatened to pierce but allowed him passage, its saliva of undergrowth and moss flowing around his feet. He followed the faint path of trodden earth down its throat, and when he was sure he had reached its belly, he stopped.

It was already too dark to see, but he closed his eyes anyway. He didn't know if this would work. Was this something he could do at will? He visualized the picture of himself as he saw it in the mirror last night. The metal frame had rusted in spots and the glass was scratched and cloudy with age, but the figure in the middle was clear: the long snout, the brown fur, the strong legs, the dark eyes, eyes that saw so little but knew so much.

Just as a pang of worry caused his clenched stomach to drop a tad, he felt the feeling begin to spread over his body—that feeling that was warm and cold at the same time, both awesome and entirely frightening. His limbs moved and shifted even though it felt as though he was standing mostly still. He slumped down and landed on his hands, but it felt like he was still standing up. The jumbled sounds of the woods seeped into his head like a cloud and rang without pause, confused colors blooming in front of his closed eyes with every breath he took.

And then, everything came into focus.

It had happened much more quickly than the other times. Or maybe it just felt that way. Where before he could see only darkness, now the world was illuminated. The smell of moss and dry leaves and wandering skunks and opossums were all around him, and they filled him with a curious energy. The screeching sounds of the bats above—while once a shrill and terrifying cry—now were an anthem to his new self—his newfound life.

Though it probably didn't show on his foreign face, down inside, Patrick smiled.

### Part Two

### ~

### Monster

Chapter 8

Just like the previous nights, the woods eventually began to blend and fade into vague memory. Events became choppy and unclear, and Patrick found himself lying on his bed as the sun was just threatening to poke its fingers up over the trees. He reveled in the quiet for several minutes.

It was like spending the day in an amusement park, he thought to himself. No... it had been like riding on a roller coaster itself. So much fun and excitement to happen all at once, and now if he wanted to go again, he would have to wait in line for another day.

Knowing he couldn't possibly get to sleep again, he lay on his bed as the alarm clock's big blue letters flashed 6:44, then 6:53... Patrick thought about how the night always tapered off into a vague dream. Maybe that happened whenever he became overly excited.

6:59.

It would make sense; he could remember only getting progressively more hyped and active as the night went on. Maybe it was the heightened emotional state. That would explain why the first and second times he had seemed to wake up when he reached the peak of his fear and confusion. The body kept moving, but the memory started to fade away as soon as it entered the mind. Maybe he could get better at holding onto it in time.

7:04.

The possibility of it all still being only a series of unusually vivid dreams ran daringly through his mind for a moment, but he quickly squashed it.

_It is very, very real,_ he thought. _In ways more real than_ this _life_. One could indeed argue that such a different and heightened set of sensations would suggest quite heavily that it was all the product of a sleeping mind, it being able to draw from the unused energy of lessened body movement and an unconscious brain to create vivid imagery and manufacture emotions far beyond the ability of a waking human...

But no one could argue that Patrick had gone to the woods and woken up in his bed. As he had faced the trees he assured himself that this was real in the way that he knew he only could if he were completely and assuredly awake. If he ever thought of such a thing in a dream he would immediately notice that the ground lacked texture, or that everything seemed a little blurry or ridiculous, or that he was in fact walking along the back of a giant dog. This assurance was only possible when he was awake. He had smelled the trees and heard the faint wind. He had turned his eyes to whatever he pleased and saw that the world around him was completely and accurately rendered.

He. Was. Awake.

He couldn't recall coming back to his bed, but he had obviously done it, and in a different state of mind. He supposed it had been as simple as changing back and walking upstairs... but he didn't remember a bit of it.

7:25. If he wanted to shower he would have to do it now. He looked at his hands.

No dirt. Weird. Maybe all the shifting skin and fur and whatnot shook most of the dirt off. He raised his arm to sniff under his armpit, thinking surely he must reek after so much activity.

Nothing.

_That's right_ , he said to himself with a real smile.

Wolves don't sweat, dummy.

*****

When Science class came around, Patrick was very glad to plop himself down onto his seat for two reasons.

Firstly, he was exceptionally tired. When he had gotten out of bed that morning he finally felt the toll his romps had been taking on him. There was a sort of deep ache that had settled in his limbs and they were completely sapped of strength. It had also struck him when his first class started that he felt quite underslept. This made a lot of sense, seeing as his sleep had been minimal the last few nights, and now the constant flow of adrenaline had stopped and the excitement was seeping out of his body and leaving him more and more drowsy with each passing hour. It was a chore now to even walk between classrooms, and even more difficult was actually paying attention in class.

The second reason he was happy to sit was that he would be spending the period sitting next to Rachel. As she had explained that morning, her chemistry teacher had to take a personal day, and the faculty thought it as good an opportunity as any to hold the annual flu-prevention lecture. Patrick's class was assimilated into Rachel's, the chatty students crowding into the chemistry lab and sitting on chairs they brought over themselves. Patrick had never been in this room before, but it was the picturesque lab (if just a tad smaller and lower-tech than his old one), equipped with Bunsen burners, scientific scales, microscopes, and a plethora of chemistry-related posters plastering the walls. The periodic table of the elements made two appearances on opposite sides of the room, in both white and blue.

Patrick sat beside one of the long benches on the side of the room which had already been filled by the regular attendees of this class. He and Rachel watched the rest of his class flow into the middle of the room, surrounding the central island of four connected sinks and supply cabinets. Patrick saw a brief image of filling a bunt cake pan with batter.

Rachel, in her infinite sweetness, relinquished her high stool to a boy named Owen who had seated himself next to Patrick. He was an innocent-looking kid who was very short for his age; at first Patrick had thought he might have been promoted from a lower grade, but his ever-perplexed face heavily suggested that this was not the case. From what Patrick could tell, it didn't seem as though Owen was very confident or successful in his schoolwork, though it was obvious that he tried very hard. His comically thick-rimmed glasses (which looked old and scuffed enough to be hand-me-downs) and his tendency to slouch made Patrick think he looked like he would make a very good writer someday. Today, however, he had either forgotten his glasses at home or lost them, as he had already done at least twice in the short time Patrick had attended Hillward High.

Owen had been seated with his view obscured by the work bench at the front of the room, so he switched seats gladly.

"Now I'll be able to see the whole blurry presentation, and not just the blurry top half," he said as he positioned himself on the seat of power. Rachel chuckled at that.

Patrick of course knew why she really switched, and so did everyone else in the immediate area, but she didn't seem to mind. Owen certainly didn't have to ask.

Mr. Rolls had a lot of over-the-top tendencies that were easy to make fun of, but the absolute seriousness that Mr. Poulton carried with him at all times made him their very favorite subject. The greatest humor, they found, could be derived by the simple juxtaposition of the man onto almost any picture or into any situation imaginable. During the few minutes before English started they had placed him in his very own world-famous rock band, "Mr. Poulton and the Stern Looks". Patrick had employed his best gravelly radio announcer voice to say, "And now, from the mega-band, 'The Stern Looks,' their number one smash hit, 'Thick Eye Brows,'" a remark that started a bout of laughter that was only just barely stifled right before Mrs. Spotts had begun her lesson.

Rachel assured him that these lectures were always big wastes of time—filled with brilliant gems such as "wash your hands" and whatnot—and that they would have plenty of joke fodder when it was over.

Surely they would be talking about it all the way through lunch, Patrick thought, though his smile faltered a tad when Mr. Poulton finally entered the room. There was a _particularly_ stern look on his face today; he looked a little like a nine-year-old on the verge of having a tantrum, and the fact that the din of the now crowded room didn't even lessen an ounce when he walked in probably didn't help his apparently sour mood.

This should have been funny, Patrick thought, but he certainly wasn't laughing. Bad vibes were just pouring out of the guy, and seemed to be interfering with all humor production in the immediate area.

The area of effect apparently wasn't large however, judging by the ridiculous and exaggerated fart noise that issued from the back of the room, followed by the bout of laughter. Mr. Poulton didn't seem to react to the noise directly, but Patrick could imagine what was going on in that bald head.

Loath as he probably was to even _need_ to do it, Mr. Poulton hushed the students as he hoisted his briefcase onto the station at the front of the room and pulled out a manila folder. He barked commands of "Quiet down," and "Class," as he pulled a few printouts from it and began to organize them on the surface in front of him. (Why he needed notes to remind him how one effectively avoids a cold was beyond Patrick.)

The increased size and irregular mix of the class was a chemistry of its own, and the reaction took a long time for Mr. Poulton to squelch.

Just before the class quieted down completely, Patrick turned to Rachel with a look of slight unease and said, "Our lead singer doesn't look so hot today." She met his eyes for a moment and shook her head slightly. The look on her face seemed to agree.

The teacher silenced the last incessant voices by simply starting his lesson.

"This is a lecture on flu-prevention," he started quickly and without emotion, leaving hardly any time for a breath between sentences. "Flu season won't start for a few months now, but due to the absence of Mrs. Driver and our inability to get a substitute this has become the most convenient time." (Patrick thought there was the tiniest bit of contempt at the 'substitute' part, but he may have been imagining it.)

Mr. Poulton began with the tendency of the student body to underestimate the effectiveness of following a few simple rules, but was forced to stop halfway in order to silence two boys in the back corner whose conversation simply couldn't wait until the end of the period.

"Boys," he said, his voiced raised just a hair. Without skipping a beat he continued, but when he finally got around to listing the various prevention techniques on the dry erase board he had to stop once more. He had been in the middle of writing "Wash your hands frequently," when the two boys in the corner started up again.

"PLEASE STOP TALKING," he said loudly and flatly, staring at them menacingly for several seconds afterward. This time they got the idea, and there was silence for a few moments as Mr. Poulton finished writing down the list. He then began to talk about proper bathing habits.

These were the warning signs of a nuclear meltdown, but apparently there were still a few kids in the classroom with malfunctioning sensors. When an incoherent remark from the other corner of the room was muttered just a little too loudly, Mr. Poulton nearly lost it.

"Can I _please_ have silence while I am teaching a lesson?" he all but yelled. "I don't see how this is different from any other day!" He regarded the room at large for a long and completely silent moment, the general discomfort growing exponentially with each passing second.

Patrick suddenly got the image of young circus-goers taunting a trained bear. He may look indifferent while he balances on his large ball, and he may be on a leash, but what would stop him if he suddenly decided to hop down and tear a few heads off? Mr. Poulton certainly looked like he could hold his own in a Battle-of-the-Bad-Moods with a bear, and how those cotton candy-faced kids in the room couldn't see that was a great mystery. (On another day Patrick might have entertained this whole image, but under the circumstances it didn't seem very funny.)

Mr. Poulton finally continued and went uninterrupted for a good ten minutes. Patrick thought they might finally be out of claw's reach, as long as the other guys in the class didn't keep dancing with fate.

Bibbles the Bear was talking about the importance of eating well when Patrick sensed some movement to his right. He looked to see Owen reaching into his book bag and pulling out his binder. This lecture was literally of no real academic importance, but Owen worked hard at school, and seemed to have suddenly realized that he might somehow benefit from taking notes. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and started writing down the list that was on the board, squinting his eyes into the tiniest slits and leaning forward as far as he could to make out each item.

This little action reached to Patrick and there was the tiniest wrenching in his gut. Owen worked twice as hard, if not several times as hard as all the other 'most likely to succeed' kids he'd known throughout his life. From what Patrick had glimpsed of his math homework on a few occasions, it was completely littered with calculations and practice problems and odd little formulas and notes—the signs of a whole lot of effort. It was tough for him, but from what Patrick had seen he hadn't missed a single assignment so far. He made a mental note to ask Owen what he wanted to pursue as a career.

The lesson was incredibly boring, though the knowledge that the jaws of the fez-wearing bear at the front of the room would surely snap shut on the next person to make a sound did keep at least some of the students on edge. It seemed that they might be in the clear until Owen leaned over to him and Rachel and whispered almost silently.

"What's the third one down say?" He was gesturing toward the board, where Mr. Poulton had listed the dozen or so rules to Not Getting Sick.

By the time Patrick had processed the question and overcome his bafflement as to why Owen thought this transaction an appropriate risk, Rachel whispered back to him from Patrick's left.

"Sleep," her answer came quickly, almost too quietly to even be called a whisper.

Owen apparently hadn't heard her, or even done a good job of reading the single-syllable word off her lips for the absence of his glasses.

This was absolutely ridiculous. Mr. Poulton had said it about five minutes ago. Why did he have to do this _right now_? Patrick shouted in his mind, wishing desperately that he could shoot the thought straight into Owen's head, _AFTER CLASS_!

Owen thought the information vital however, and regarded her with a deeply questioning look.

" _Sleep_?" he mouthed, and as he did so he put his hands together and tilted his head sideways over them in a mock-sleep gesture.

"MR. WHEELER, LUNCH DETENTION!" Mr. Poulton's voice resounded in the quiet room.

Shocked, Owen instinctively shot his hands down into his lap. His high seat of power had suddenly become the highest and most vulnerable branch of a bare tree in the middle of hawk country.

Before there was time to think or react in any real way, Rachel was speaking.

"I was just telling him what was on the board." Her tone was assuring and confident.

Mr. Poulton shot his gaze at her.

"That goes for you too, Ms. Alexander!" he said without sparing even a second.

What little nervousness had settled in Patrick was immediately snuffed out like the last little glow at the end of a cigarette being stomped flat and smeared into the mud by a heavy boot.

Without stopping to think about it, he nearly shouted, "She was just defending him!" His voice was thick with indignance.

"Lunch detention!" This time Mr. Poulton pointed right at Patrick to accentuate his damning sentence. He said it as if the punishment were a lightning bolt coming from his finger, and his eyes dared anyone else to test him and suffer the wrath of Zeus.

"You can't do that!" Patrick knew it was a stupid thing to say, but his rage was hot now, hotter than it had been in a long time.

"Watch me!" Mr. Poulton hit him with another lightning bolt. "Lunch detention for a _week_! Now are we done _talking_?"

It took every ounce of strength inside of him to keep his mouth shut this time, but he just barely found enough to hold back all the nasty things he wanted to shout at the man. The original Stern Look himself stared right into Patrick's eyes, thick eyebrows and all, demanding the question be answered. The correct answer of course was compliant silence, and giving it to him was maddening.

Finally Mr. Poulton withdrew as a dog might pull his teeth away from the throat of some scrawny mongrel that dared to question his dominance, leaving Patrick seething, but with his ears down and his tail firmly between his legs.

Face smeared with blood, Bibbles returned to his ball and continued the lesson, though Patrick scarcely heard a word of it. His face was hot and his mind was a scrambled mass of rage clawing at the back of his eyes, furiously trying to escape and reap vengeance on the idiot at the dry erase board.

Rachel gave him a worried glance, or perhaps an apologetic one. He gave her a brief shrug of indifference, though he knew it wasn't convincing in the slightest. The injustice was biting at his insides, and the image of that smarmy little bearded face was burned into his retinas. Patrick noticed out of the corner of his eye that Owen hadn't yet found the nerve to take his hands out of his lap.

No one dared to speak for the rest of the class period.

*****

" _It's very mature to take your anger out on us."_

" _It must be fun to have power you can abuse."_

" _If you're done throwing a tantrum, maybe we should return to the lesson?"_

For the final half hour of the flu-prevention lecture Patrick was left to stew, his mind filling to the brim with things he should have said, _would_ have said had his mind not been so sluggish with rage. He would have given anything to go back and say them to the man's face, and ran such scenarios through his head over and over again.

Finally the droning voice stopped and the students were quickly sucked into the vacuum that was the outside world, eager to escape the hot pressure inside the classroom. Owen walked out into the quad with Patrick and Rachel.

"Man, I'm sorry about that," Owen said glumly when he was sure that they were a safe distance from the chem lab. "That was meant for me."

Patrick thought that Owen's behavior was definitely foolish, but he wasn't mad at him in the slightest.

"Don't worry about it, man. It's no big deal."

"A _week_ , though! It's absolute bull." He hitched his backpack higher on his back and started toward his next class. "I'll make it up to you somehow."

_What a nice kid,_ Patrick thought, despite his sour mood.

"It's really okay, it wasn't your fault," he assured Owen as he walked away.

"It wasn't fair," Rachel said finally, staring at the ground in front of her. Patrick hadn't even considered how she might feel about her own detention.

"No," he said. Then, even though he still felt nothing but smoldering anger in his gut, he tried to make light of the situation. It was almost painful to see Rachel down.

"Have you ever even _had_ detention before?" he asked her with a faint, half-forced smile.

The question might have been slightly upsetting if asked another way, but when she saw his little smile she returned with one.

"No," she said defensively.

*****

The joy and confidence Patrick had exhibited the previous night at dinner was now gone. It was funny, he thought, how happiness could cast out fear and anger, but the unwanted emotions always threatened to swoop back down again and scare the happiness into submission. He was still immeasurably grateful for the turn his life was taking, but he couldn't seem to shake this deep feeling of injustice.

The last thing he would do, he thought as his family chatted happily and ate dinner, was tell them about the incident in full. Although he wanted Mr. Poulton to have his comeuppance more than anything in the world, he couldn't let anyone find out exactly what happened. If his father caught wind of the affair he would most certainly go and tear the man a new one (so to speak). He would go to the school board and complain that the detentions were given unjustly and in anger, and above all else in the spirit of punishment rather than discipline. All three of them would have their detentions lifted and Mr. Poulton would be left to lick his wounds, suddenly and very acutely aware that compared to the mighty titan that was The Parent, he had no more power than a sniveling a little imp.

But in the back of Patrick's mind there would always be that knowledge, burning at him like a little cinder that refuses to go out, growing a little brighter whenever he saw that bearded face as if from a light breathe, that Daddy had to come and win the battle for him. And that was a satisfaction that he would never give the man. It would be like winning every battle in a war except for the one on your home turf. Your enemy suffered the most casualties, but was it really a victory?

"So what's up, Pat?" his father finally asked in between bites of his burger. "Something wrong?"

Patrick swallowed his own bite and said, "Nothing, I just got lunch detention today."

His father tried to stifle a chuckle as he asked the obvious question, "Well what did you do?" It seemed that the idea of Patrick getting into very much trouble was literally laughable.

"Mouthed off to a teacher," he said indifferently, then took another bite.

"Patrick," his mother said accusingly, though she was smiling as well. "What did you say?"

"He gave some other kid detention for something stupid," he said vaguely, not wanting to recount the details that had run through his mind the entire day, "and I said it was dumb, or something, and he gave me detention too."

His father laughed again.

"Well, Pat, you should definitely, uh... try not to do that. In the future." He feebly attempted to avoid smiling, and it was clear that he was trying desperately to wear his Discipline Hat (though it didn't fit his head quite right, thanks to a mostly quiet and well-behaved son). The matter that was _truly_ important however, burst from him a second later.

"So what's with this teacher guy?" he asked with a little excitement, meaning, of course, " _What makes this guy so weird that he would ever need to give you detention?_ "

Patrick was rapidly growing tired of the subject, but he knew his father wouldn't relent.

"Mr. Poulton," he said. "He's just a jerk."

"As bad as Mr. Fitzpatrick?" his father asked with a grin.

"Just as big of a wiener, but only tolerable because he's so easy to make fun of."

"Patrick!" his mother said again, but with a lot more sincerity than before. "You need to respect your teachers, even if you think they're wrong." She was a little taken aback, but Patrick didn't care at this point. His father and sister just laughed out loud, the latter with a gruesome mouthful of beef and bun.

It felt good. He and Rachel were always poking fun at the man and making little jokes about his funny habits and whatnot, but in the absence of her innocence it felt good to simply tell someone how crappy a guy he was.

His father laughed for several seconds, but Patrick continued, knowing what questions would be coming next.

"He's bald and he's got this stupid beard-face and whenever he's mad, which is pretty much always, he looks at you with these big, thick eyebrows." He did the most exaggerated impression of the man's sternest look and shot it at everyone at the table. This kept his father and sister laughing steadily, and when it was directed at his mother even she smiled a little, though she still looked mostly uncomfortable.

For the rest of dinner (which was prolonged due to frequent bouts of laughter) Patrick entertained them with the various Poultonisms and jokes that he and Rachel had amassed over the short time they had been friends.

It would have been much better if Mr. Poulton were there to hear it all, but at least Patrick could pretend.

*****

It took much effort to get his tired legs up the stairs, and when he plopped onto his bed Patrick knew he wouldn't be going into the woods tonight. He had missed a tremendous amount of sleep over the last several nights and it was finally catching up with him. Couple that with the huge amount of physical exertion and he was left feeling like his bones were made of noodles. Unable to sleep with the sun still up and too tired to do anything else, he recalled lunch that day.

He and Rachel hadn't sat on their favorite bench critiquing each others' lunches as they had planned. Instead, they had spent it in some big, empty classroom that Patrick had never been in before. It looked like it was meant for history or political science, its walls covered with related posters and timelines. The room was painted a reddish brown which reminded him of a comfortable redwood log cabin, but the desolation made it a little too unsettling for him to want to stay the night. (Patrick would be spending a week in that room, he thought with a fresh twinge of anger.)

In addition to the three of them, there had been two other guys with long hair, black clothes and nose rings. Rachel explained later that they were of a small rabble of kids that practically spent their entire lives in detention due to a complete refusal to do homework of any kind. ("A carnal sin," he had joked with her.)

They had all been forced to sit several seats away from each other to ensure that there was no chance of any sort of communication between them, and above all, not even an ounce of fun. They were only allowed to eat their lunch and do their homework quietly. The two guys sitting on opposite ends of the back row claimed that they had no homework to do, so the unnamed heavyset woman who watched them all from the desk at the front of the room told them to sit there with their heads on their desks, which they did gladly.

Owen had sat and worried at his math homework, a look on his face that spoke both of remorse for having gotten everyone detention, and of painful confusion over the daunting problems in the textbook.

Rachel claimed before and after detention that she didn't really care about it, that it was, "just an opportunity to get your homework done early," but Patrick knew that she missed the laughter-filled free time as much as he did. It was one of the only chances during the day that they ever had time for a real conversation.

Now that Patrick remembered her saying it though, he was actually a little thankful that he was able to get his homework done early, because it seemed as if he might be falling asleep soon. He couldn't ascertain just when that would be, however, because he then fell asleep, images of an angry, bearded face floating through his mind.

Chapter 9

Patrick dreamed about being a wolf that night. He dreamed about running and sniffing and chasing animals—most definitely a good dream. When he awoke he found himself underneath his blankets, and for a moment thought that he had actually _become_ a wolf without meaning to. He had most certainly fallen asleep on top of the covers... But as a few moments went by and he shook the last bits of sleep from his eyes he realized that he had probably just gotten into bed in his sleep.

*****

Such a deep, dream-filled sleep was exactly what Patrick needed, and as he chatted with Rachel before English class he reflected that staying in bed last night was very much the correct decision. He still wasn't quite at one hundred percent, but he certainly would have enough energy to make the trip to that other world come nightfall. He wished that there were some way to get his family to go to bed earlier...

"I think it will be 'Of Mice and Men,'" Rachel said to him amidst the rabble of voices from the settling students. The two of them were sitting in the middle of the room. Patrick could see Owen looking over his homework off to their left. With a glance behind he spotted Dean sitting slouched in his seat with the usual bored look on his face. Patrick had learned the names of a few other kids in the class, but he made a mental note to learn them all soon.

"Gosh, I hope not," he returned with a roll of his eyes. "Why do you think that?"

"I've heard from lots of the older kids that you read it sometime this year. Have you read it before?"

"Yeah, twice." He grimaced. "I read it once in eighth grade for some weird reason. We all thought it was supposed to be a book you read in high school. Then I had to read it again my freshman year."

"Your school made you read it twice?" Rachel asked. "Didn't the teachers communicate with each other?"

"The high school was a different school. There were tons of them in the city."

Rachel rolled her eyes to herself, a little embarrassed.

"Right. Derp. Sorry, I'm so used to living here where we've got ' _the_ middle school' and ' _the_ high school'."

Patrick laughed.

"I much prefer it this way, honestly."

Mrs. Spotts walked in a second later, holding her bag as usual. What was not usual however, was the look on her face. She seemed either worried or nervous; a great departure from her unwavering cheeriness. Her wrinkly eyebrows were scrunched together and the tops of her cheeks were pulled up in a squint that made her eyes even smaller than usual. The class quieted as she moved to her desk and unpacked her things.

"A quick announcement before we start today, class," she began, wringing her hands together nervously.

Whatever the announcement was, it seemed to disturb her very much. Patrick and Rachel exchanged this thought quickly with a worried glance.

"Mr. Poulton was injured last night. He's going to be alright, but he won't be able to come to school for a while." She paused and regarded the class for an uncomfortable moment.

"What happened to him?" a long-haired girl wearing a bandana asked from the front row.

Mrs. Spotts took a breath and held it for a second, apparently hesitant to continue.

"He was attacked by an animal. A dog. He was taking a walk last night, very late—Mr. Poulton has always had problems with insomnia, you see, and often takes walks up and down Deer Creek, from what he tells me—and he said it was big, and looked like a wolf, but this is a very strange place to find a wolf, I think..."

Patrick's stomach plummeted and he was suddenly overcome by an intense feeling of vertigo. His heart began pumping madly. His skin flushed cold. This wasn't happening; he had to still be dreaming.

"So it may have been some sort of husky or similar dog, but if it was indeed a wolf it had a long way to travel to get here," Mrs. Spotts continued. Patrick swayed slightly in his seat, certain that she couldn't be saying what it sounded like she was saying. "But either way the animal must be sick. Mr. Poulton has been treated for rabies, just to be safe. A very... painful procedure, but he's going to be okay nonetheless."

"They didn't catch it?" asked a boy near the door, clearly fascinated. He sounded far away. "How did he get away?"

"I don't know, sweetie. From what I heard, it just attacked him and left." She looked like she was growing progressively more uncomfortable, but couldn't seem to stop herself from answering questions.

"How badly is he hurt, Mrs. Spotts?" The question seemed to float into the room without a body, but just before it was complete Patrick realized that it was coming from Rachel.

"One of his legs is... very hurt. One of his arms, as well, but like I said, he's going to be fine. We are very lucky that he escaped with his life."

This time her worried pause wasn't broken by a question.

The silence seemed to drag on for much too long.

"So let's start on our lesson for today," she said finally after what must have been an eternity.

Patrick didn't' know what to think. His heart was beating so hard it almost hurt, and he worked as hard as he could to conceal his increasingly deep breathing. He cleared his throat and raised his hand.

It took a few moments for Mrs. Spotts to turn away from whatever she was writing on the board, but when she saw the raised hand she said, "Yes, Patrick?" Her voice was still a little shaky.

"Can I please use the rest room?" he asked as steadily as he could. He was suddenly aware that sweat was beginning to accumulate on his face and neck and hoped that no one had noticed.

"Of course you can," she said with a touch of relief in her voice, obviously happy that he hadn't dug for any more grim details.

Patrick rose from his seat and left the room without turning to see if Rachel or anyone else was watching him go. The walk down the hall to the bathroom was blurry and vague, the rush of blood to his head distorting both his vision and the passage of time.

_This has to be a dream_ , he thought as he pushed into the bathroom.

There was no one inside, and he hoped desperately that no one would need to make a stop for the next several minutes. He rushed to the sink and leaned over it, holding the sides for support. He held his head down for several long moments, trying to slow his breathing.

The fear was back. That fear that crippled him, that he had thought must be gone forever. It had returned and cast out every feeling of joy and ease inside him. That fear that made him want to run and cower, that told him everything was wrong and out of his control.

He looked up into his reflection.

A perfectly clear human face stared back at him. It wasn't a dream.

_I almost killed Mr. Poulton_.

*****

As Patrick forced himself to calm down, his pulse slowed and his breathing became steady and he wiped the sweat off his face with a paper towel. He returned to class hoping that he looked at least half-normal.

He sat back down at his desk without looking at Rachel, and for the rest of the class period had to try his hardest not to start panicking again. Fear and shame and remorse ate at his insides like acid.

There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he attacked Mr. Poulton. He wasn't even sure if you could find a wild wolf for a thousand miles, and the chances of his infuriating bald teacher being attacked by some wolf-like dog immediately after the Owen incident were practically nil. He had gone to bed thinking about the man—had spent an entire day seething with anger toward him, wishing for justice above all other things.

But it wasn't justice that came down on Mr. Poulton last night. It was revenge—bloodthirsty and lustful. And it came from Patrick.

He thought about his blankets. He had gone to sleep on top, but he woke up fully in his bed. It wasn't just a casual action done while sleeping; he had gotten up and snuck out into the woods, transforming and eventually attacking Mr. Poulton only to return without a sound or a scratch. He hadn't woken up dirty or bloody... He brought up the image of himself as he had seen it in the mirror that morning and tried desperately to recall any smudge or blemish that looked as if it might have possibly been blood.

He got a horrible image of it happening. It started with a picture, then against his will progressed into the sensation of fangs tearing into flesh and a bloodied and screaming Mr. Poulton flailing under his weight. It played fluidly and vividly, to its completion, as if it were a movie that had popped up on TV when Patrick couldn't seem to find the remote. He couldn't tell if this was a memory or simply his imagination running wild.

A terrible question came to him: Had he simply lost control of his mind and body, seeking to sate the most primal hunger he had at the moment, or had he woken up in a human state of mind and done this on purpose? Maybe he had simply risen out of bed so angry at the man that he decided to seek revenge the only way he knew how, his ongoing rage clouding his waking memory as extreme emotions seemed to do.

The thought made him queasy, and he forced it out of his mind.

When the bell rang and the students shuffled out of the class, leaving Mrs. Spotts to worry in silence for a few minutes, Rachel asked the question Patrick dreaded.

"Are you okay?"

Despite his tendency to stay quiet, it seemed that Patrick had never quite developed the ability to mask his emotions very well.

"Yeah, I'm just kind of weirded out by the Mr. Poulton thing."

"Yeah, it's really weird," she agreed. "I hope he's okay. I know we like to make fun of him and stuff, but I would never wish that..." she paused, and Patrick felt another wave of guilt pass through him, "anything like _that_ would happen..."

They continued walking. Apparently Patrick's face betrayed him again, because when Rachel looked at him a moment later she said, "Don't feel so bad, though... It's not like it's your fault or anything."

Patrick tried to muster a smile, but couldn't.

*****

As usual, Patrick recalled various aspects of his day while eating dinner. He thought perhaps it was a relaxation technique, though he certainly would have been much more relaxed if today hadn't happened at all.

Biology had been taught by a man named Mr. Randolph, who was also balding and sporting a beard, though he was much more tall and muscular than Mr. Poulton. He had begun and ended the lesson without so much as mentioning the incident, delivering the information flatly with his deep voice, regarding the class through heavily-lidded eyes. Patrick thought about the lack of substitutes the day before and wondered if it always took a serious injury to get them into the classroom.

Rachel had walked Patrick to lunch detention, but when they arrived the woman at the desk had solemnly said not to worry about it and sent him on his way. It seemed that in her eyes it was inappropriate to enforce a detention that had been given by a man on the eve of his serious injury. It was funny; she had acted as though they had been hugely affected by Mr. Poulton's injury or might somehow feel responsible. Which was silly, of course... Though apparently not quite as silly as it should have been, Patrick had admitted.

"-al control teams all over town," his father was saying as he pulled himself back to the present. "They even brought guys down from Fort Clay and Marysville." He grabbed his glass of soda and took a drink.

"Now I'm sure your teachers have already told you," his mom said to him and Lizzy, who was dissecting a green bean with her fork and knife as if it were a frog in science class, "things are going to be a little different in town for a while."

They _had_ mentioned it. In fact, much of PE was taken up by an assembly on the subject in the gym.

"Until this thing is caught," she continued, "no one should walk alone, or at all over long distances. If you see the dog, run—Lizzy, are you listening?"

Lizzy had extracted the tiny pea heart from the green bean and was grinding it between her teeth. "Yes!" she said loudly, but didn't take her eyes off her plate.

"Eyes up here," his mother insisted, and she obeyed, putting down her fork with a sigh. "If you see it, run to the nearest house or building and get inside. Don't knock, don't try to run home, just get inside a house and tell whoever is there to call the police department. Even if it's not running at you or anything, don't hesitate, even for a second. You get inside."

Lizzy, always the comic, asked what she thought was a valid question.

"What if we thought we saw it, so we ran into some weird old person's house, and it turned out it was just a regular dog, and it was really embarrassing and awkward?"

"I'm sure the weird old people would understand," his mother replied.

"You can never be too safe with this sort of thing," his father added. "These types of accidents always happen to people who make assumptions and aren't careful."

"Also, no walking at all after dark," his mother said.

" _Period_." The severity in his father's voice was rather uncharacteristic.

Patrick grew more and more queasy as the conversation drug on, and soon couldn't get himself to take another bite of his roast beef. Everything they were saying was probably being recited word-for-word at every dinner table in the whole town. There were undoubtedly dozens of police officers and animal specialists around town and out in the woods scouring the area for something that wasn't there. The whole of Hillward was on guard and nervous. And it was all because of Patrick. There was no one to blame in the entire place but him.

And no one had even the slightest clue. The sheer massiveness of this secret and of his guilt literally made him dizzy. He was considering excusing himself due to an upset stomach (which wouldn't be a lie at all, would it?) when his mother turned to him.

"The lady from the school office didn't say the name of the teacher that got hurt. Was he one of yours?"

"It was Mr. Poulton," he said as plainly as possible, trying to hide the guilt that was surely thick in his voice.

There was a brief silence that washed over the table, and Patrick wondered what they were thinking.

"That's kind of weird," his father said finally. "After what we heard last night, maybe it wasn't a dog at all, just Patrick feeling a little bloodthirsty." He snarled and bit at the air, making wolf-man gestures toward Lizzy. This didn't help the queasiness in Patrick's stomach.

He tried to laugh lamely, then said, "I'm feeling kind of weird. I think I'm going to go lie down." He said it suddenly and probably suspiciously, but he didn't care at this point. He scooted his chair back and stood up.

"You okay, Patrick?" his mother asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine" he said. He pushed his chair back in and slid what was left of his dinner onto his father's plate. He took his dirty dishes to the kitchen and plopped them into the sink. When he realized that they were still watching him expectantly, he called back, "I've just been feeling a little ooky since I got home." He passed the table on his way to the stairs.

"Well let me know if you don't feel better in a few hours," his mother said.

"I will," he said, and walked up to his room.

*****

It felt good to lie down. The queasiness eased up somewhat when he stretched out over the blankets, perhaps only because he was finally alone. He was scared, mentally exhausted, and had no idea why any of this was happening. The unwelcome feeling that his life was spiraling out of control was back. He didn't know what would happen tonight, or tomorrow night, or the next, or any night for the rest of his life, for that matter. He didn't know how he could possibly live a normal life with a body that was sly and powerful and equipped to bring terror to the world any time he lost consciousness. What was the solution? Having his family lock him up every night to prevent him from savagely mauling any person who might wrong him in his daily life? He didn't even know if he was safe _now_. He didn't want to ask for help; no one would believe him, and it would be terrible and strange for everybody. But alternately he couldn't just do _nothing_ when peoples' lives were at stake...

He was startled by a loud knock at his door.

"Hey Pat, can I come in?" his father called from the other side.

Patrick grabbed the book he had placed on his nightstand a few days previous and opened it up to a random page.

"Yeah," he called, and his father walked in.

"You feeling any better?" the man asked, one hand on the door jamb. He had changed into a yellow t-shirt that looked like it might be as old as he was, though it seemed a little early in the evening for it.

Patrick lowered the book that he had been pretending to read.

"Yeah, I just needed to lie down for a bit."

"Awesome. Well, I know it's a bit of a late start, but we were thinking about watching Fellowship of the Ring. You in?"

A long movie. That would explain the shirt.

"Nah, I've got some homework, and I'm feeling pretty tired." Both of these were true.

"You sure?" His father seemed concerned. "The Lord of the Rings movies are like, your favoritest _ever_."

"Yeah, I just watched that one like a month ago." Not true. "I might pop in sometime."

"I gotcha, suit yourself." He started to go, then stopped. "Hey, we should drive up to Mooresville sometime and catch a movie."

"That'd be awesome," Patrick said. He wondered if he would hurt anyone else by the time 'sometime' came. It was hard to look even a week into the future.

"I'll have to see what's playing. Later, Pat," his father said finally, and he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Patrick stared at the door for several seconds, then shut the book he had been holding and looked at the cover.

Had he spent a single relaxed or normal night up in this room? It certainly didn't seem like it. He hadn't read a book in what felt like months, and other than homework and unpacking he only ever stared at the ceiling. He was more familiar now with the little shapes in the textures of the paint than he was with the rest of the house.

He wanted to have a normal evening. He wanted to go downstairs and watch a movie with his family, or play a game or read the book he was holding... But he couldn't. It would be like enjoying a leisurely activity in the wake of a loved one's death. His mind was so full of fear that nothing seemed appropriate. Enjoying himself would seem wrong, and wouldn't even be possible anyway.

So once more he lay there, and nothing else. Eventually he drug himself over to his desk and did a sloppy job on his homework, then dropped back onto his bed. The sounds of movie downstairs were clear. He didn't even need to watch it anymore; he could practically visualize the entire thing in his head, he had seen it so many times. He heard his family talking to each other, but couldn't make out the words over the booming of his father's surround-sound system.

Finally, after the three and a half hours of extended edition high fantasy had come to an end, everyone came upstairs to prepare for bed. Patrick clicked off his lamp to avoid any further talk and listened as everyone settled into their rooms. Another half hour or so passed, and Patrick was sure that everyone was asleep.

He would have bet twenty bucks that his parents had talked about him before they went to sleep.

" _I tell you, that kid is like a light switch,_ " his father would say as he got into bed, " _only two positions: on and off. One day he's peachy keen, and the next you don't know what's wrong with him._ "

" _He's probably still adjusting to his new school,_ " his mother would say while typing on her laptop, which would be propped up on a pillow in her lap. The tone of her voice would suggest that she was having a hard time believing her own words. " _It's a really big change._ "

" _I just wish I knew what was going on in that brain of his,_ " his father would say, sounding frustrated. He had always been so straightforward and transparent that Patrick's mysterious moods often left him feeling confused and a little perturbed.

" _He just needs time,_ " his mother would say, then continue working on her laptop.

Patrick sat up in his bed. He stretched his shoulders and stared at his legs.

He felt bad about leaving his parents in the dark. He wished he could tell them things, but more than ever his thoughts and feelings needed to remain a secret. They definitely wouldn't understand. _No one_ would understand. He thought about his father's suggestion to see a movie and wondered what was even playing nowadays.

Patrick glanced out his window and a shape caught his eye. There was something standing by the edge of the woods.

It was a wolf.

Patrick's eyes grew wide and his pulse immediately doubled, thumping heavily in his chest. He had the strange urge to duck and hide for a moment, but didn't move.

It was staring right at him. It was brown like he imagined he was himself, and maybe bigger, but he wasn't sure. He couldn't tell much in the faint light of the moon. It stood completely still, and for several long moments he felt as though he were staring into the eyes of some eerie statue. Then it turned and ran into the trees.

Patrick leapt out of bed and ran to his door. He opened it carefully and floated downstairs as quickly and silently as a phantom. Without worrying about his shoes he moved to the sliding glass door and opened it. Once again he was at risk of being torn apart by the need to both move slowly and go faster, though this time it was a thousand times worse. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingers as he eased the door open, and when he had made a crack just big enough for his body he slipped through, making a mad dash across the yard without bothering to shut it behind him. He stopped when he cleared the yard and felt himself changing before he even knew he was trying to, and after only a few seconds he was moving through the dark trees fluidly and silently.

Patrick sniffed frantically at the ground and the air, trying to pick up the scent, but he wasn't sure what kind of scent it was supposed to be. He thought it should probably smell a lot like him, though maybe a slightly different shade. There were so many smells saturating the woods however that finding and focusing on one could be difficult even with a cool mind. Tonight his breathing was heavy and his mind a blur.

He chose a path purely on gut instinct and followed it, chuffing air in and out of his nose more rapidly than he had thought was even possible. With each sharp intake of breath his vision filled with a quick burst of color, each one painting a different picture that dissipated after a split second. He smelled the soil and the moss and the different types of grass and weeds and the trees and the trails of a dozen or so different animals, but he couldn't quite pull his quarry out of the mix of half-familiar and unidentified smells.

Eventually he reached a flattened path in the dirt, and judging by the screeches of the bats bouncing off the trees it sounded as though it split into two directions. Panic began to settle as the thought of choosing the wrong path and never finding the other wolf became very real, but just as he was about to take another guess, he caught the scent.

He was right; it smelled mostly like him, yet somehow fundamentally different. It had a particular freshness to it; like that of an animal that had just passed, and so was all the easier to isolate from the staler smells of other daytime critters that faded slowly with the growing night. It led down the path to his left, and he took off after it as quickly as he could.

Patrick ran down the trail, occasionally cutting through the trees when he found a straighter path. He held the scent in his nose and occasionally slowed just long enough to make sure he was still heading in the right direction. Low-hanging leaves whipped at his face as he scanned the woods with his eyes, at any moment hoping to see the wolf appear from behind a tree, or to spot its heels in the darkness in front of him...

But suddenly the trail and the trees ended and the open street gaped before him. Patrick stopped dead on the border, not daring to step out into the moonlight.

The scent drifted out of the woods and into the night. Up the road, the high school was empty. Every window on every house was dark, and Hillward slept soundly.

Chapter 10

Patrick sat at his desk and pretended to go over his English assignment as Rachel did so genuinely at the desk beside him. It would be a few more minutes before Mrs. Spotts arrived, and he took the opportunity to think on his recent experiences one more time before the distraction of school officially began.

Not that thinking was getting him anywhere. After that night he had spent the entirety of the next day pondering this mystery while trying his hardest to maintain the illusion that nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Every spare moment had gone into thinking, and his thoughts had come full circle more times than he could count. He had barely slept at all the night he saw it, and the next wasn't much better. Every time the idea entered his mind he just had to look out the window and see if there was a wolf staring back at him from the edge of those dark trees.

His eyes were heavy and his legs felt a little weak, but he maintained his composure and ran it through his head again anyway.

Now that he knew there was another wolf in town, he was quite certain that he hadn't attacked Mr. Poulton. He had been very angry at the man the day that it happened, but the rest didn't line up. He had only had brief dreams about the woods that night—nothing that felt like an actual memory. And now that he thought about it, it seemed extremely unlikely that the entire event could have been thought out and acted upon without his mind being aware of any of it.

But then the question was, of course, who had done it? Patrick hadn't even suspected in the slightest that anyone else in town might be having an experience similar to his own (or in the world, for that matter). It was technically possible that it may have simply been an actual wolf that had gotten sick and wandered into town, but until the authorities caught it and proved the theory right, Patrick would have to assume that there was another person in Hillward that could change, like him.

His initial reaction to this idea was that it didn't make sense, but he quickly realized that _none_ of it made sense, and therefore, in a way it made _perfect_ sense. Why was any of this happening in the first place? And if he could change, why should there be any doubt in his mind that someone else could change too? Heck, maybe half the town was in on it.

Somehow, Patrick doubted that it ran that deep. But still, what single person in Hillward would find the need to commit such an act? The school was a likely place for Mr. Poulton to make enemies, but his pompous attitude may have earned him a reputation elsewhere in the town as well. What could he have done to someone to warrant a savage mauling? He had made Patrick very angry, but no forms of revenge that came to mind had involved the drawing of blood...

It was useless to think about it any more until he could find some new information. He had come to this conclusion over and over, yet he always found his mind wandering back to the subject and theorizing and analyzing and he would have to reign it in again. It was a tiresome cycle, but he couldn't think of how to break it.

Mrs. Spotts walked in just as the clock turned to 8:20, and the worry that had haunted her face two days previous had faded, the comfortable cheeriness making a welcome return.

"Good morning, class." She started pulling folders and books out of her bag, as per routine. "I spoke with Mr. Poulton last night, and you'll be happy to know that he is doing much better now. The doctor said he is healing nicely and should make a full recovery with very minimal nerve damage. Though he still won't be returning to school for quite some time."

Mrs. Spotts' comment about nerve damage shot a pang of unease through Patrick's insides, and he suddenly found himself wondering if Mr. Poulton had a wife or any children. He was struck with the image of the man lying in a hospital bed, wrapped in bloodied bandages, his wife sitting beside him and holding his hand. There was no stern look in his eyes, and no sign of the man who had unleashed a mighty storm of detention bolts upon the three of them in the chemistry lab.

Patrick hoped that he got better soon.

*****

Mr. Vincent always amazed Patrick with his ability to somehow look worse every day. He always had graying hair and deep lines in his face, and he always looked like he hadn't slept or even shaved since last week, but for some reason it always had a tendency of taking Patrick by surprise. Whenever he walked into the room and saw the man standing behind his desk it seemed as though his eyes had sunken deeper into his skull, the lines somehow even more pronounced. Patrick knew that this was not the case—for if it were, Mr. Vincent would look something like a mummy after these two weeks—but he couldn't shake the feeling that his teacher's tired look was progressing.

Today was no different. His half-lidded eyes suggested that he had gotten little or no sleep the night before (though his tousled hair said differently) and his five-o-clock shadow was somewhere around nine or ten the next morning. Patrick wondered why Mr. Vincent didn't just grow out his beard and spare himself the perpetually-unshaven look.

When the class had settled, Mr. Vincent began the lesson.

"Now, as you are all aware, we have reached the wonderful subject of the agricultural revolution," he said in his signature low, tired, yet pleasant voice. "There were lots of bloody battles and stuff during this time, but I'm sure none of you want to hear about any of that, so today we're going to talk about the art."

Mr. Vincent's lesson was the most interesting of the day, as usual, and when he was done Patrick wished that the other teachers also opted to present the material in a way that was actually thought-provoking. He'd heard far too many dull, forced lectures in his sixteen short years on this Earth.

When the bell rang, Patrick and Rachel gathered their things and headed for the door.

"Is there a single piece of art from that era where the people aren't naked?" Rachel asked.

"I'm pretty sure there isn't," Patrick replied. "I don't think clothes were invented yet."

Rachel giggled, and just before they reached the door Mr. Vincent's voice came from behind.

"Patrick, could I have a quick word with you?"

They stopped and turned. Mr. Vincent was picking up papers and putting them into a folder. Patrick turned and shrugged at Rachel who shrugged back.

"I'll see you at lunch," Patrick said, and Rachel nodded and left the room. Patrick walked up to Mr. Vincent, and as the last few students were trickling out of the room he stood up straight and regarded Patrick with his hands on his hips.

"So how have your first couple of weeks been, Patrick?" Face-to-face his voice was even lower, and it sounded as though he might have been saying his first words of the day just after rolling out of bed.

"Uh, good." If there were a way to sum up all of the fear and confusion and anger and jubilation he had experienced in the last two weeks, that probably wasn't it, but he couldn't quite think of a better way at the moment.

"That's good," his teacher replied. "It looks like you fit in really quick." He smiled.

Up close the lines on Mr. Vincent's face were even more pronounced, and his eyes seemed somehow brighter and more weary at the same time.

"Yeah." Patrick smiled back, unable to think of anything else to say.

"You're a smart guy. I can tell." Mr. Vincent looked directly into Patrick's eyes and thankfully spared him the task of thinking of a response to that by continuing immediately. "Well, I just wanted to say welcome to Hillward, and that I look forward to teaching you for a while." He stuck out his hand for Patrick to shake.

This little transaction was certainly unexpected, but Patrick found himself oddly pleased by it. He wouldn't be surprised if the man did this with every new student at Hillward High, but for a moment he entertained the thought that he had attracted special interest from Mr. Vincent. Whatever the case, it was a nice thing for a teacher to do.

He took his teacher's hand and shook, but just before he opened his mouth to say "Thanks," he was hit with an intense feeling of familiarity. In the closeness of their bodies he could smell the man clearly, and drifting from him like little tendrils of memory were the smells that Patrick had come to know so well over the last week: trees, dried leaves, soil, bushes...

He smelled like the woods.

Patrick could almost remember the colors but couldn't see them, and for a moment it was as though he were feeling some piece of familiar food in his mouth without tasting it. But the smells only found his nose for a split second before dissipating, and just as quickly as they had come, they were gone. Patrick was left looking into the man's eyes and shaking his hand, his mind and his body threatening to freeze with shock.

He let go of Mr. Vincent's hand however, and somehow managed to give his "Thanks," after what he hoped wasn't too long a pause. The two continued to look at each other for a moment, and Patrick wondered what Mr. Vincent was thinking.

"Well, I don't want you to be late for your next class," Mr. Vincent said finally, and turned back to the papers and books on his desk. "You have a good weekend, Patrick."

"Yeah," Patrick said dreamily, then added, "You too," before leaving the room in a daze.

He walked down the hall, the surprise now visible on his face.

*****

_It was him_ , he thought. _It was Mr. Vincent_.

Patrick wasn't inclined to assume that the encounter was a simple welcoming gesture and in no way related to last night's chase. As hard as it was to believe, the only conclusion he could come to was that Mr. Vincent was the mystery wolf, and also responsible for Mr. Poulton's attack. Yet that conclusion didn't come without a small bit of understandable doubt.

Apart from maybe Owen, Mrs. Spotts, and the small rabble of giggling girls that ate their lunch by the gym, the man seemed the least likely person in the entire school to do such a thing. He was so smart—always so calm and cool-headed. Apart from the persistent facial hair, Patrick could think of no feature of the man that would hint at a savage beast lurking inside, ready to go berserk when night fell.

But that smell. Patrick absolutely knew that it was the smell of the woods. Wasn't it possible however that Mr. Vincent was simply the outdoorsy type? Perhaps he was one of the surprisingly large selection of townsfolk who lived somewhere off in the forest or up in the mountains and chose to drive for a half hour down a windy road to get to work every morning. Patrick had been hearing a lot about them recently; he had even overheard his mother telling Lizzy about how the man in the deli had to drive down Spear Point Road for upwards of forty-five minutes every weekday of the year, with chains to get through the snow any time it was the slightest bit wet down in town. He could imagine it now: Mr. Vincent would wake up early (much too early for his liking, as one might notice), the sun still climbing wearily from the valley below, the mountain air incredibly brisk. All the windows in his house would be thrown open and perpetually without blinds or curtains, the wind travelling freely through his home. He would eat his breakfast outside with the squirrels and the scrub jays, and as he stepped off his porch he would brush against the many low-hanging branches of surrounding trees. He would then trudge through mud and moss and animal droppings, maybe taking just a few moments to roll around in it a little before scaling the side of a mountain to get to his car.

Somehow it didn't seem very likely. Patrick knew beyond a doubt that it was the woods he had smelled, though... It was so acute, so succinct. Plus, when trying to remember the smell in as much detail as possible, he thought he might have caught the tiniest hint of something other than trees and dirt and squirrel droppings; he thought he could smell the man himself.

Basically every animal on the planet (including humans) has a unique smell. Members of a particular species may smell similar, but each individual has their very own scent printed on them, like a fingerprint, or DNA. Patrick had always been aware of this concept, but only recently had he begun to truly understand it, mostly as demonstrated by the four or so opossums that he discerned had been frequenting the woods behind his house.

In the moment that he smelled what was hanging onto Mr. Vincent's clothes and body, he thought he smelled the man's own unique scent, if only a little. And what Patrick smelled seemed inexplicably familiar. He tried to remember it, and the memory seemed to originate from those long nights of running and smelling—seemed to lie somewhere within those tall trees, one of the many mysteries that beckoned to him each night. Had it been a random smell he came across on occasion, or even only once, and immediately overlooked for a lack of the frame of reference with which to identify it? Or had it been the scent Patrick had followed fervently down the trail two nights before, his heart hammering and his eyes darting expectantly around the dark wood, looking for any sign of movement?

Patrick was leaning toward the latter, but without seeing the colors, it was hard to tell.

*****

It was on Patrick's mind for the rest of the day, but now that he had finally received at least one answer to this grand mystery he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. By lunch he and Rachel were laughing again, and when the time came to walk home the whole affair began to drift slowly from his mind, making way once more for the magic that was the simple act of walking beside her. Patrick was thankful; obsessing over this sort of thing was completely exhausting. His mind needed a rest, if just for one night.

"How do you keep your papers so darn neat?" Patrick asked when they left the school grounds and the flow of students began to grow thinner.

She looked a little confused. "How do you mean, exactly?"

"Well, I was watching as you handed in your English homework this morning, and I noticed that the paper was completely clean, and without a single smudge or wrinkle."

"Is that weird?" She smiled.

"I just know that usually by the time I'm done with an assignment the paper is all smudged and warped just from the heat of my hands. Especially during the warmer seasons."

"I probably don't press my hot, sweaty hands on my paper while I write on it." She said mockingly.

"Maybe. But even so, after all the working and transferring takes place, by the time it gets to the teacher, it looks like it's been through a machine."

"It's not like that's abnormal."

"I'm not saying it is!" Patrick laughed. "I'm saying _your_ papers are abnormal!" He pointed at her book bag accusingly.

" _What_?" Rachel said with mock indignance. "What's wrong with having neat work?"

"Nothing..." Patrick said with a pause for effect, then added, "if you're a _robot_!"

"I am not a robot! I just like my work to look professional!"

"I don't think I could get my work to look that neat if I wrote it with those mechanical arms surgeons use! You don't even have smudges from erasing! Explain _that_!"

Rachel looked down to her shoes guiltily. Patrick noticed that she was wearing moccasins, and for some reason he found that really cute.

"Maybe I just... don't make mistakes!"

"Everybody makes mistakes! Explain yourself, or I'll assume you really _are_ a robot!"

Rachel paused for a moment, then finally said quietly, "Alright. I'll tell you. Sometimes—not _all_ the time, mind you! Just sometimes... when it's an assignment I want to look particularly nice, I'll do the whole thing really lightly with pencil so I can erase without making a mark, and when I'm done and I'm sure that there aren't any mistakes I fill it all in with my pen. Then I go over the entire paper with one of my dad's nice gummy erasers to get rid of all the pencil." She paused after she said it, playfully ashamed, looking around in every direction but Patrick's.

Patrick laughed.

"Are you _serious_?! That's hilarious!"

"It's not funny!" She said with a pouty voice. "It's just what I do when I want them to look extra nice!"

"Like a brief exercise in elementary school grammar, as given by Mrs. Spotts?" He chuckled madly.

"It's just a mood I get in! It's like when a normal lady wants to get all gussied up and slather herself in makeup every once in a while just to feel nice."

Patrick laughed again at this comparison. "But you're a little too robotic to be like a 'normal' lady?"

"Blech," she said with a grimace. "If I ever become normal, throw me off a bridge. I'm weird and proud of it."

"And that's what I like about you."

They continued to walk slowly, the wind gently rattling the yellowing leaves of the tall trees. After a few moments Patrick snuck a sideways glance at Rachel, who was looking at the ground in front of her and smiling. They were both silent now, but he couldn't tell if it was because of what he said or if the conversation had simply come to a natural end.

Eventually they reached Rachel's street. Patrick's house was a few blocks further down, but as far as he was concerned, this was the end of the road—that little stretch of messily-paved asphalt between the school and Carter Lane that he wished would stretch on for miles. No single part of the day was ever as good as the walk home—not even lunchtime—and it was always over in a matter of minutes. There were barely any other kids on the street; most of the student body lived in the other direction, deeper into town, some too far away to walk. The ones that did live close by usually turned off down some other road after only a few short blocks. The neighborhood was quiet, and peaceful. It was the only time they ever spent away from all the voices and movement and homework and gossip... And it was ending just as it always did, like the massive dive of the log ride at an amusement park after a long day of slow yet exciting ascension.

And now the sudden realization that the weekend was upon them filled Patrick with a sort of panicky disappointment. Oh, but not only a weekend, he remembered from the marquee in front of the school, but a three-day one! Would he really have to endure the whole thing without seeing her? Would he really have to sit in his room staring at the ceiling for three days, able to do nothing but think about her when she lived just up the street? He frantically searched himself for the courage to ask if she wanted to do something tomorrow, but he couldn't find it. Despite the strength and ease of their new friendship, he found himself freezing up.

Rachel stopped, but Patrick kept walking, as he usually did. "I'll catch you later," he said with a cheeriness that was suddenly false.

But just as he was about to turn away from her, Rachel said something he honestly hadn't expected.

"Hey, Patrick..."

He stopped a few feet away from her and turned around.

"Um, my dad was wondering..." she started, fiddling with the strap of her book bag. Her eyes were moving around her busily, as if she couldn't find it in herself to meet his gaze. "I mean, _I_ was wondering, too, if maybe tonight..." A smile was growing on her lips. "...like, if you didn't have plans or anything, or if you were hungry, if you'd like to come over and have dinner with us, maybe." She finally looked at him, but still couldn't seem to adjust her suddenly unwieldy shoulder strap.

The smile that threatened to emerge on Patrick's face was a mighty one indeed, and he had to seize it by the horns and use every bit of strength inside of him to wrestle it to the ground. It heaved bodily underneath him, savagely fighting for complete domination of his face. A little grin was all that managed to wriggle free however, and the only thing he could think to say was, "Totally!"

*****

Rachel offered to let him use the phone once they got to her house, but Patrick assured her that his parents would prefer that he let them know where he would be tonight in person. He told her that he was going to run to his house quickly and would be back in a couple of minutes. So she stood on the corner of the two streets while he jogged the remaining few blocks to his house with no lack of energy.

The real reason he preferred to do this in person, of course, was that if he were to use her phone to contact his parents, she would most likely be standing next to him to witness his half of the conversation. Even if the receiver wasn't loud enough for her to hear the whole thing, she wouldn't have a very hard time guessing his parents' end of it. Knowing him, his traitor cheeks would flush and his voice would crack with embarrassment from their silly gasps and "ooh"s. He wanted to get it all over with face-to-face and try to enjoy the evening without a shred of live pressure from his family.

When he pushed through the front door and walked into the dining room where his mother was working on her laptop at the large wooden table, Patrick was all smiles. The inevitability of her reaction was enough to grant the enormous, toothy grin lurking in his cheeks enough strength to shove its way out completely. He wished he could be casual about it, play it cool as if this were normal, but a request such as this was almost like admitting to some kind of fault for so many years of being quiet and having very few friends, none of which were ever girls. It was like telling his mother that he was changing into what he should have been all these years, the way everyone knew he would eventually "under the right stimulation," as his father liked to put it. He knew how she would react and knew that she would know that he knew, but for some reason the whole thing would have to play out anyway. It was just the way things were. Later he was sure to reflect that this was all very ridiculous, but it was somehow so natural for a teenager— _necessary_ , even.

"Hey mom, can I go to a friend's house for dinner?" He couldn't even lump his backpack onto the table and finish the sentence without his mouth betraying him, and his mother immediately picked up on the guilt behind the smile.

"Absolutely," she said with a silky casualness. "Who's your friend?"

Patrick looked into her eyes for a long moment, not wanting to admit it, not wanting the attention it would certainly bring when he got home that night.

"Rachel," he said finally.

His mother gave a soft gasp. " _Raaachelll_?" she said slowly and dramatically.

"I've got to go, though. She's waiting for me." Patrick was thankful at least for that excuse.

"Of _course_ you can go to _Rachel's_ house for dinner, Patrick!" She said it all very deliberately, as if the conversation were being recorded and she needed the incriminating evidence to use against him later. Or maybe she had simply been waiting to say a sentence like that for a long time and was enjoying the way it sounded.

"Thanks, mom!" Patrick turned and started down the hall.

"Wait, do you need me to pick you up?" she called after him. "They still haven't caught that dog!"

The words threatened to seep into Patrick and stoke the coals of mystery that had been burning slowly inside him, sending black smoke clouds of worry and fear billowing up into his mind, but he blew them quickly away.

"Her dad's going to drop me off if it gets too dark," he called back. "She lives right up the street anyway."

Patrick heard her call, "Okay, have fun!" right as he stepped outside and shut the door behind him. He jumped off of the redwood deck and ran down the driveway and back down the quiet street to where Rachel was still standing.

As he crossed over to her he wondered if she had waited to ask him to dinner until the end of the walk because she had to work up the courage. It seemed plausible, if only because it seemed like something he might do himself. He was probably just projecting his shyness onto her though, he thought.

But it hardly mattered at all when he stopped in front of her.

"Ready?" she asked, and in that moment when she looked at him, standing on the corner holding her book bag tightly to her stomach and smiling, Patrick thought she looked prettier than she ever had. He had never seen anyone look so radiant before, or even remotely _deserving_ of the term. She was looking at him expectantly, her green eyes and her straight blond hair shimmering brightly in the sun. Her white blouse and powder blue skirt made her appear so mature somehow, as though behind those eyes was the mind of an older woman rather than a vulnerable teenager like himself.

She was beautiful, and she wanted Patrick to come to her house for dinner. Genuinely _wanted_ his company. He wasn't used to any of this, and the joy surging through him felt almost as empowering—if not _more so_ —than his very first romp in his other skin on that fateful night so long ago now.

"Yeah," he returned, and the two of them started down the street.

*****

The first thing Patrick noticed about Rachel's house was that it was much smaller than his own. This wasn't surprising, seeing as his was the biggest he'd seen in town so far, but it was apparently the first thing on her mind as well.

"It's probably not quite as big as yours, is it?" she said as they stopped in front.

Patrick almost said, " _The bigger the house, the more people to live in it and annoy you_ ," but was able to run the comment through the mental filters and retract it just in time, being unsure if it would bring up unpleasant thoughts about her mother. She had insisted that it wasn't a sensitive subject, but he didn't want to take any risks.

Instead, he said, "I feel like my house has a lot of empty space. Kind of a waste, really." This was true. There were parts of the house where the ceiling was so high that the builders might as well have just turned it into a couple more rooms, or even taken the extra wood and gotten started on another house altogether.

Rachel's house may have been smaller, but if he needed a word for it he would have simply called it 'modest'. Judging by its size it looked like it probably had two bedrooms and one, maybe one-and-a-half bathrooms. It was of a very simple design—mostly square, one story, a straight dirt driveway leading up to a single-car garage. The paint was white, though faded and dirtied with time. In theory this all should have made the house appear undesirable, but instead it just made it look more rustic. Patrick had always liked places that actually looked lived-in—the brightly painted houses of Patrick's old street with their completely empty and perfectly manicured lawns bored him to no end.

And to add to the look there were many interesting objects scattered throughout the property. Most of them were various sheets and blocks of wood, some plain and unpainted and some carved into elaborate shapes. Patrick recalled that Rachel's father was a carpenter, and supposed that most of these were likely either current projects or abandoned ones.

But if there was one object that pulled it all together and gave a perfect balance to the whole house, it was the swing set in the middle of the lawn. The grass around it was unmowed, brimming with weeds and spotted with barren patches of dirt, and the only remaining signs of paint were the little specks of white that peppered the weathered bars... Yet the two chain swings set in their frame of bowing metal did more for the look of the house than anything else could have. This centerpiece was a thousand times more charming than a rosy-cheeked lawn gnome in an unmoving sea of Astroturf would ever be.

As if reading his mind, Rachel walked over to the swing on the left and sat down on the black rubber seat. Patrick followed and sat down next to her. For a few moments they were silent, and Patrick examined the yard further.

Most of the other houses on the street looked to be more or less the same size and all had _some_ assortment of debris surrounding them, but the odd wooden pieces in Rachel's lawn made it the most interesting by far.

Patrick spotted a huge sheet of wood probably three inches thick and with an ornate design carved into one end. It looked like it might have been destined to be the headboard of a bed until it was half-painted, and, judging by the growth of the grass around it, abandoned to the woodworking graveyard quite a long time ago. He wouldn't doubt if the grass underneath was yellow from lack of sun.

"I'm assuming this is all your dad's?" Patrick inquired as he studied the various abandoned projects. The more he looked, the more he felt as if they were actually finished pieces and this was a gallery.

"Yeah," she said, "like he doesn't work enough, he's always getting caught up in some project or another. Although as you can probably tell he's really good at getting sidetracked..."

Patrick chuckled. "Yeah." He looked to his left and saw a pile of wooden poles. Some of them had holes drilled into them, and a few even had copper balls sticking out of their tops. What this project might have been was a mystery indeed. "I'd like to see some of these finished," he said.

"Oh, I'll show you tons of finished stuff when we get inside," she said with a little excitement in her voice. "The place is covered with the stuff. It's all different, too. Anything to do with wood and my Dad's an expert." The excitement was joined by the slightest touch of pride. "He's always coming up with new ideas and starting on new projects. He says I'm his..." She stopped. She might have started to say something she hadn't meant to, but having gotten so far she apparently decided that she had to finish, "...inspiration..."

Patrick pretended not to see the redness that blossomed on her cheeks.

"Sorry we have to wait for him," she said quickly. "Our old lock just broke and we had to replace it, but he forgot to get an extra key when he was in town. He should be here any second now." She nudged the ground gently with her foot and started swinging softly. Patrick did this as well, and for the next few minutes the two of them talked about an upcoming history test.

When Rachel's father pulled up in his old white station wagon and got out of the car holding two pizza boxes, he looked about as happy as Patrick felt. An unbridled smile stretched across his face, which was thick with stubble and surprisingly tan. His eyes were very small, yet filled with a disproportionate brightness—sort of like looking into a brightly lit room through two little holes. They were made even smaller by his constant squint; Patrick thought at first that it may have been from the smile or the sun, but soon learned that it was just the way the man's face was. It made him look happier than anyone Patrick could ever remember meeting. He was fairly muscular too, as one might expect from someone in such a line of work, and of a pretty average height—maybe a little shorter than his father. His hair was more of a sandy blonde—not like Rachel's, which was much lighter.

The two of them stood from the swings to greet him, and the First thing Rachel did was give him a tight hug. Patrick watched and felt a slight twinge of remorse when he tried to remember the last time he gave either of his parents a hug and came up empty.

When Rachel released her father he shifted the pizza boxes to his left hand and extended his right.

"Hey, there. I'm Dave." He shook Patrick's hand, still smiling.

"I'm Patrick," he returned, though he knew the man must have already known his name.

He realized that he had probably watched way too much TV over the years, because he almost expected Dave to say, " _Rachel's told me_ all _about you_..." and for Rachel to follow up by rolling her eyes and saying, "Daaaa _aaaad_!"

Instead, Dave only asked, "You kids hungry?" and he walked up to the front door, fumbling for his keys.

"Yeah," Rachel said, and followed.

"Sho 'nuff," Patrick said, without a single clue as to why.

Dave opened the door and the three of them stepped into the house.

*****

Rachel had been telling the truth. The house was completely covered with everything that could conceivably be made from wood; an intricately detailed cuckoo clock, a half-dozen lamps that were all held in the hands of smiling wooden bears, plaques on the walls with various bible verses and inspirational messages etched into them, rows and rows of shelves housing an innumerable amount of little carved animal figures and groups of books held together by elaborate bookends carved to look like bears and trees, and Patrick would bet money that every wooden table, chair, bookshelf, and cabinet in the house was Dave's work. It made the house look simply amazing, and the sheer cluttery _brownness_ of the living room again posed a stark contrast to the white carpets and fake plants and loads and loads of tribal-looking art pieces ( _because I'm so worldly and sophisticated_ ) of just about every house on his old street that he had ever been in.

"This is amazing!" Patrick said, walking into the living room and trying his best to take in the whole scene. He found a little wooden elephant on a table and studied it closely, without touching it. "I'm sure my parents would love to buy something from you."

"Nah, I was never in to selling much," Dave said. He had put the pizzas on the dining room table and was sorting through mail. "Once in a blue moon I'll do a large bear commission, but for the most part I just do it for the heck of it."

"Really?" Patrick was taken aback. "I'll bet you could make a _fortune_!"

Dave only laughed, and plopped a few envelopes and magazines into a small wooden trash can. He walked back into the kitchen.

"There's just so much stuff," Patrick said to Rachel, who was standing behind him, smiling.

Dave must have heard him, because he called from around the wall that separated the living room and the kitchen, "Well, you know, I'm always finding friends and whatnot with old wood they don't need anymore..."

"Translation," Rachel said. "He's always working, and _never rests._ "

Patrick laughed. After a few more moments of looking over one of the bear lamps he heard a clack from the kitchen and turned to see that Rachel was grabbing a stack of plates from the cupboard. She walked over and put them on the table, and everyone grabbed one.

"I wasn't sure what you liked," Dave said, "so I got a Hawaiian and a pepperoni. Hope that's alright." He opened the box of Hawaiian and lifted two sloppy pieces onto his plate, sparing Patrick the uncomfortable question of who should serve themselves first. For an adult, he was earning a lot of good marks in Patrick's book.

"Absolutely," Patrick said. He had never been a fan of pineapple, but pepperoni was always a good choice. He lifted the lid on the second box and was met with a waft of hot air and that universally recognizable pizza smell. He wasn't sure if it was the circumstances or the fact that he hadn't eaten much over the last couple of days, but the aroma was particularly heavenly.

"This smells _amazing_!" Patrick exclaimed as he lifted his own two slices onto his plate, plucking a long line of stubborn cheese from the box and dropping it on top like a cherry on a sundae. "Where did you get this from?"

"Pirate Bay," Dave said. He unceremoniously slid a chair from the table and plopped down on it, starting on his pizza immediately. (This was a refreshing change to the mealtime rituals Patrick was used to.) "It's right across from the grocery store," he said, then took a huge bite.

Patrick followed suit, pulling out the chair closest to him and watching as Rachel did the same. He noticed that she had chosen the Hawaiian, like her father. She put her plate down on the table, but then walked to the kitchen.

"Do you want a soda or something?" she asked him from behind the refrigerator door.

"I'm good with just water," Patrick said honestly. He had never been much of a soda drinker. He always found the carbonation nothing but painful and unpleasant, and could hardly derive an ounce of enjoyment when his mouth was being so heavily assaulted. He supposed he was lucky however, as he often theorized that his father's weight gain over the years was very likely attributed to the man's great love for canned sugar water.

Rachel poured Patrick a cup of water from a filtered pitcher in the fridge, then walked back to the table, setting the cup by Patrick's plate and a can of Sprite by her own.

"Thanks," Patrick said to her as she sat down. For a moment he remembered warmly the time she offered him some of her lunch. He often liked to recall that memory, it seemed.

Patrick finally took a bite of his pizza and found himself blown away by the quality. He allowed himself to chew and swallow completely, then said (perhaps a trifle loudly, he realized a little too late), "Holy _conoli_ , this is amazing!"

"Best pizza for fifty miles," Dave said from behind a mouthful of bread and cheese, though it came out as " _Besht pisha fa fiffy miles_." He swallowed and continued, "I know the guy. Gets the veggies from his buddy's greenhouse." He grabbed another slice to accompany the one that was still on his plate. "Fresh dough every day." He started in on the new slice.

Patrick looked at the pizza in his hand and thought about the chain restaurants of the city. He wondered where Galaxy Pizza gets their veggies, and roughly how long the dough from Quick Tony's normally stays frozen before it finds its way onto your plate...

He took another impossibly satisfying bite and wondered at the magical new world which his mouth had discovered.

"This is amazing," he said. "I'm used to the city stuff... But I'd gladly trade delivery, a free two-liter bottle of soda, and a hot circle of garbage for a box of this _any_ day."

Rachel started laughing despite her very full mouth, which got Patrick and Dave laughing too. She covered her mouth with her hand until she could swallow, then said, "I almost got cheese up my nose," which started it up again.

When it finally died down and they all resumed eating, Patrick continued scanning the various wood pieces in the room. His attention was caught suddenly by a lamp that was sitting on a very dark brown bureau by the window, and for a moment he even stopped chewing. It was rather tall for a table lamp, he thought, at least two feet high, and the shade was very decorative with gold embroidery and dozens of little brass tassels. What gave him pause however, was the kind of wood it was made of. It appeared to be made of a single uncut tree branch—a gnarled and twisting thing that was bent in odd ways, almost spiraling from the flat base up to where the bulb and shade stuck from the top. It looked as if the light brown wood had been melted into a liquid state and poured into cold water, where it solidified instantly in this grotesque and seemingly spontaneous shape. The sight of it cracked his focus on dinner slightly, and it wasn't hard for a certain memory to slip through that crack...

_The tree_.

The huge gnarled monstrosity that perhaps had birthed his nightmares, or maybe even been birthed _by_ them. The growth in the darkest depths of the beast's stomach, the thing it swallowed long ago and had since forgotten, the thing that rotted in its gut, smelling ancient, out of place. The thought of the tree didn't strike him with the fear and dread that it had all those nights ago, but it still stuck, as unmoving in his mind as it was in the middle of those woods.

"So," Patrick started slowly, pulling his gaze reluctantly away from the lamp and to Dave, "you probably know quite a lot about wood, right?"

Dave shrugged. "A fair amount." He took a bite of pizza.

Patrick looked back at the lamp. "Well where does _that_ type of wood come from?" He gestured toward it.

Dave followed Patrick's gaze as he finished chewing. When he saw what Patrick was referring to, his face grew bright. "Oh, the lamp?" he all but yelled. "One of my favorites, though it's not like I even carved it. Got that branch from a buddy of mine, can't remember what type of tree it is, but he had one up on his property that he was cutting up. Got all rotten, big ol' stump, full of termites. I got that one branch, though. That tree was a gnarly ol' sucker, too. Looked more like a tumor made of wood than a regular tree. Apparently there used to be tons of them around here, but the cedars and the oaks kicked them out over the years. Barely any of them around now. Shame, too; they're really ugly, but heck if they aren't interesting."

"Do you know about any other ones still growing around here?" Patrick asked. He thought the man must know about the one in the woods, yet for some reason he couldn't find it inside himself to bring it up. Mentioning any aspect of the woods somehow seemed far too revealing...

"There was one down Dos Rios Road, but it got all rotten too, and someone cut it up a few years ago. Not sure of any others.

"Weird," Patrick said, returning to his pizza. This was extremely peculiar. The tree wasn't even a quarter-mile away from this very house. He wanted to grab onto this mystery and begin shaking, but ultimately decided that he was enjoying himself too much to care at the moment and dismissed the matter forcefully.

"So what other restaurants are good around here?" he asked.

*****

The evening felt much like a dream; though unlike a dream, the uncanny scene was crystal clear, seemingly more vivid than the rest of waking life, in a way like the nights spent as his other self.

The three of them finished dinner (they had seen to it that the only survivors were a few slices of pepperoni) and talked for quite some time. Patrick told them about where he moved from and why, and they discussed the stark differences between the city and Hillward.

When they noticed that the sun was setting they decided to watch a movie. They spent a few minutes browsing the DVD library, which Patrick decided was rather modest in size compared to his family's (though he knew this was an unfair comparison, his father being an avid collector of movies and somewhat of a connoisseur of the "Entertainment Arts"). From the two shelves they finally found and decided upon "School of Rock", which was one of Patrick's favorites and what Rachel claimed in a rather scholarly manner was Jack Black's " _finest_ work."

"Indeed," Patrick responded in the same deep English accent, "simply the fillet of his repertoire." Rachel giggled at that.

There was only a single couch in front of the TV (which was also relatively modest), which left very few seating options. Dave sat on one end and propped his feet up on the wooden coffee table, leaving Patrick the only possible human choice of the opposite end. When Rachel was done putting in the movie and turning off the lights, she plopped down beside him on the middle cushion.

As the movie began and Patrick's mind had time to settle, the world around him became very surreal.

He had expected to spend a very long time at his school before making any good friends, and he had certainly never expected any of them to be _girls_. Girls were that unexplored part of the world, that aspect of humanity that seemed so far out of reach, so unrealistic. He had seen the more popular kids at his old school talking and joking with girls, even going as far as to touch them comfortably; they hugged, they held hands, they hit each other playfully... Yet Patrick never had any particular reason to even _talk_ with a girl outside of class, and it didn't seem like they had much interest in him, either. Some of his friends would date girls on occasion, which would just make Patrick uncomfortable, and even more certain of just how ridiculous the concept of dating was when they broke up two weeks later.

But now the thought that kept running through his mind was this one: If a month ago he were to somehow wake up in this situation with no idea of how he got here, he wouldn't believe his eyes. Every once in a while he would steal a quick glance at Rachel, almost as if to capture this impossible screenshot in his head.

He was sitting in a house, a place of comfort and safety, a fortress of solitude, watching a movie with a girl. A girl who _wanted_ him to be there. A girl with whom he had rapidly become friends. He was comfortable in her company (if a trifle nervous at times) and she was comfortable in his, enough so to bring him to her house for dinner and a movie. The whole thing was bizarre, but that somehow made the image all the more vivid. The world seemed in sharp focus, even in the dim lighting. The smell of the pizza still lingered in the air, mixing oddly with the smell of a dozen or so different types of wood. Rachel was sitting beside him with her eyes shining brightly in the light of the TV, her features made softer by the dark room yet all the more striking in their own way. Jack Black was teaching the kids in his class to play "Smoke on the Water" on the screen, and though Patrick had probably watched it happen on ten different occasions, this time it seemed as if he were watching it in a dream, on a tiny screen far away, fading slowly and giving way to the much more important scene around him.

This mental picture he snapped seemed so strange that he thought he would forever be able to look upon it and be struck by a fresh and equally intense feeling of bafflement.

Rachel turned her head to look at him, and when he caught the movement from the corner of his eye he looked back at her.

She gave him a warm smile.

The one he gave back was genuine and effortless.

*****

After the movie was finished and they had all stretched and sufficiently laughed about and quoted their favorite parts, Dave stood up.

"I'll bet you'll be wanting to head home soon." He stretched again. "It's funny; your house is three blocks away, but they still say you shouldn't walk around after dark."

"Wait!" Rachel said quickly, looking at Patrick. "I want to show you my room first!" She got up from the couch and beckoned for him to follow. He got up as well, and she led them out of the living room and down the hall.

Rachel's room was the last one on the right, and the door was already open. The first thing that Patrick noticed about it was that it was much cleaner and well-organized than he was used to; the bed was of a very practical wooden build, and her desk, dresser, and bookshelf were free of any interesting design, embellishment, or most importantly, clutter. He supposed he was used to his sister's room, which was normally filled with crooked, extremely colorful posters and stickers and knickknacks and clothing and accessories and school supplies. The floor here was spotless—not a single piece of clothing to mar the plainness of the clean wooden floor.

The only items filling the space on the furniture and walls were decorations, and in fact the feature of the room that caught his eye almost immediately was Rachel's apparent fascination with dragons. As with the rest of the house, it seemed that her father had built many shelves into the walls, and most of them were filled with books (never unaccompanied by matching bookends) and dozens of little figurines. There were a few birds and turtles and at least one tiger present in the collection, but the majority of them were dragons. Some had obviously been made by her father, and others were made of pewter and steel and soapstone, all of varying types and sizes. There was a poster of an enormous dragon perched on a tall cathedral over her bed, and above her computer desk the same "Lord of the Rings" poster he had on his own wall. There were a few other pictures of fantasy landscapes and bits of medieval and Celtic memorabilia scattered throughout the room as well, including a poster for the movie "How to Train Your Dragon" on the inside of the door.

"Your room is awesome!" Patrick exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. "I _love_ dragons!"

Rachel laughed. "Yeah, I'm pretty much a huge nerd."

"I'll have to remember to finish unpacking the last of my posters and stuff before you see my room so you can see that I am, too." Truthfully, decorating hadn't really been on his mind much these last two weeks, but he made a note to find some time to do it soon.

"This is the best part, though," Rachel said from behind him, and he turned away from a glass dragon that he found particularly interesting and saw that she had knelt beside a chest at the foot of her bed. She was looking up at him expectantly. He walked up and knelt beside her.

The chest was maybe two feet wide and a foot or so both tall and deep, and made of some dark, polished wood. Only up close did Patrick see all of the incredible detail that had been carved into the wood; every face and edge was embroidered with both Celtic knots and long, curvy leaf patterns. But what made the piece truly special was the slender, elegant dragon spreading its wings triumphantly across the lid. It wasn't bearing its teeth or breathing fire or trying to be intimidating like most dragons, but striking a beautiful pose of grace and power; one that reminded Patrick of a lion roaring atop a hill. Like the rest of the chest, it was carved so skillfully that Patrick thought he could spend hours simply taking in every delicate detail.

When he looked up at Rachel again she was beaming.

"This..." she started slowly, "is my favorite and most important possession."

"Your dad made this for you?" Patrick asked, though he knew the answer.

"Yeah." She was staring at the chest dreamily. "For my seventh birthday. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. So beautiful..." She didn't say anything for a few seconds—just sat, seemingly drunk with the magic of the chest.

"Yeah, it's really, really amazing..." was all he could manage. Staring at the chest their words grew quiet, as though out of reverence. After a few more moments of studying it, Patrick had to ask the obvious question. "So what do you keep in it?"

Patrick had expected her to open it, or at least start naming off things, but instead she said, "This chest is the most personal and special object I've ever had, so I keep all of my personal stuff in it. Everything that's close to me, or reminds me of something... I keep it in here. The inside of this chest is the only thing that no one else is allowed to see—the only part of my life that is a complete mystery to everyone else in the world. I think everyone should have something like this. It makes you feel safe knowing there's something only you know. Something secret."

They stared for several more minutes, Patrick feeling that she was probably right.

*****

When Patrick finally reached his bed and lay down, he felt as though he were floating. The day had been like one long rapids ride, and his mind had been pulled along and splashed and jostled for the last fifteen hours or so, simply holding on tightly and taking it turn by turn. But now the rapids grew slower and finally emptied into some great, quiet lake, and Patrick was left to drift lazily, gazing up at the sky that was the back of his eyelids.

He had of course been put through the grinder when Dave dropped him off around eight o' clock, forced to endure his family's questions and teasing. His father had nudged him in the ribs with his elbow while his eyebrows jumped up and down in that certain impossibly rapid way only he could accomplish, his sister repeatedly referred to Rachel as his " _girrrrlfrieeeeeennnd_ " and asked incessantly if they were going out, and his mother apparently deemed that her husband and daughter did enough teasing for the three of them, because she only smiled a whole lot, occasionally making a comment such as, " _I'll bet she's pretty_ ," or, " _When is she coming over_ here _for dinner_?"

But he had survived it all, somehow, and now the call of sleep sounded sweeter than it had in ages. Tomorrow was some obscure holiday, and Patrick would be able to sleep for as long as he wanted. He thought he might just doze well into the afternoon, drifting in and out of consciousness and recounting his evening at Rachel's house.

But thoughts of the weekend brought with them the question of " _What should I do with this free time_?" and on the heels of that came the nagging thought of " _There's something I need to be finding out_." The thought was inevitable, and had been trying to get through to him ever since he pushed it out of his mind during the walk home. It was as if it had fallen out of the boat when the rapids got really rough and had clung to the edge, its shouts being swallowed by the crashing waves, and once the river had calmed down it was only then able to slip back in.

He wished he could have pried its fingers from the side.

But instead, he found himself pondering once again about Mr. Vincent. His gut clenched suddenly when he was hit with the image of the man (or the man as his other self, more accurately) standing out by the woods. His eyes darted to the window, but he could only see the sliver of starry sky and the roof's edge that he was growing quite accustomed to peering up at every night.

He knew it was silly to look, seeing as he had only seen the wolf once, but even the very small possibility of it was too much to handle. Last time he had chased Mr. Vincent through the woods, but the man had opted to leave the safety of the dense trees and venture where Patrick dared not: the open night. If he were to look out the window and see that pale statue staring up at him from the shadow of that wooden wall would it all simply happen again? That would get him nowhere. Besides, his family was still awake; even if he wanted to, there was no way he could get outside with his parents on watch.

Before he could make another consideration, he sat up and looked.

His eyes tried to catch one imagined shape after the other, but after a few seconds his vision anchored to the blurry tree trunks on the edge of the dim yard, and he saw that there was nothing there.

He lay back down and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn't long before the turtle with the kitty head caught his eye as it often did, and just as quickly he replaced its head with Mr. Poulton's in his mind. Yet in light of recent events, the image had somehow lost some of its humor.

_I guess his shell didn't really do much for him_ , he thought, then immediately regretted thinking something so morbid.

Mr. Poulton was kind of a jerk, but how thin was the line between "jerk" and "mild annoyance" for Mr. Vincent? What was the limit on who he would attack? Would he eventually move on to particularly aggravating kids? It didn't really seem like this sort of thing had happened before, so was it just a fluke?

Patrick doubted it. Seeing the man day by day it was obvious that he was slowly breaking down. Whether it was the stress of trying to control himself or the remorse for what he had already done or the lack of rest or any combination of the three eating away at the man, Patrick was now convinced that Mr. Vincent's steady deterioration had not, in fact, been a part of his imagination. His weary teacher had been looking worse and worse, and it only made sense. Patrick would probably diminish into sorrow and shame too if he ever lost control of himself and began hurting people.

This thought put a brick squarely in Patrick's stomach.

What if Mr. Vincent's case was the inevitable end, and not just an isolated instance? He may have started out just like Patrick: being scared at first, eventually learning to gain control, little by little, until he felt the world was his for the taking... But then perhaps he became too comfortable with his new power, and soon the primal urges took over his mind and the power gained control of _him_. Now every single night, mind hazy with heightened emotion one hundred percent of the time, his nightmare-self roamed the dreamscape that was the transformed town and brought with it the fierce retribution of his shameful waking desires, and every single morning he awoke to find that the nightmare had followed him back into the world of day.

Was this Patrick's fate as well?

And what if it wasn't limited to those he hated? What if he hurt someone he was only frustrated with, but in actuality loved? Maybe Mr. Poulton and Mr. Vincent were dear friends...

Patrick felt as though he had found a briefcase full of money and begun to buy everything he had ever wanted, just to discover that it belonged to an angry mob boss.

He thought about Rachel. He couldn't be sure that this was an isolated case. Whether it was by Patrick or Mr. Vincent didn't matter; the fact was, someone else could get hurt if this all continued the way it was going. He didn't know what he would do if it happened to be her. He needed answers.

The realization came to him suddenly that tonight he needed to venture into the woods. He wasn't sure exactly why, but he knew it had to happen. Energized by newly found purpose, he waited on his bed until around midnight when he was certain that everyone was fast asleep. Then he slipped downstairs and outside.

*****

It took a little longer to change than it had the previous night, probably because there was no pressing need to hurry, Patrick supposed. But after half a minute or so he felt the familiar hot-and-cold sensation wash over him and soon the transformation was complete. It seemed to become more fluid and natural each time.

Patrick stood for a moment, not sure exactly what his goal was tonight. It was certainly not to mess around and chase opossums, he knew that much. There were odd things going on and something had to be done about it, even if he didn't know what that might be. But whatever he had to do, it would certainly take place in the woods where it all started.

He remembered Dave's lamp and realized that he hadn't been to the tree in quite a while. It held a significant place in his mind, so he decided it would be a good place to start. He trotted deeper into the woods.

He wasn't certain of the exact location of the tree, but knew that he would pick up its scent very easily when he drew near. And he was right; after about a minute of walking, from out of the thick sea of moss and dirt and animal dung drifted that sickly old smell, that color that was beyond imagining in his human form. He followed the path through the trees and soon found it.

Light clouds covered the moon and the tree was barely visible, but he could sense and picture it clearly enough; the thick, curving trunk and the gnarled and twisted branches, the ancient smell that had paralyzed him with terror. It was as if he could see it with something other than sight or even smell; the image in his mind was almost as clear as though he were looking at it by the light of day.

He thought it odd that Dave didn't know about this tree, despite it being very obviously of the type that he had taken an interest in and from which he had fashioned the lamp. Apparently in all his years in Hillward he had just never bothered to take a stroll through these woods?

Patrick sat down on his haunches (something which he realized he had never attempted until now, though it came naturally anyway) and simply took in the smell of the thing for several minutes. He tried to come up with a theory as to why any of this was happening or what it could all mean, but got nowhere.

When he was considering breaking his mental gaze and exploring the rest of the woods, something feathery fluttered from some other tree and landed in front of him on a leafless branch.

He didn't need any light to know that it was a crow—in fact, _the_ crow, as he had come to know it—and that it was now looking directly at him, completely still, as if it were expecting some action from him. The same crow that had watched him as he walked home from school back before the magical days of Rachel, that he had seen on the edge of the woods on that first terrifying night, the very same crow that had struck him with the most intense fear he may ever know on the night that he learned to fear nothing at all. It had returned to him again, and again it watched him expectantly. As if it wanted something...

_Maybe it_ does _want something_...

The idea formed slowly in his mind, like different paints tipping over onto a canvas, spilling and spreading and coming together into some blurry shape. The crow wanted something. It had wanted something all along. That was why it was here—why _he_ was here—and finding whatever it wanted just might give him the answer he was looking for.

He caught the scent of the little animal—the oddly sharp quality of its dust, the grime in its feathers, the stink of decay clinging to its beak and talons. As with the tree, in his mind's eye he could see it clearly, and its black, beady eyes regarded him with a quiet intensity.

_All right_ , he thought both to the bird and to himself, _I'll do it_.

_Whatever it is, I'll find it_.

Chapter 11

She woke up the next morning feely oddly giddy.

Rachel had always been the "early to rise" type, and when her eyes slid open a little after seven thirty the memory of last night stole the rest of the sleep right out of her. She stretched and got out of bed, feeling like this must be a particularly bright, bright and sunshiny day. It turned out she was right, for when she opened her blue curtains golden light spilled into the room. The sun glinted off the ruby eyes of the dragon on the sill, as it did every morning. His slithery hands clutched at the glass ball propped up in front of him, which refracted a splash of rainbow colors upon the wood underneath.

A paper Viggo Mortensen watched over her as she sat down at her desk and clicked on her computer. The old black beast gave a great whir and a low grumble and the screen flicked to life. The usual sound of a jet engine taking off resonated in the room, and Rachel gave a sigh and thought about how she could use an upgrade, as she did every morning. Also as per ritual, she then glanced at the jar on the shelf to the left of her desk. Beside a long and elegant dragon adorned with plated armor and atop a stone with the word "Gaia" painted on its front, was an animal-shaped glass jar that she was quite certain her father had acquired when he was only a child. It had originally held peanut butter, though the animal resembled something like a bear or a hamster, which was quite confusing. It was half full of quarters and tightly-folded bills, though she was certain she was nowhere close to her goal.

_Maybe Dad will meet me halfway for my birthday,_ she thought.

When the whirring calmed to a mad-scientist-lab hum about two minutes later and the desktop finally came into view with minimal background-chug, she did some brief web surfing. She checked her email and updated her podcast feed (happy to find a new episode of AVMA Animal Tracks available for download), but all the while she couldn't seem to keep her mind off of last night's dinner. While her files were downloading she thought about just how much _fun_ it had been. She was so happy that Patrick had agreed to come over for dinner, and she didn't think it could have possibly turned out better. They had laughed, he had liked the food, he had liked her dad, and they had watched a movie they both loved... She had even shown him her special chest.

She looked over to the chest at the foot of her bed and experienced an odd little flurry in her stomach as she recalled the image of the two of them kneeling there, admiring the craftsmanship closely. She had never shown it to someone so eagerly... At least not since her grandmother had visited back when the chest was still so new. Or at the old house when she grabbed her mother's hand and pulled her up the stairs and into the room to show her the wonderful present her daddy had made her for her birthday. But that was so long ago now.

Rachel set her computer to hibernate (a task itself which would require several minutes to execute) and left the low hum of her room.

Still in her pajamas, she padded across the empty kitchen. She poured herself a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats and sat down at the table in the same seat she had occupied during last night's dinner. She looked to the seat where Patrick had been and tried her best to recall their whole conversation in detail.

When her bowl was half empty she heard her father lumbering down the hall. He walked into the kitchen groggily and shirtless, as usual making a beeline for the fridge.

"Hey, sweetie," he said with a weak voice, opening the door with a squeak and pulling out a huge jug of orange juice. He unscrewed the cap and took a hearty swig. Rachel's father had always been an enormous fan of orange juice, and it was with great effort and regularity that she had to dissuade him from downing a few quarts of the stuff before work in lieu of a proper breakfast.

"Eat some cereal too," she said, taking a bite of her Mini Wheats as if to demonstrate. It was her favorite kind, but it always got soggy after about four seconds.

"You're not my mom," he mumbled playfully. He burped and screwed the cap back on, but then proceeded to close the fridge and bring the jug with him over to the table.

The illusion of Patrick was squished as her father plopped into the chair, and the recalled conversation went with it. Her father looked at her, slumped backward in the chair and grasping the orange juice on his lap in a way that reminded her of a teenager.

Rachel took another bite of the mushy stuff, and when she looked back up she saw that a large and decidedly suggestive smile was spreading across her father's face.

"So..." he said, looking at her expectantly, his voice low and gravelly, "you enjoy dinner last night?"

"I already told you, I did." She didn't like where this was going, but it wasn't like she hadn't expected it.

"I know, I know," he said, unscrewing the cap absentmindedly. "But I guess I was wondering if you just _liked_ dinner, or if you like... _like_ liked it?"

He drew the jug to his mouth and Rachel reached over and tipped it an inch higher than he had intended. Orange juice spilled down his front and he yanked the jug away from his mouth, leaning forward and trying to swallow what had made it into his mouth without spewing it onto the table. Rachel dropped her spoon and laughed at him, and when he finally got it down clean he laughed too. When their giggles died down he reached for the roll of paper towels that was sitting on the other side of the table. He tore off a few squares and wiped himself off.

"Aw man, you know I refuse to shower on Saturdays!"

"Yeah, I _do_ know," Rachel said dryly, waving her hand in front of her face in a " _pee-yew_ " motion.

Her father wadded up the used towels and tossed them over to the small trash can, where they bounced off the rim and landed on the floor.

"Now, you didn't answer my question," he said, turning back to her. When Rachel shot a glare at him he quickly screwed the lid back on the jug and scooted it away. Then he leaned back and crossed his arms, bringing one bare foot up to rest on the opposite knee.

Rachel sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she returned to her cereal.

"We're just friends, Dad," she said with a smile, knowing that her words were meaningless. "Although I do commend you for keeping the embarrassment to a minimum last night."

He smiled his big smile and his cheeks pushed his eyes into little slits.

"Yeah, you get one freebee," he said. "Not so sure about next time, though."

"I'll have to check the paper that day for a fifty-percent-less embarrassment coupon."

"You'll only find those in Sunday's paper." He chuckled to himself and reached again for the orange juice.

Rachel took another bite and glanced over to the couch. In her mind's eye she could see the two of them sitting there, smiling and laughing.

Chapter 12

Patrick asked himself simply, _What could a wolf do for a crow_? In other words, what skill or feature did a wolf possess that in certain situations might give it an advantage over a crow? There were many answers: sheer size, brute strength, sharp teeth coupled with a strong jaw, a thick, warm coat... But the answer he was looking for was an obvious one.

The sense of smell.

Patrick had read once that birds generally didn't have a very good sense of smell or taste. Their hearing was alright, and their sense of touch was surprisingly good for an animal with scaly feet and so little flesh, but their true skill was in their eyesight. They could spot food and other birds and predators with incredible precision, and even see into the infrared spectrum, comprehending colors that humans can't even see. But somehow hanging around the same old trees and eating the same boring fruit and nuts for so many years left smell low on their priority list.

This, Patrick supposed, was where he came in.

He might have been wrong, but whatever he needed to find (or do), it had to be in the woods. The crow seemed to belong there, and it never tried to lead him anywhere else. In fact, it had appeared to coax him inside on multiple occasions. He wouldn't even have entered the woods on that first night if it hadn't been for the mystery of the crow and its odd persistence.

So the next obvious question arose.

_Then_ what _, exactly, am I looking for?_

He didn't have even the slightest clue as to what it could be, so he did the only thing he could think to do; he began to smell _everything_.

For a while he simply scoured the breadth of the woods looking for odd smells, in the way he had done it previously for entertainment, though with a bit more focus and determination. He crossed over countless skunk and opossum trails, came upon the their pungent droppings, traced the scents of squirrels up into trees until they disappeared out of nose's reach, occasionally gleaned the dust from other crows, sniffled around in just about every type of grass and weed he could find and stole a couple quick whiffs off any rock that happened to catch his fancy, all the while looking for something inconsistent, something foreign. After that proved fruitless, he moved on to meticulously combing small areas. He sifted through every smell he could pick up on, not moving on to the next patch of ground until he could identify every single one. He discovered many new smells this way, and he found himself learning to isolate the different scents more efficiently with each passing hour. Squirrel tracks suddenly became identifiable as being left by individual specimens, leaves of the same type began to smell very different depending on how much time had passed since they had fallen from the tree, and animals that must have been dead for seasons revealed themselves from under the rich dirt itself. (He found the skeletal remains of a skunk under a bush that were quite intriguing.) The more he explored this new world, the larger and more complex and amazing it became. He felt as though he were in a new house, opening door after door and finding that each one led to three more, and the rooms kept going and going forever, far beyond the depth and size originally thought possible by viewing the structure from the outside.

At one point he caught a scent that made his heartbeat quicken and he followed it eagerly, but soon discovered it to be the familiar scent of wolf, and assumed it was simply the same trail that Mr. Vincent had left a few nights previous. When the general position and stale quality of this trail all but proved this theory correct, he went on searching tree by tree, rock by rock.

As the night grew old Patrick found himself on an edge of the woods he hadn't been to before. On the southwestern side, the one furthest from both his house and the school, the woods were separated by a creek bed. He could see bits of water glittering with moonlight, but the inconsistency and stillness of the reflections suggested that the stream was probably still, mostly comprised of mud. The trees ended on both sides of the creek and the ground sloped down to it at about a forty-degree angle, maybe thirty feet before it flattened out. Apart from the leafless and unfriendly-looking bushes growing stubbornly out of the slope, it didn't look as if there would be much traction were he to slide down. He knew there must be a safer way down, but he decided to follow the trails he was on, saving the creek for later.

When the sun began to rise and the cracks of starry sky between the trees turned to blue, Patrick retired from his search for the day. He hadn't noticed how physically exhausted he was until he realized what time it must be, and when he approached the edge of the yard he felt an ache developing in his shoulders (or his canine equivalent).

The night hadn't revealed any answers, but there was one remarkable thing about it: Patrick had come to its end fully alert, with a clear state of mind. It was the first time he could actually remember retiring; the world hadn't turned blurry and vague and he hadn't simply awoken in his bed with no memory of the last hour or so. Even the night he had followed Mr. Vincent into the woods had ended thusly; he had a hazy recollection of walking in the general direction of his house, but even that was lost in the jumbled and exasperated mess that was his brain. He supposed that on this night his clarity of mind had been due to his complete focus and emotional stability, as for some reason emotions seemed to play a very big part in the whole thing. Maybe the constant remorse and fear in Mr. Vincent's life was what caused him to lose control so frequently (if those were indeed what he was feeling; Patrick could not yet rule out that there was more to the story than he knew).

It could have also had something to do with experience, he thought. Maybe the longer he remained in the form of a wolf the more he would be able to control the ebb and flow of his consciousness.

This night was also the first time he ever needed to consciously change back into his human form, but before he could even realize that he didn't know how to do it, it was happening. The usual feelings came back, only in reverse, and after just a few seconds his paws were hands and feet again. He stood up and jogged swiftly across the yard, brushing dirt from his palms and marveling at the fact that his clothes were mysteriously present once more.

His parents wouldn't be up for a few more hours, but he decided not to take any risks and got inside and upstairs with all the care and ease he could muster. When he finally shrugged out of his clothes and into his blankets, sleep came easily.

*****

The weekend went by in a flash.

Patrick slept very late that Friday. He wanted more than anything to continue exploring the woods, but somehow he didn't dare to enter them during the day, even in his human form. Perhaps his secret was so profound that he didn't even want to risk being associated with the place. After eating cold leftovers from breakfast he decided to pass the time by finally decorating his room. He pulled a few boxes from the top shelf of his closet and from them produced all of his posters (the majority of which were from The Lord of the Rings), action figures from various video games, and the rest of the books he hadn't gotten around to putting on his bookshelf yet.

He was placing a few action figures on top of his TV when he stopped to look at one. In his hand he held Samus Aran, bounty hunter for the Galactic Federation; the helmet to her power suit was off (or more accurately, had been taken from her shoulders and replaced with a naked head) and she looked back at him with that ever-present determination on her face. Patrick realized that in the few weeks he'd spent in Hillward he hadn't bothered to hook up any of his video game systems. He simply hadn't had the urge to play a game amidst all the bizarre and incredible happenings.

Perhaps it wasn't determination on Samus' face; maybe it was disappointment.

_Two weeks is simply too long, Patrick_ , she said to him with dead seriousness.

He placed the bounty hunter on top of the TV and finished with his room.

Later in the afternoon he accompanied his mother to the grocery store. (It was smaller than the mega-stores they had in the city, but apart from the selection and different price ranges, he found all grocery shopping trips to be pretty similar and rather boring affairs.) He helped her put away the food when they got home, and even contributed a little time to preparing dinner. When the meal was over he was more than happy to join his family in watching the next installment of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, eager to pass the day quickly.

That night and the next were perfect repeats. Patrick scoured the woods into the early hours of the morning, and whenever he slipped into his bed he was even wearier than the night previous. He slept until noon, but he was only averaging six hours of sleep a night—an amount for which many adults would surely give any earthly possession, but for a developing teenager was simply not enough. By the morning Patrick felt like a sack of mashed potatoes. He had been exerting so much energy and sleeping so little that the very act of getting out of bed was an enormous chore. To avoid suspicion he told his parents that he had simply "tweaked a few muscles" during PE on Thursday, and spent the majority of the days in his room, thankfully finding it in him to read something. He wanted very badly to sleep, but he had never been good at naps. He considered going to Rachel's house and seeing if she wanted to do something, but he didn't think he had either the mental or the physical energy. So he lay in bed reading, only dipping downstairs for dinner and the occasional snack. On Sunday night he fell asleep at the gloriously early time of seven o'clock and remained thoroughly unconscious until his alarm woke him the next morning.

*****

Though he was certainly feeling rested on Monday morning, it was still hard to get out of bed. By the time he finally got to school he had barely a minute to spare. When he stepped into the classroom it was buzzing with conversation; not the usual banter, though; there was a different sort of energy to it, a collective excitement.

Patrick sat at the desk Rachel had saved for him.

"Hey, what's up?" he said with a smile.

"Hey!" She smiled back at him, then her face quickly took on a more serious look. "Apparently there was another attack last night!

Patrick felt that familiar brick in his stomach. He also felt a strange need to play dumb.

"What do you mean?"

"The wolf! Don't you remember?" She looked confused by his lack of enthusiasm.

"I thought they said it was probably a dog."

"No, some guy was taking out his trash last night, and he said a wolf just jumped right up out of the bushes and tore up his arm! And apparently he got a really good look at it to, because he swears it was an honest to goodness _wolf_!" She seemed really excited about this. Then again, so did everyone else in the classroom.

"So he's okay, then?" He tried to put a little more energy into his voice, but the product didn't sound very convincing.

"Yeah, it only got his arm. It came out of nowhere and just decided to rough him up a little, then leave. It's almost like it was messing with him or something."

"That's really weird."

Even though he wasn't directly responsible for these attacks, it certainly felt like he had a hand in them somehow. It was true that he was quite certain he knew what was happening and who was doing it, yet he didn't feel that there was any action he could take. Did that make him an accomplice? Despair tried to grab hold of him, but he turned it around and used it instead to fuel his ever-growing determination. This was simply another reason to find some answers as quickly as possible.

A few minutes late and full to bursting with worry, Mrs. Spotts entered the room and briefed the class on the present circumstances, as Patrick was sure every other teacher in every classroom at both schools was doing at that very moment.

*****

The only teacher who never mentioned a single word about the wolf was Mr. Vincent.

When he walked into class that day there was something different about him. As always he looked underslept and haggard, but this time it wasn't just the way he looked—he was acting differently. He still gave the class a little smile with his greeting, but it was so small that it was barely noticeable. His voice was unusually soft, much too soft to use in a room full of high school kids, and Patrick thought that if the air conditioner were running they would scarcely be able to hear him at all. The teacher tried to guild his voice with the usual pleasantness, but there was absolutely no humor in his entire lesson. He only spoke historical facts, practically reading straight from the text book, as quietly as though he were speaking to a sleeping baby, or even to himself. When he wasn't reading or writing something on the board he was staring blankly into space while he talked, and on more than one occasion Patrick thought he could sense the man about to lose track of what he was saying.

It was funny to Patrick how there probably wasn't another human alive that would _ever_ suspect a link between this mild-mannered teacher and the recent attacks, yet to Patrick it was so incredibly obvious. He wondered how many more people Mr. Vincent could stand to hurt before something gave or changed, and what exactly that would look like.

It was difficult for Patrick to look at the man, because whenever he did happen to glaze over the classroom with a distant gaze and land upon Patrick, the brief eye contact that followed was incredibly intense.

They shared a very deep secret, and as far as he knew there wasn't another soul alive that even suspected a thing. Mr. Vincent's past was a mystery however, and the secret ran much deeper with him—almost deeper than Patrick wished to learn.

He wanted to confront his haggard teacher, to ask what was going on and what he could do to help, but somehow he couldn't muster the courage. The secret was so profound that he didn't have the nerve to even talk about it; the idea of that other world bleeding into this one in any way was extremely unnerving, and for all his desire to protect the people of this town he had yet to even leave the safe boundaries of the woods. But if the man wanted help, wouldn't he just ask for it? Surely if it were possible for the two to work together on this, the opportunity would have presented itself by now. The best course of action was to just keep looking.

After class, when they were out of earshot of the classroom, Rachel said, "Did Mr. Vincent seem a little down today, or was it just me?"

It had been much too obvious for Patrick to play dumb on this one.

"Yeah, he did."

*****

That night he searched the woods again.

This time however, he had constructed a plan. He would go to bed immediately after dinner each night and set an alarm to wake him up after he was sure his family was asleep. That would be when he would search; and though it was tempting to do so until the sun began to rise, he would limit himself to only a few hours a night. He would get back to bed in time to catch a few more winks before school, hopefully finding himself rested enough to do it again the next day. It would be difficult getting into the swing of things (especially without arousing suspicion), and it would take a lot of willpower to search for so short a time, but this would ensure that he could do a little each day without wearing himself out. Besides, many people claimed that a biphasic sleep schedule (as he recently learned it was called) was actually beneficial.

So he began the first night of this new plan. Unfortunately though, as far as the actual searching went, he hadn't come up with a better plan than to run around and smell everything within nose's length. He sifted through the woods inch by inch, hoping that he was retaining at least a general idea of what ground he had already covered.

_Once I do find something out of the ordinary, how will I know what to do with it, or where it came from?_ He asked himself. It was the question that arose every night, the little voice in the back of his head that found it necessary to frequently remind him of how clueless he was and of how finding _something_ might not lead to any actual answers. As usual Patrick pushed the little bugger back into the recesses of his mind, assuring himself that the correct course of action would present itself if he only kept going.

He was finding that the more he searched the less new and exciting the woods became. The experience was still fascinating, but it had been a while since he had discovered anything that surprised him. Now he was smelling the same old trails and feces and plants and trees, over and over again. Where before each smell had been a mystery waiting to be solved, he now rummaged through them like he might a pile of junk in the garage. The house he was exploring turned out to be a mansion, but it seemed he had finally found an end to the doors. After a few hours his concentration began to wane and he found himself thinking about arbitrary things, such as his upcoming book report and the grocery store and an old playground he used to play at in the city. Then he was sitting at dinner, recalling the meal from that night...

He caught a scent that snapped him back to reality.

It wasn't in front of him, clinging to the large rock he was studying; it was in the air.

His ears pricked and a chill went down his spine, putting his hairs on end. His sixth sense went off like an alarm and he turned around quickly to look at the wolf eye-to-eye.

*****

It was big—bigger than Patrick felt, at least. Its eyes were fixed on him and it stood as still as a statue—not threateningly, but in the attentive way a guard dog might stand in knowledge that the signal to attack might come from his master at any moment.

Patrick could smell him clearly; it was the same smell he had chased the other night, the same smell that had been fading and that he had come to ignore, now here again, fresh with life. It was that smell that was so similar to his own, yet different in that way that two squirrels were different, or skunks or opossums or people. And now that he had it fresh once more to study closely, he could recall in his mind's nose what he had smelled when he shook Mr. Vincent's hand...

It was different. This wasn't Mr. Vincent.

He wasn't quite sure how he was so certain, but that special intuition he only seemed to possess as a wolf was impossible to argue, and he knew it to be true as assuredly as he knew he had four legs and a tail. He had only smelled the man as a human, but in that moment he had recognized something his human mind could not have perceived before this all started. He hadn't seen the colors, but he had caught something different. Was it his deodorant or his shampoo or the way his house smelled? Patrick didn't know, but it was much different from this.

He gave a start when he heard words suddenly forming in his head. It was as though the voice he used for his own internal monologue was being manipulated like a puppet and moving against his will, though it sounded just different enough to feel absolutely sinister.

" _I know what you're doing,_ " it said.

Patrick only stood frozen in place.

After a moment it spoke again.

" _It would be in your best interest to STOP._ "

Patrick wanted to say something back, wanted to ask what he meant but wasn't sure he knew how, and couldn't get his body to work anyway.

To make his final point, the wolf bared his teeth and growled. Patrick could see the whites of his glistening canines through the darkness, could hear the low, menacing rumble clearly in the stillness of the night.

Then the wolf turned around and took off running.

This time, Patrick didn't dare follow it.

Chapter 13

Third period world history could not come fast enough.

While there had been plenty of times when Patrick wished with great urgency that the school day would speed up a tad so he could go home sooner, as millions of kids undoubtedly did every day, he had never felt it necessary that he get to a specific class period with similar haste. But even though the period he needed to reach so desperately was very early in the day, School decided that if it were to give him grace it would have to start giving it to _everybody_ , and slogged along at its usual pace, somewhere between a dead fish and an elderly slug.

It would be difficult telling Mr. Vincent everything he needed to hear in the few minutes between periods, but it had to be done. The man needed to know that unless he had any specific memories of doing so, it was most likely that he hadn't been responsible for the recent attacks.

The prime suspect in that case was now the wolf from last night. Patrick had no idea who he was or where he came from, but he had shown very clear hostility. He told Patrick to stop doing what he was doing; Patrick supposed he had meant for him to stop searching. But how did he even know Patrick's intentions? And why would he be so insistent that he stopped? Maybe the other wolf was afraid that uncovering the mystery might bring an end to the whole thing, just as Patrick suspected and also feared a little.

So would he stop? He didn't think that if he had an ounce of courage inside him he could stop after a single threat. The other wolf may have had more experience with violence, but Patrick was still a wolf. He was a creature of power and cunning, and he wouldn't let himself be pushed around by someone just because they were bigger. His human self might, but he was someone else entirely in those woods.

Patrick wished desperately that he knew who this other wolf was. He wasn't sure how that would help, seeing how its size suggested that it was an adult, and in the experiences of most kids, adults prove to be immovable and untouchable... but the knowledge might help him get to the bottom of things. He could also then talk to the person face-to-face with human words, which was the only way he knew how at the moment.

He knew he would never discover who it was however, unless he found his own realistic way of doing it. The only thing he could think of would be to follow the wolf's trail out of the woods and see where it led, but this was simply out of the question. Especially after the second attack, it wouldn't just be Animal Control people with tranquilizer guns roaming the town at night; every slack-jawed Cletus looking for good shooting would be joining the hunt now, and Patrick doubted that their guns were equipped to shoot darts. Wolves were now Public Enemy Number One, and he didn't have much confidence that were he to come across a hunter he would have time to explain that he was a _different_ wolf that was running around town after dark, certainly not the same one that had been mauling people left and right.

The only other option was to go door to door, smelling every person in the entire town, and he didn't think that was a viable option quite yet.

" _Hm, not you... I'm sorry sir, but do you have a wife or any children I can smell?"_

*****

English was _painfully_ boring that day, and Patrick had to exercise every fiber of his patience to sit still. When it was over he escaped Rachel's ever-vigilant gaze, and was relieved slightly to be able to bob his legs and twiddle his pencil anxiously throughout biology class. Unfortunately, Mr. Randolph's deep voice decided that this morning would be an appropriate one to drone on for about _six years_ , and Patrick had never found osmosis nearly as boring as he did today. But finally the golden moment came and he forced himself to meet up with Rachel in the hallway instead of running straight to class to get in a few (very) quiet words with Mr. Vincent before the bell rang.

"How was Mr. Randolph today?" Rachel asked as she caught up to him on the way to the hallway doors.

"Like listening to a lumberjack after a lobotomy," he said. He had been saving that little bit of " _everything's fine, look, here's a joke_ " all day.

Rachel giggled satisfactorily and the two of them entered the hall and walked to history class.

When they stepped inside, Patrick saw that Mr. Vincent wasn't there—but the desk wasn't empty, either. Sitting at the front of the room and leafing through a textbook was an impeccably round woman with very short hair and lips curled into an everlasting grimace—a face that reminded Patrick of a good two thirds of the teachers at his old high school. It was the teacher he had come to know as Mrs. Gomes, and she had traveled back in time from an hour in the future where she would be sitting down to teach political science, obviously for the sole purpose of dashing his hopes like a carton of eggs thrown at a brick wall.

Patrick paused for a split second when he saw her, but quickly broke free of his shock and continued to find a seat with Rachel, hoping she hadn't sensed anything strange. He wasn't trying to avoid her suspicion because he thought she would pry, but because she might worry. Also, it was hard lying to her. Really hard.

She hadn't noticed his pause however, and the two of them sat down on the far right side of the room. As the class began to settle (this particular teacher had the very annoying habit of shushing the class before they ever got a chance to quiet down on their own, even if it appeared as though they were doing so already) Mrs. Gomes stood up and spoke.

"Quiet down, everyone, it's time to be adults now," she said with smug condescendence. It was a favorite phrase of hers—almost like a catchphrase. "It seems we've been exceptionally unlucky recently in regards to the health of our faculty, and until Mr. Vincent is feeling better or we can find another substitute, I will be teaching world history."

Patrick wanted to raise his hand and ask what was wrong with Mr. Vincent and get some idea of when he might return, but in her usual way Mrs. Gomes finished her announcement and launched into the lesson at light speed, leaving the asking of now-unrelated questions seeming inappropriate.

He looked over at Rachel, who gave him a slightly troubled look. He returned by twisting his mouth a little to the side in an expression of light concern and consideration, though his worry ran much deeper than he let on.

After class Patrick and Rachel shared a few brief concerns about their absent teacher, then parted ways to attend their separate math classes. Hers was across the quad, but Patrick's was only a few doors down the hall. He followed the flow of kids to Mr. Baker's classroom, but stopped before he stepped through the door, realizing suddenly that he needed to use the bathroom. He dodged the oncoming students and made his way back up the hall toward the lockers, rounding the corner and opening the door marked " _Men_ ". (He had recalled when he first arrived at Hillward High the old days when the bathroom doors said " _Boys_ " and " _Girls_ ", but this was high school now, and in high school you were men and women.) The hall was emptying behind him and he would have to finish his business quickly if he wanted to get to his seat on time. He let the door swing shut behind him and headed for the urinal. He was happy to see that there was no one else in the bathroom, as he had a bit of difficulty relieving himself when he was (as his father liked to put it) "under pressure".

When he was a few steps from the urinal he was slightly dismayed to hear the shrill echoes of chatter and laughter hang in the air for a moment too long as someone else pushed through the door. He avoided awkward eye-contact by fighting the urge to look and see who had entered, and merely continued to the urinal.

Then he heard a misplaced sound that sent his instincts off like a flare.

Click.

It sounded like the latch on a door.

Patrick spun around and Dean put a huge hand on his chest, shoving him against the wall. He didn't hold him up by the collar of his shirt like the bullies on TV, didn't ready a threatening fist—just held him firmly against the wall. He towered over Patrick, by more than just a head, it seemed up close. There was no emotion on his broad face, but it was there—in his stance, in the way he leaned in close to Patrick's face, in the hand that pinned him to the cold wall. Patrick only stood there, his heart hammering under the thick fingers, unable to move or struggle or say or do _anything_.

Dean stared deep into his eyes for several long moments, with an intensity he had never before experienced. It was primal, it was physically and emotionally distressing, and Patrick was helpless to turn from it.

But the real fear came when his disorientation cleared and underneath the heavy odor of urine, mildew, and lemon-scented cleaner, Patrick caught the scent of the Hulk holding him against the wall.

The woods. The trail. The wolf. And something else. Something coppery and sickly sweet.

Dean didn't say a single word for what must have been half a minute—only loomed over him, completely still. The look on his face—or lack thereof—spoke volumes.

Finally he pulled his hand away and turned, walked to the door, clicked the latch open and left the bathroom as though nothing had just taken place beyond two zips and a flush.

Patrick, not daring to move and hardly daring to breath, was late for algebra.

*****

Six hours later, Patrick was wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as he nudged the grey metal door open, the breeze from the air conditioner greeting him happily. He stepped into the office and saw two friendly-looking ladies sitting behind a long desk. Beyond them was a hallway with several doors, probably to the teachers' personal offices. The two of them were studying something closely on their lower partition of the desk and discussing it in voices that rang shrilly in the small, uncarpeted room. Patrick wondered how speaking so loudly into each others' faces was necessary or even the slightest bit pleasant, but it was apparently what they both preferred.

He meandered up to the desk somewhat hesitantly, and the two of them stopped talking and looked up at him. The one on the right, a woman in her fifties with a long, graying braid and squinty eyes that reminded him of Dave spoke first.

"What can I do for you, sweetie?" she said in a voice that wasn't high-pitched—just _high_. She had a slight southern accent, the pleasantness of which was lost in the sheer volume.

Patrick had spent every moment of the agonizingly long remaining hours of school being bewildered and a little scared. One terrifying answer to this mystery had come to him and brought with it a thousand more questions. He wondered why he had in fact found the answer so terrifying, then decided it was most likely due to how close to home the danger now was. The thought that the savage rogue wolf was some person in town that Patrick had never met before had been frustrating, but it had also brought him a sort of comfort, probably due to the likely distance it put between them. But now he was facing a true villain, in his territory, his very school, almost _every class,_ and it was difficult to feel very safe. He was no longer dealing with a man engaged in a losing battle against his primal, uncontrollable urges; this was someone who was wreaking havoc on the small town and appeared to be enjoying it. He had his answer, but somehow he didn't feel much better about the situation.

More than ever, he needed to talk to Mr. Vincent. The man was still a part of this mess, Patrick was sure of it—he saw it in his face, smelled it on his skin—and he most likely still thought himself responsible.

Patrick hadn't found a single person who knew a thing about Mr. Vincent's absence. Always watchful for Dean's massive figure around every corner, feeling the harsh and threatening gaze on his back in each remaining class they shared (or at least imagining it), he quietly asked each of his teachers whenever the coast was clear, along with the occasional student if he could remember a name with certainty. The only answer he ever got was " _I just heard he wasn't coming in today._ " Some people asked why he seemed to care so much, and he assured them that he just wanted to make sure the man was okay. When three thirty came around he had walked Rachel to her street and seen her off as usual, exchanging a joke and a laugh, but when she was out of sight he turned and raced back to the school. He didn't know the hours of the main office and needed to make sure he got there before the receptionist (or small school equivalent) left for the day. Thankfully Dean had driven home earlier than anyone, as usual; Patrick shivered at the thought of being caught doing something suspicious so soon after their confrontation.

It was a particularly warm day, and all the running left him sweaty and uncomfortable. It was only as he had approached the building that he realized that doing this in Rachel's presence probably wouldn't have seemed as odd to her as he had originally thought. She was fond of Mr. Vincent, and would have gladly accompanied Patrick to inquire about his whereabouts. Confusion and desperation made the brain work in weird ways, Patrick had reflected.

Now he tried to hide the fact that he was out of breath as he spoke.

"Hi," he said, pausing in a way that he hoped seemed natural, in reality trying to get a secret gulp of air through his slightly parted lips. "Mr. Vincent wasn't here today, and I was wondering—" he cleared his throat, another secret gulp, "if you knew why not."

The thin woman on the left, who was probably forty-something (most likely the parent of one of the students, he thought), spoke loudly and apologetically.

"Oh, Mr. Vincent called this morning and said he wouldn't be in for a while," her voice resonated in the small office and in Patrick's eardrums like breath through the body of a trumpet, "said he'd come down with a pretty bad bug, might not be at school for some time."

" _A pretty bad bug." Something like that._

"Did he say anything else?" he asked hopefully, somehow knowing the answer.

"No, sweetie, he didn't," the southern lady said, again as if speaking at a school assembly without a microphone. Patrick fought the temptation to cover his ears.

"Is there any way you could give me his phone number?"

The thin woman spoke again. Her voice might have been less high and piercing than the other lady's, but not by much. "No, sweetie, I'm afraid we can't give that sort of information away."

"What if I need to see him about a really important project? It's kind of urgent." It was a lame lie, but he had to try something.

"Your substitute will be able to help you with whatever you need," the younger woman said. "If you need to talk to her she'll probably be in her office until about five."

Patrick thought for a moment, but it didn't look as though he was going to get any further here.

"Sorry, hon', " Southern Accent Woman said, "When graduation time rolls around some of the senior pranks can get pretty nasty, and we don't want to be responsible for giving out teachers' numbers and addresses."

Defeated, he thanked them and escaped the small office before his ears started bleeding.

*****

Patrick stood at the brink of the woods as a human, just far enough into the trees that his sister wouldn't be able to see him were she to look out her window. He found that changing into his other self was particularly hard on this night. And he knew what the reason was.

Fear.

Tonight he didn't feel the usual power surging through his veins, the lightness of his muscles, the sense of adventure and of owning the night that had been growing in his heart. Tonight he only felt afraid. Before, it had come from the unknown—the mysteries lying in the shadows. Now he was in immediate danger, and it had a sharper quality that made his heart beat faster and his head swim. There really was something out there this time, and all he had to do was go back to bed and he would be safe for another night.

He couldn't go back to bed though, because that safety would only be temporary. Any innocent soul in town could be the next victim, and that included his family, his classmates, and even Rachel. But even more than the determination to protect his loved ones, it was the fear that made him take the final step into the woods that night. It had controlled his life before, and every time he stepped into the darkness that fear had been defeated.

He couldn't say he knew exactly why Dean was doing it, but something had to be done. And if that meant sticking his neck out, fine. He was the only person who could do something about it now, and it was better than living his life as a sheep and a coward and ultimately descending into despair and madness, as perhaps Mr. Vincent was doing now.

Gathering every shaky bit of courage inside him, he stepped deeper into the woods and forced himself to change.

*****

As usual he had no idea what he was looking for, and could only walk around, sifting through every smell he came upon. Only this time he wasn't completely focused on the task at hand, giving a great deal of attention to his ears. He listened for anything out of place, ignoring the scuttling of little nocturnal feet and the leathery flapping and shrieks from the bats above, jumping and turning at anything else. He hated feeling so paranoid and told himself to be brave, but he couldn't help but stare into the darkness for many long seconds after every mysterious rustle or thump of a falling acorn, waiting for Dean to emerge from the shadows. After the hours drifted by however, he regained some of his confidence, focusing more and more on the smells hiding amongst the trees.

His search brought him once again to the creek at the far edge of the woods. The moon peeked through the trees and shone on the scant muddy water below. The stream was as still as the night air; not a trace of wind rattled the leaves and bushes around him.

Patrick looked to the other side of the gully, but couldn't make out much for the lack of light and noise. He wondered how far he would have to travel before he reached a crossing. There was a good chance that he wouldn't even be able to find one within the confines of the trees. He doubted that whatever he was looking for would be over there, though he admitted that any place is probably as likely as the next when you have no idea exactly what it is you _are_ looking for.

He raised his head and sniffed lightly. There was no wind at all, and the paths of color that cut through the air were oddly still. The woods were very quiet tonight; even the crickets seemed to sing their song with lazy disinterest. All was motionless but for the bats, hunting for insects above the treetops.

Patrick heard the growling before he heard any footsteps.

He whirled around and Dean lunged at him. Patrick leapt to his right, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws, and the two of them nearly went over the edge of the creek bed. They regained their feet and Dean walked toward him slowly, teeth bared, a low growl coming from deep in his throat. The massive wolf's head was held down menacingly at shoulder-level, and his eyes, glittering with moonlight and fury, shot into Patrick's mind.

" _I'm sorry,_ " a voice said out of nowhere, " _was I not CLEAR enough for you?_ "

" _Why are you doing this?_ " Patrick thought at him desperately, unsure if his words were even getting through. He never found out if they were however, because Dean lunged at him again.

Patrick fought the burning urge to turn around and run that was clawing at his chest, and when the shadowy figure came at him he planted his feet firmly. He dodged the snapping jaws again and tried to lash back with his own, but his movements were clumsy and slow. Dean shirked off his attack and suddenly his teeth were sinking into the thick fur and flesh on Patrick's neck.

Patrick tried to scream but it came out as a yelp. He tore away madly and Dean followed up by digging into his back. The bite was deep and the pain erupted across his vision as if it were a color all its own. He tried frantically to wriggle free of the unrelenting jaws but stumbled on his twisted legs, finally tearing loose when he fell onto his back. Dean bit at his stomach and throat but he squirmed and snapped at the incoming snout, eventually flipping over and standing upright once more. He considered running again, but somehow knew the wolf would be on him in a matter of seconds, so he stood his ground, doubting he could get his legs to move in the right direction anyway.

Dean advanced again and the cloud of panic that had overcome Patrick blurred the wolf's movements. Before he even had time to respond, Dean was on him again, clamping his jaw shut on Patrick's shoulder. Fresh bolts of pain shot through him, and he struggled feebly to get away. Dean threw his whole body weight forward and shoved Patrick to the ground. Only the ground didn't come up to meet him for a horrifying second, and the next he was tumbling down the embankment, trying to get his footing. He smashed into his bitten shoulder and his hip and yelped when his back left leg struck a stone that was lodged in the dirt. He crashed into bushes, the branches of which sliced through his fur and into his skin as his momentum carried him down, down the hill.

He finally rolled onto his belly and stuck out his legs, sliding the last several feet down to the bottom, the dirt and rocks scraping his legs and chest. When he struck the mud he rolled over once, landing again on his stomach, and his body plunged into the muck with a wet _slup_. The thick mud covered his face, and he coughed and sputtered to clear his nose and mouth. For a very long moment he couldn't move.

Through the darkness and the mud covering his eyes he couldn't see the huge wolf standing on top of the embankment, but somehow he knew that it was gone.

### Part Three

### ~

### Ghost

Chapter 14

When the ordeal was over and the woods were still and quiet once again, the pain crept in.

Patrick struggled in the mud, suddenly very aware of every cold, sharp stab of pain all along his neck and back. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he slowly lifted himself out of the thick mud. He got shakily to his feet, and after a few moments of trying his very hardest to remain standing, shook some of the mud from his fur, sending off flares from his joints. He turned around and trudged over to dry ground. The places where he had struck the hard ground in his fall throbbed madly: his right shoulder and side, his ribs, his leg, and both of his hips. He walked along the edge of the creek until he found a place where the embankment wasn't so steep. He scrambled up it painfully, thinking more than once that he might lose his footing and tumble back down. If that happened, he wasn't sure if he would be able to give it another try...

But he made it up and after a brief rest began limping in the direction of his house. At some point along the way he found himself changing back to his human self. Much of the caking mud fell off of him, but he was still soiled from head to toe and in a great deal of pain. A very small part of him had held the tiniest amount of hope that somehow when he changed back his injuries would be gone, but it seemed that he had been right in being very skeptical about that possibility.

He stopped for a moment and flexed his fingers, arms, legs and toes. Nothing was broken, it seemed. He was just bashed up a good deal. That was good, he supposed.

When the trees opened up and he saw that all the lights in the house were on, he knew he was in a lot of trouble.

He should have worried. But he was beyond worrying. What was to come would be so unpleasant that he didn't care to even consider it. He only walked slowly across the yard, letting these thoughts flow over him like water over a rock, his mind growing progressively more numb with each step. They would be angry; they would yell. But there was nothing left but to take it all.

He reached the back door and saw his mother talking into the phone with a face that was full of fear, his father looking desperately for what were probably his shoes, his sister standing off by the couch, hugging herself and clearly unsure of what to do. All of them were wearing their pajamas.

Really, really big trouble.

He slid the door open with both a mental and physical wince, and all at once they stopped to look at him. There was a stunned and very painful silence, and almost simultaneously his parents shouted, " _PATRICK!_ "

His mother said, "We found him, he's here," into the phone and turned it off, slamming it on the desk and rounding the couch toward him.

"Patrick, where the _hell_ have you been?" his father shouted. Patrick had never heard him yell or use that word in anger before, and even through the deepening cloud it managed to surprise him.

"What _happened_ to you?" His mother was horrified, looking him up and down, her eyes darting from one streak of blood to the next. There were tears behind her words.

"I just went for a walk." His voice sounded tiny and disembodied. "I fell down a hill."

His parents were stunned. They were looking at him in a way with which he was entirely unfamiliar.

" _What were you thinking?!_ " his father shouted. "There is a _sick wolf_ out there, attacking people! Why on earth would you just think it was okay to go for a stroll in the middle of the night?"

Patrick didn't have an answer.

"I don't know."

His father put his hands on his face and then slid them through his hair in exasperation, trying to grasp the situation.

"Patrick, are you hurt?" His mother somehow conveyed genuine concern and accusing anger in one voice. She never stopped scanning his battered body and looked as though she might move to examine him closer at any second, but for some reason kept her distance as though stopped by an invisible barrier. A tear rolled down her cheek, and it hurt him much more than the gashes in his neck.

Lizzy only stood and stared at him from her spot by the couch. By the worried look on her face one might think that she was the one in trouble.

"No," he said, "I just got scratched up. And muddy."

"Patrick, why..." It seemed his father suddenly couldn't think of what he could possibly ask, and could no longer even look at him, opting instead to dart his eyes around the room as if in search of an adequate question. "We called the _police_! I've never..." He closed his eyes tight and put a slightly trembling hand on his forehead. "We'll talk about this later. Just... go clean yourself up."

Patrick couldn't find it in himself to look into their eyes any longer and did as his father said. In the most painful series of steps he had ever taken, he trudged past them and up the stairs, his family watching him incredulously, his muscles screaming in pain. He could feel their eyes on his back, bearing on him like three converged spotlights.

*****

Patrick closed the bathroom door and very slowly took off his clothes. He removed his mud-caked shoes and placed them on the linoleum by the door, away from the clean white bath mats. He peeled off his wet socks and placed them on top, then grunted with pain as he slid each leg out of his soiled jeans. He sat on the toilet and removed his shirt, wincing the entire time, careful to pull it away from his skin as much as possible while lifting it off so as not to rub at his wounds with the dirty fabric. When the shirt was off he held it in his hands, examining it with eyes that suddenly felt dry and very tired. There were tears in several places where he had been scratched and bitten, only after a second glance they didn't look like tears at all; it appeared as if the fabric had disintegrated in patches and strips, simply wearing away to nothing as if it had been burned a great deal once and long since washed. Before, this might have baffled him, but the science of his transformation failed to seem important anymore. He did reflect however that he had been very fortunate to be so muddied by the creek bed; the brown sludge most likely hid from his family both the existence of this strange phenomenon and his deeper wounds.

There was a long mirror on the opposite wall to the toilet, and he examined himself in it for several minutes.

He had a few scratches on his face, most likely from the bushes. There were more on his arms and down his legs. These were long and thin—much thinner than they should have been, he thought. They almost looked as if they had been stretched across his skin rather than being etched into it when he tumbled through the branches.

When he turned his body to observe the gashes on his shoulder and back, this analogy seemed all the more accurate.

What he could see of the teeth marks weren't simple puncture wounds or lacerations; they were jumbled over his skin in no discernable teeth-shaped pattern. They looked as though they had been stretched and morphed with image-editing software; some were elongated and unnaturally thin, and some were pulled apart at the edges as if with a surgeon's retractor. The latter of these revealed bare flesh, some of which still retained a thin layer of skin, all of which stung like crazy. The placement of the gashes didn't hold a pattern, but their distortion did, different areas blending and moving in particular ways, much like the thin grey layer of filmy suds on the water in the kitchen sink that forms a picture or shape until droplets fall from the faucet and disturb it.

He supposed this was all due to the fact his body underwent a massive change after the ordeal, and his wounds had no way of retaining their original shape. The advantages of this were that his blood had been given help clotting quickly through all the stretching of skin, and that what would have obviously been teeth marks now could be passed off as simple scrapes and long cuts, at least from a distance.

Or if the viewer had misplaced his or her glasses...

He didn't plan on showing his scars off anyway, so he supposed it didn't matter. There were a few particularly deep cuts poking up past where the collar of his shirt rested, but he could pass these off as gashes from rocks and insist that they in fact _didn't_ stretch down his shoulder and back, crawling and spreading like lichen.

Patrick put the plastic stopper in the drain and turned on the faucet. He stared into his tired and dirty face and at the scratches on his arms and legs as the bathtub slowly filled. At one point he could just barely make out the sounds of his family settling into bed over the angry roar of the water. They spoke to each other as they walked down the hall and their voices and footsteps disappeared behind closed doors.

When the tub was full he shut off the water. The hallway was now completely silent, though he knew his parents were undoubtedly still speaking to each other quietly about the best way to deal with him (a subject which would no doubt be confusing and difficult).

Patrick took off his underpants and inched his way into the water. He winced when each wound became submerged, but the stinging ultimately gave way to warm relief. The greatest relief came however when he finally slid in far enough for the water to reach his chin and he laid his head against the back of the tub. Every muscle in his body relaxed and the pain in his joints weakened, soothed to the bone by the heat.

Patrick didn't think about Dean, or Mr. Vincent, or the crow, or even Rachel. He didn't feel much like thinking about anything at all.

*****

Patrick slept very poorly that night. He was troubled by his parents' anger and last night's encounter, pained by his injuries, and altogether unsure of how the day (or the week, or the month, or the rest of his time in Hillward, for that matter) would unfold. But undoubtedly worse than the aching shoulder or the conversation with his baffled parents that would surely be taking place after school, was the fact that despite his greatest and most valiant efforts, the fear had crept back to him.

The fear, that horrible dark thing that haunted his life like the crow, staring into his eyes and coaxing him— _daring_ him—to fight it. It reminded him of the things that he would never be, and made an effort to tell him every day that it was always worthless to try. That thing that wanted him to stay far from other people, that urged him to hide from the beasts lurking in the shadows, to take shelter from this inhospitable world and its scornful, judgmental inhabitants. That fear that he had recently faced and defeated, seemingly for good.

But here it was again, and it told him to stay inside today.

Patrick awoke at 6:41 but stayed in bed until it was nearly time to leave, wishing to avoid any early confrontation with his mom; he would have plenty of time for that after school. He didn't shower, but he changed the two pads of gauze he had put on his back and the one over his shoulder wound which hurt too much to have bare in his shirt. There were only the tiniest spots of blood on the pads, but they had been soaked throughout the night with cold sweat.

Patrick dressed and crept downstairs. When he opened the fridge there was a split second wherein some small piece of lingering irrationality from his childhood flared up and he thought that his lunch might not be there—as if in the heat of the previous night his mother would have stomped into the kitchen, torn open the door and dumped the contents of his lunch bag into Lizzy's, saving the hard-earned food for the _good_ kid—but of course the green and black bag was where it always was. Lizzy's matching blue and black bag was gone, traveling with her down the road in the opposite direction of the high school.

Patrick put his lunch in his backpack and walked as quietly as he could to the door. His mother could probably hear him from her downstairs office—it was connected to the dining room, and he could even make out a tiny sliver of the back of her head through the crack in her door—but he put on his shoes carefully and with held breath, as if to avoid evoking a single word from her. He wondered what she was thinking.

*****

Although practically nothing about Rachel was bitter in the slightest amount, it was with great bitterness that Patrick noted that of all the times he had walked to Hillward High thus far, this very inappropriate and uncomfortable morning was the only one in which Rachel had accidentally slept in and therefore was present to walk with him.

Though he knew he would have to face her in ten or so minutes anyway, his heart sank at the sight of her walking up Carter Lane toward him. She spotted him and waved, then held her bag tight to her waist as she jogged the remaining gap between them. Before she even had the time to stop her expression changed drastically, the smile evaporating instantly like a drop of water on a hot pan. All Patrick could do was force a weak smile, the questions and concerns that were to come already bearing down on him.

"Oh my gosh, Patrick, what happened?" She looked him up and down almost exactly as his mother had, worry and bafflement and accusation all rolled into one.

"I went for a walk yesterday and fell down a hill." It sounded very stupid coming out this way, but he nevertheless tried to maintain his casual smile (which felt a million miles from casual). His jeans were covering his legs, but it was too hot for a jacket, and Rachel looked from the scratches on his arms to the ones on his face. He was suddenly very glad for his last-minute decision to cover the scratch on his neck with gauze.

"You fell down a..." She seemed pressed for words. "How did you... Where was this?"

"There's a creek by my house and there's this hill leading down to it. I slipped and got a little scraped up on the bushes, nothing major." His bruised hips screamed in protest to the lie.

This didn't seem to comfort her much.

"My goodness, you weren't walking alone, were you?"

He didn't enter the conversation expecting to lie this much, but it slipped eagerly out of him. He was ashamed of it, and found himself wishing more than anything that he could simply spill his guts to her, right there on the road, recalling with great detail every single event that had happed to him over the last few weeks.

Instead: "Yeah, my dad was with me. I wouldn't go out in the woods alone with that wolf wandering around." It hurt him to lie so blatantly to her face, but he couldn't stand to see the worry in her eyes any longer.

She paused, resigning to cautious concern. "My gosh... So you're sure it was just a couple scratches? What about on your neck?" She gestured to the gauze taped to the side of his neck before he could answer the first question.

"Yeah, that one was a tiny bit deep. Just being safe, no biggie." He cringed inwardly at his choice of words.

She paused again, relief dismissing the worry lines in her face.

"I'm so glad. You could have broken something! I know you don't need me to tell you this, but be more careful next time!"

Patrick managed a small, nervous laugh.

"I will." He looked into her eyes. "I promise." His face conveyed what he hoped was assurance, though inside he wasn't really sure of anything anymore.

*****

Walking into English class that day was one of the hardest things Patrick ever had to do.

Unspoken words and emotions taken in large doses were overwhelming to him, and made him extremely uncomfortable. Walking up the stairs the night before, just imagining all the thoughts that must be swarming around the room, aimed at him, had been unsettling in a very deep and profound way that Patrick was convinced must only be possible within his own neurotic self. The whole " _I know that you know that I know what you're thinking, but we're still not going to acknowledge it_ " thing always made Patrick feel both awkward and vulnerable.

When he stepped into the classroom he could almost literally _feel_ the tension. Every kid there was either jabbering happily to a friend or keeping quietly to themselves, as on any day, and Dean was no exception. Patrick would have bet a hundred bucks that the hulking student was staring at the ceiling, bored out of his mind, but the magnitude of what happened the night before hung over them like a poisonous fog, and he could feel the silent taunts shooting through it and piercing him like hot darts. Everything Patrick did was somehow linked to the fight, and every second that he continued living his normal life in the world of day was an act of submission.

He didn't even dare to look at Dean. He only stepped in without pause, trudging through that glass wall into a room boiling with unspoken thoughts, sitting down next to an unsuspecting Rachel.

This wasn't just a scuffle between two boys; this had become a matter of life and death. There was someone in this world that had all but tried to kill him last night, and that person was sitting a few rows behind him, in a classroom, in a high school. There were people— _dozens_ and _dozens_ of people—all around the both of them. They walked near each other on the way to most classes, sometimes crossing paths by mere feet. They existed within the same organized system—one that was lawful and civilized and just, that was patrolled by countless authority and protected by even more laws and regulations.

Patrick could still feel the teeth sinking into his neck.

And there isn't a thing I can do about it.

*****

When Patrick stepped into the house and pulled the door shut the silence pressed in on him. Maybe he was misremembering, but he thought that there was always at least _some_ movement or sound in the house—the chatter of the TV, Lizzy's laughter, soft music from his mother's office, his father's loud voice... But today there was nothing. He didn't hear his parents' low voices until he was several steps from the door. He rounded the corner and saw them sitting at the dining room table, his father facing him from the other side and his mother on the right end. They stopped talking and looked at him when he walked in.

"Sit down, Patrick," his father said quietly.

Patrick slid his backpack off and put it gently on the floor, then sat in the chair that had already been pulled out for him.

"We're not mad at you," his father said, sounding genuine.

"You just... scared us." His mother may not have been angry anymore, but the worry set her furrowed eyebrows in place.

"We just need to know _why_ you would think that being out by yourself that late at night was a good idea."

Patrick didn't know what to say, what he _could_ say. There was absolutely no good excuse for what he did, so he could only try his best.

"I just wanted to go for a walk."

"But two people have been attacked by a _wolf_! In _one week_!" his mother said, a little louder. "Didn't you _think_ of that?"

"I guess I did," he said with a pathetic crack in his voice.

"I simply don't understand what was going through your head," his father said, the calm quickly leaving his words. "How could you possibly think it was okay?"

There was a pause as Patrick tried to think of a decent answer. He couldn't.

"I don't know." There was another pause, almost one of shock, as his parents tried to process this non-answer. He attempted to fix it up. "I guess I didn't think it would be dangerous if I didn't go far. I just really wanted to go for a walk."

His parents looked baffled, and at least a little angry now.

"Is there something you're not telling us?" his mother asked. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Patrick said, a little too quickly. "I don't know why I did it. It was stupid. But it was the only time I've done it and I promise I won't do it again." His stomach sank at the shameful realization that this was the truth; he doubted he would ever find the courage to enter those woods again.

They considered this for a moment.

"You really promise?" his father asked. His guard wasn't completely down, but his shoulders relaxed a little.

Patrick nodded his head.

Another pause, then, "Okay." His father had nothing left to say and the ordeal seemed over.

"Dinner will be around seven," his mother said with a smile that was obviously forced but a little comforting nonetheless.

The interrogation complete, Patrick stood from the table without another word, grabbed his backpack and headed upstairs to stare at his homework.

*****

Patrick had a perfect track record and thus got away without punishment, but something between him and his parents had been injured that night. Patrick's secret was creating a disconnection between them, hanging overhead just like the fog over him and Dean, only profoundly worse. They all tried to continue their normal, happy lives, but behind every smile and joke and lighthearted conversation was the memory of this ordeal. His parents saw him and had dinner with him every day, but the break in communication distanced them; though they had claimed the issue to be resolved, as long as he had this secret and refused to offer an answer to his strange behavior, he didn't think they could all be comfortable. Every day he felt more and more as though he were living with strangers, and he was certain his parents felt the same way.

It hurt him deeply, and he knew that it hurt them, too.

School wasn't much better. There were two more attacks over the course of the weekend: one stubborn man had one of his legs torn up while taking a midnight stroll, and a woman was bitten in the hand while carrying groceries from her car to her house (only managing to escape by beating the wolf away with a jar of pickles, according to rumor). And every day Dean showed up to class, shooting Patrick with invisible dares and challenges with his mere presence. Though Patrick was sure he was imagining it, he heard Dean's voice inside his head, taunting, _"TRY it! I DARE you!"_ over and over whenever they passed in the hall or sat in the same room. By attending his classes obediently and most importantly staying out of the woods, Patrick was flying a white flag above his head; and that filled him with a shame that he had never before known.

He tried his hardest to keep his problems away from Rachel, but he would be lying if he said that it didn't burden their friendship. Patrick would often come to school sullen, and it was hard to joke and laugh with her in light of everything. To some extent his secret was causing the same reaction between them as it was with his parents, though with her he didn't feel the constant pressure to reveal himself. Her smile, in fact, was the only thing that kept him anchored to reality—that prevented him from slipping away into total emotional isolation. And though their time together was more quiet than usual, at the moment it was the only aspect of his life that he didn't feel like running from.

*****

Patrick poked at the mound of mashed potatoes on his plate with his fork. He had eaten his steak without a problem, but lately such bland things as potatoes and bread were more and more difficult to tolerate. He looked over to his sister who was engaged in a similar activity, though her poking was far from idle and yielded much more artistic results: She had sculpted what looked an impressive amount like a gecko, little pea eyes, corn spots and all.

His parents were talking about work, and Patrick's attention was only pulled from deep space when his mother said his name.

"So Patrick..."

He looked up at her. Her smile had grown more genuine as the days passed and as Patrick proved that he wouldn't be endangering his life again anytime soon. He still felt estranged, but at least it was getting a little better.

"I was just wondering," she continued, "when you would be inviting Rachel over for dinner."

Patrick felt his spirits raise a little at the idea—a feeling which he hadn't experienced in what felt like a long time.

"You guys _are_ still..." His father made air-quotes, " _very good friends,_ aren't you?"

An odd thought occurred to him then: It was likely that one of his parents' theories about his shocking behavior was that it had been the result of something bad happening between him and Rachel. Perhaps this was their way of investigating without officially prying. It was clever—if that was in fact what they were doing—but he was afraid that in an odd way he had to disappoint them.

He smiled. "Yeah."

"Good!" his mother said with a big smile. "Then how about you invite her over tomorrow night?"

"Okay," was all he managed. His mind was suddenly overwhelmed with the idea of Rachel stepping into his house. It would be like two completely different worlds colliding; like introducing your closest chum to a friend from your childhood. She would be at the mercy of his mother's questions and his father's crude jokes and perhaps worst of all, his sister's insistent suggestions about their relationship.

As if she heard this thought, Lizzy said, " _Oooooh,_ Patrick's girlfriend is comin' over for _dinnerrrrrrr!_ " Her voice was high, but her face seemed uninterested; she never took her eyes away from the sculpture on her plate. Sometimes being the annoying little sister was just her job, it seemed.

The image of Rachel sitting at the table with them was a frightening one, but sent a fresh little flurry of butterflies through Patrick's stomach nonetheless. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the brief conversation seemed to bring new life to the table. Knowing that he was in better spirits allowed everyone else to breathe and laugh a little easier. Some of the awkward tension lifted and for a while, at least, and things were somewhat normal again.

His father seemed to sense this as well.

"So who wants to hear a funny puke story?"

It was the only thing which could have pried Lizzy's eyes from her mashed potato gecko.

"I dooo!" She raised her hand fervently and elongated her 'o' as though she were in kindergarten again.

"Not while we're eating," his mother pleaded, though everyone knew that what that really meant was, " _It should be absurd to talk about such things at the dinner table, but I want you to go on anyway._ "

His father told the story of a certain food poisoning-related event that had taken place at work (a place which seemed suspiciously exciting for having anything to do with irrigation or _any_ aspect of agriculture for that matter) and by the end even Patrick was laughing. The fear didn't leave when you ignored it, but it certainly got quieter, and it felt good to forget about all the problems in his life and just have a laugh. Maybe he was on to something.

Chapter 15

Rachel was very pleased by his offer, as he expected she would be.

"Absolutely!" she said with a huge smile.

Patrick had slept fairly well that night. He had focused on his political science homework with great vehemence and gone to sleep reading a book, not giving his backyard so much as a glance. He dreamed about nothing, then got up, showered, and walked to school. The woods called to him as he walked up the road, just as they had that morning and the night before and the days before that, but he ignored them. That little voice piped up as it frequently did and told him that he was a coward and a failure, but what was the point of dwelling on the obvious? All that mattered was that he was a teenager who needed to get to school on time; everything else was water off a duck's back. Treating it this way made it at least tolerable.

*****

He had invited Rachel to his house for dinner the moment he sat down next to her in first period English. He was dimly aware of Dean's presence somewhere in the room behind him, but he chose not to care. Caring wouldn't get him anywhere.

"I was _wondering_ when you were going to ask me!" She said with a little scoff that Patrick found adorable.

"Maybe you should have reminded me," he laughed. "This book report is a _killer!_ "

The class had indeed ended up reading "Of Mice and Men" and after only one night Patrick had all but completed his report using recycled knowledge of the characters and themes (and also owing tremendously to Mrs. Spotts' laughably junior high-grade criteria).

"Whatever," Rachel said, clearly trying to muster all the scorn her voice could manage (which, it turned out, wasn't a great deal).

For the rest of the day the two of them laughed as they used to, doubling up their efforts to poke fun at Mr. Rolls in Mr. Poulton's prolonged absence. They were having trouble coming up with a name for the poor gym teacher's mega-band, but were satisfied with his hit single, "Gotta Suit Out (Every Day) feat. The Hillward High Jock's Choir".

The monster that terrorized the small town lurked in the halls around him, but it went unbidden. As far as Patrick was concerned, it was only the shadow of a dream.

During lunch the two of them walked to the front office and Rachel called her father to get permission. (Patrick was very thankful that the two incredibly loud women at the desk at least respected phone calls with silence.)

After school the two of them walked up the dusty road. The day was pleasantly cool and there were a few dangling clouds above the trees, but rain was still a ways off, from what Patrick had heard. The air rang with lazy birds and the diminishing sounds of cars.

They continued an earlier discussion about their feelings on bologna.

"I just don't understand how you can like something so _disgusting_!" Patrick said, looking at her incredulously.

"I don't know why, I just do!" She raised her arms in both a defensive gesture and a shrug.

"It's just so..." Patrick searched for the right word. " _Gross_!"

"When I was a kid and my grandma would visit she would always buy a bunch and eat it all the time, and I guess it just grew on me."

Patrick made a gagging motion with his finger. "It tastes like it grew on _something_. I'm pretty sure it's made from hippo butts and shredded newspapers."

Rachel giggled. "Sometimes my grandma would fry it on a pan and just eat it that way."

"Ohhhhh, _barf_!" Patrick turned his head and shut his eyes tight in disgust, as if to shield them from the image of such a travesty of nature.

He noticed that the two of them had reached Rachel's street and were now walking past it. The simple image of her walking beside him this far down the road was a very odd one, as Patrick had never shared company between his house and that corner. This was the beginning of one world bleeding into another, Patrick thought. Such concepts never ceased to intrigue him, though no one else ever seemed to think about these things at all...

As they turned into Patrick's driveway he could feel himself getting progressively more nervous. They rounded the corner and his house came into view.

"You built a new deck," Rachel said.

Patrick looked at the redwood deck, then stupidly back to her.

"What?"

"This is a new deck. Back when I used to go trick-or-treating the lady that lived here would always invite the kids in for hot cocoa."

Patrick was truly surprised by this, and for the moment he forgot about his nerves.

"So you've been inside my house?"

They had stopped in front of the deck and Rachel was regarding it thoughtfully, as if trying to recall the scene from a childhood past.

"Lots of times. I don't remember her name, but she was a really nice old lady. I don't even know what ended up happening to her. Maybe she just moved away... I hope..."

Patrick knew he had never lived in a brand new house, but it was hard to imagine that any stranger had ever lived in either this one or the old one, as he was sure it was for most people. It was easy to subconsciously assume that your personal space was untouched by anyone else in the world, just as it was easy to assume that there would be no one after you—that the house would simply remain empty, waiting for you to come back someday. Bringing to mind the fact that someone had until recently occupied his house was strange, but for some reason knowing particular details about the woman and being unsure of her fate was a little unsettling. (He was certain, however, that were he to inquire and discover that her fate aligned with his morbid fears it would be all the more unsettling, so he made a note never to bring it up again.)

"That's weird," Patrick said, starting up the steps. The two of them reached the door and stepped inside. Patrick went first, then immediately wondered if he should have opened the door for her like a gentleman.

_Of course you shouldn't have,_ he thought to himself. _You only do that if you're on a date!...I think!_ They placed their bags by the door and headed toward the kitchen.

_But_ is _it a date?_ he thought to himself again.

_Of course not!_ he answered. _It can't be a date if your_ parents _are there! And that's a simple fact!_

"Hello," Patrick called as they entered the dining room. His mother was working at the table and she smiled when she looked up.

"Hey! How you kids doing?" She stood up and shook Rachel's hand, then sat back down again.

"Good," Rachel said in a quiet and vague way, most likely as unsure of whether the question was rhetorical as Patrick had been.

"I'm Jodi," his mother said, beaming at both of them. "And you're Rachel, right?"

"Yeah." Rachel was smiling an awful lot. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"It's so nice to finally meet you, too! I practically had to poke Patrick with a cattle prod to get him to invite you over!"

Patrick looked at Rachel with a quick roll of his eyes and said, "Not true." Rachel giggled.

"Whooooooooo—" they could hear Patrick's father coming down the hall, "—ooooooo's _that_ I hear?" He rounded the corner in very Jim Careyesque fashion, appearing suddenly without moving his upper body much at all.

_Here it comes..._ Patrick thought with a mental grimace (and most likely a trace of a physical one as well).

"I'm Richard. Patrick's younger brother." He offered his hand and Rachel shook it. "Who are you?"

"I'm Rachel," she played along, a big grin on her face.

"Well don't steal anything while you're here." He turned to Patrick and very obviously mouthed " _Watch her,"_ then continued past them and into the kitchen.

The three of them laughed, and Patrick's mother stood up.

"I'm going to start dinner in about an hour, so it'll be ready around six."

"'Kay," Patrick said, suddenly feeling that everything was moving very fast.

His mother flashed them another big smile and followed her husband into the kitchen.

For a brief moment Patrick was unsure of what to do next, but Rachel saved him the trouble of thinking and said with much excitement, "I want to see your room!"

He turned to her, a little surprised by her enthusiasm.

"Uh, okay!"

The two of them left the dining room and jogged up the stairs, Patrick feeling more and more as though he were drawing some foreign part of his life ever deeper into his personal world. When they reached the top and started for his room, they encountered the very last person that Patrick wished to see at the moment:

Lizzy.

She was coming from her own room, and Patrick could see that her annoying little fangs were bared, her eager eyes centered on his neck, her body poised, ready to strike and fill Patrick with the hot venom of embarrassment. The "girlfriend" teasing had only been small game; now that Rachel was here to witness every little sting, she would truly dig in.

Lizzy walked up and passed them at Patrick's door.

"Hi," she said to Rachel, who returned it. Lizzy reached the stairs and walked down.

The bafflement that struck Patrick made him pause for a moment; he felt as though a bus had just whooshed in front of his face a moment before he intended to step across the street. Then he said, "That was Lizzy," and opened the door to his room.

They stepped inside and Rachel made a silent 'o' with her mouth, looking around excitedly like a child (or his father) at a butterfly exhibit.

"You sure like seeing peoples' rooms," Patrick said with amusement.

"Seeing someone's room is the best way to get to know them," she said, walking around slowly and inspecting his posters, one of which was the same "Return of the King" poster she had on her own wall, as she immediately pointed out. Viggo Mortensen stared back at her from behind his sword. "Well, other than simply _talking_ to them, that is. You can discover their interests, their organizational tendencies..."

"Just give it a couple months and you'll discover something very different about my 'organizational tendencies' than what you see here." He looked at the scant discarded clothes on the floor, knowing that very soon they would be doubled and tripled, despite his mother's protests. It was one trait he shared with his father, at least.

"You can glean a little about their thought processes by observing how they've arranged stuff..." she continued, studying a "Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time" poster that was frayed at the edges from many years of being tacked and re-tacked to the wall, then moving to the action figures on his dresser. "If their closet's open enough you can see what kinds of clothes they like to wear all in one go. That's always good. But the most important thing by far," she said, floating past his bed and the bare window, creating an unsettling juxtaposition in Patrick's mind that only lasted as long as it took her to clear it, "is the bookcase." She stood in front of the bookcase at the foot of his bed and gazed at the selection.

Patrick walked up beside her and gave her a moment of silence to take in his reading material. Then he said, "What does my bookcase tell you about me?"

"Well, you're into nerdy stuff, like I am," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, suddenly so much like a professor in a lecture hall. (She would make a good professor, Patrick thought.) "So right off the bat I can tell that we share a large pool of common interests, even if we don't like _exactly_ the same stuff." She put the tip of her finger on her nose in a gesture that was half way between a ponder and a scratch. (Either way, it was incredibly cute.) "I can see that you like manga, but only own a few select series, so I can tell that you don't allow yourself to be sucked up into a craze, and can rule out that you're one of those lunchroom Naruto-freak Japanophiles.

Patrick smiled. "That's good."

"I can see a selection of fantasy series, such as Redwall and Dragonriders of Pern, both of which I enjoy greatly, and I don't see a shred of that dungeon-crawler bulk fantasy, so I know that you are at a much higher reading level and have more refined tastes than the average teenaged nerd."

Her positive use of the word "nerd" was oddly liberating. It was hard to find anyone other than his ever-encouraging parents who would embrace such a characteristic in him.

"I can see that you own several comic strip anthologies, but only from the more 'adult' strips, such as Calvin and Hobbes and The Far Side, which shows me that your appreciation for comics goes beyond the slapstick humor and recycled gags of the funny pages. Similarly, the other comics I see are not beat-'em-up superhero comics, but rather graphic novels. The presence of Alan Moore is most impressive on the bookshelf of someone our age."

As Rachel spoke, Patrick felt the seed of admiration that had been planted in him germinate and begin to grow. He had always known that she was very smart, but now she was in his room and dipping into a personal part of his life in a way that was almost eerie, yet immensely impressive. Until he met Rachel he hadn't known that a girl could share such a deep respect for comics and fantasy novels (or Nerdism as a whole, as she called it). This, coupled with her strong observational skills was nothing short of amazing. He watched her face closely, saw the way her eyes darted around, the brain behind them working swiftly.

"And up top there," she continued, "I can see several paranormal thriller novels, as written by both Stephen King and Dean Koontz. While I can't say I share in this particular taste, it shows that you have an interest not only in fantasy, but the entire realm of the supernatural. This also says something about your higher-than-usual reading level, and about the type of material your parents will allow you to read, which gives us a glimpse into your family philosophy as a whole.

"Lastly, from what I can see, all or most of these books are _very slightly_ worn, which tells me that you have indeed read them all and not just amassed them from school book fairs, and also that you find it important to keep them in good condition. That, in itself, can say something pretty deep about your personality."

She finished as one might finish a lecture, and turned to Patrick.

He was completely taken aback, and after a good amount of fumbling silently with words could only manage to say, "Wow."

Rachel laughed. "So _that's_ why I was so excited to see your room! Now I know absolutely _everything_ there is to know about you!"

Despite her charming grin and her cocked head, that remark struck him once more with unease, but again it only lasted for a moment. Then he was smiling back at her.

"I guess you do, huh?"

*****

Dinner went better than Patrick could have ever imagined.

Patrick's father had had the sudden realization that the weather would soon be changing, and so decided that he should take every opportunity possible to make his most favorite of meals. As Patrick and Rachel walked down the stairs the smell of the burgers wafting in from the open back door came up to greet them. The meat smelled heavenly, but Patrick's stomach felt too bunched up to be hungry.

"I forgot to have Patrick ask if meat was okay," his mother said from the kitchen as they sat down at the table. She was cutting veggies on the wooden cutting board that pulled out from the counter.

"Oh, meat's fine," Rachel said. "I think my dad loves beef way too much for vegetarianism to ever be an option in my house."

"Me too," Patrick said, gesturing to the back door, where they could see his father hovering over the grill in a way that reminded him of a mother cat watching over her kittens. One of the patties either wandered just a little too far from its siblings or became flustered and confused, because he scooped it up with his spatula and a good deal of assertive care, then plopped it back down in the middle of the grill. The patty mewed a satisfied hiss and his father was content once more, yet remained watchful.

Patrick was very relieved to hear that their patio furniture was still buried in the garage under a few tons of boxes and assorted junk, and that at least for tonight's barbecue they would be eating at the dinner table. He wouldn't be able to stand having to sit under the watching eyes of the woods, reminded constantly of his own cowardice. Not tonight.

Ten minutes later, Patrick, Rachel, his mother and his sister were sitting at the table. His father brought in a plate stacked with patties, the top of which were covered in cheddar cheese, and plopped it down on the table.

"Here you go, guys," he said, then sat down. As he scooted in his chair he shot a glare at Rachel and said, " _One bun per burger._ " Then he grabbed for the mayo.

"Don't worry, I don't have any pockets," she said with a grin.

"So Rachel," Patrick's mother started in before the buns had even been distributed, "tell us a little about yourself."

"Well, I live with my dad, right up the street," Rachel said.

She was a little red in the cheeks, and Patrick realized that she was probably much more nervous than he had been around her father, who had only been a single person. Poor Rachel had a whole _pack_ of Reeds to deal with... But again, maybe he was just projecting.

"I'm sixteen; my favorite color is burnt sienna, but I really like any fall or earthy colors; I'm in the process of deciding what I'd like to do for a career, but I'm leaning toward being a veterinarian; and..." She paused, hunting for one more thing. "I've never broken a bone or been stung by a bee."

"Wow, never?" his mother asked, clearly impressed.

"Even Patrick's broken his arm," his father chimed.

Patrick recalled with disdain the very brief yet embarrassing period of his life when he thought it would be a good idea to pick up skateboarding. He had fallen backward while attempting a shove-it and broken his arm, immediately realizing (though unfortunately just a half-second too late) that he didn't like skateboarding that much at all. The memory of that summer he had spent in a cast was a very sour one.

"Nope," Rachel assured them with confidence. "Although maybe that just means I need to get out more."

Patrick's father chuckled from behind his burger.

"So you said you might be interested in being a veterinarian," his mother said, spreading mayonnaise slowly and absentmindedly on her bun. "Why's that?"

"Well, I think the medical field is pretty interesting, and I love science. And I really like animals, too."

"So I bet you have a lot of pets then, huh?"

"No, I haven't actually had any pets for a while. I had a dog a long time ago, but she bit my mom's hand pretty bad and we had to get rid of her. My dad's been nervous around dogs ever since. And I had a leopard gecko named Slick once, but he died about a year ago, and I guess I haven't gotten around to getting another pet since then."

"I feel like we've had about a million cats, but we don't seem to be so lucky with them," his father said.

"Between the busy street and the neighbors' dogs, it was hard to keep a cat at our old house." His mother had finally assembled her burger and was now holding it, though it seemed to have left her mind amidst the conversation.

"Tigger Three got hit by the school bus while I was on it." Lizzy hadn't forgotten her burger; she had cut it into four quarters with a big bread knife and was now attempting to cut each piece into an eighth, with messy results. The failed slices were quickly stabbed with a fork and gobbled up.

"Right when it pulled up to our house," his mother said with good-humored sympathy. "She was so sad that day... But at least there's never a shortage of kittens around, I've come to learn."

"And Sunshine lasted us a whopping six months," his father said with a half-full mouth of burger.

Patrick turned to Rachel.

"As you can tell, Lizzy was always the one in charge of names."

Lizzy broke her gaze on her project and looked proudly at Rachel.

"My favorite was Monsieur Bellowitz McLubbykins Junior."

Rachel laughed and so did the rest of the table, Lizzy included. The rest of the evening was filled with laughter and for most of it Patrick felt a great deal like he was floating. He had expected to be a nervous wreck the entire evening, being embarrassed by his family members one after the other, but instead he found himself growing more and more comfortable in the situation. Rachel fit in with his family remarkably well, and by the end of the night it was as though she had been coming to dinner for years. And perhaps most importantly, there wasn't a single mention or thought of the odd thing Patrick did several nights ago. He was happy, his family was happy, and above all, Rachel was happy.

After dinner they sat in the living room and watched Dragonheart, all the while Patrick's father going on about how mind blowing a computer-animated dragon Draco had been when the film was first released. After it was over, Rachel said goodnight and his father drove her home. Patrick had sent her with some reading material: a book called Watchers by Dean Koontz that he thought she would enjoy, and a stack of graphic novels.

Before bed Patrick pushed open the door of the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush. As she often was, Lizzy was already brushing her own teeth and staring blankly at herself in the mirror with half-lidded eyes. Patrick, feeling as though it must have all been a wonderful dream, slowly took the cap off of the toothpaste and spread some on his brush.

Before he could put it into his mouth, Lizzy spoke.

"So do you like her _now_?" she asked offhandedly, her words slurred by the toothbrush.

His hand halfway to his mouth, Patrick paused long enough for his sister to spit, rinse, and start swishing a capful of Listerine in her mouth. He didn't look at her—only at the toothbrush.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I do."

Lizzy swished for a moment longer, then spat the mouthwash into the sink and walked casually from the bathroom.

Patrick stood in front of the mirror, staring at his toothbrush.

Chapter 16

He never slept deeply. He never had any dreams. And that was fine with him.

Dean sat up in bed. Other than the slight fuzz in his eyes and the stiffness of his legs, he felt like he hadn't even slept. That was good—just how he wanted it. He rose without effort from the bare bed and looked out the window.

The sky was dark, but the clear moon hung in a crescent just above the roof of the neighbors' house. Dean grabbed a smoke and a lighter from the little dresser beside his bed and for a split second the room was splashed with yellow light as he struck the starter. The flash gave way to the mellow, dull glow of the flame, and then the only light in the room was the orange point sticking from his mouth and the blue spotlight streaming from his window, spilling over the left side of his face and shoulders as he took a deep drag.

He pulled on the only pair of jeans he owned and a dirty white t-shirt, wading through trash, CD's, and torn-up magazines as he made his way across the room. He stepped out into the hallway and walked through the house to the front door. He didn't make any effort to soften his footfalls or open and close the door slowly; his mom and her boyfriend didn't care if he went out at night, even in light of the constant "wolf attacks". The next day they might yell at him for waking them up, but he couldn't care less.

Dean stepped out into the front yard and breathed deeply. The air was fresh and invigorating; so different than it was during the day. It was always so stuffy and rank in this idiotic town, and he wondered how no one else ever seemed to notice. At night however, the air was different. It was cool, and not mucked up by all the cars and gabbing faces.

At night, the air was _his_.

He took a final drag from his cigarette and tossed it into the dirt where no doubt thousands more rested. He walked out into the street and soon was standing on four legs. In an instant he felt that rush of power that he had come to love more than any other sensation this life could offer. His strength doubled and his teeth grew sharp, and suddenly he could smell and hear the entire world around him.

Just as he had every night for the last several months, Dean became a monster. And it couldn't possibly feel any better.

He slipped into the shadows and moved down the street with the smooth gait that came so naturally to him now. He jogged to the end of the cul-de-sac and through the trees, listening gladly to the familiar sounds of bats and crickets, breathing deep the air that was now _impossibly_ fresh, the air that filled him with life.

After a minute or so he found himself in the little shopping center by the hardware store. Every window in the surrounding storefronts was dark, the only light spilling onto the pavement that of the single streetlamp next to Hillward Burgers and Shakes (a disgusting burger shack where Dean had more than once found quite the impressive hair coiled up on his patty) and the dirty yellow bulb sticking from the side of the Park-N-Grab (where he had lifted more than a few bottles of beer in his days). There were no cars in sight but for a single blue truck sitting in the middle of the lot, the streetlamp glinting off its rusty top and pooling black shadow around it like a puddle of tar. Inside the cab was a bulky man who stared blankly out the windshield like a mental patient. There was undoubtedly a rifle sitting on the seat next to him, but in his boredom and lack of sleep it was doubtful that he would be able to ready it very quickly.

Dean decided to give him a little test.

He barked as loudly as he could, and immediately the man in the truck jumped. He fumbled around, grabbing at the door and the wheel and then the gun on the seat, all the while confounding himself by swinging his head around, searching frantically for the source of the noise. Dean backed up further into the shadow and behind a large bush, poking his head out and watching with utter amusement as the guy tried desperately to ready his gun. He finally pointed it the right way and turned off the safety with shaking fingers, then stuck it out the window, jamming the barrel in every direction as though he were surrounded by a hundred wolves.

He couldn't laugh physically, but what Dean felt in his mind must have hardly been a step below glee. Reveling in the image of what was quite possibly the funniest thing he had ever seen, he slipped into the trees again, wondering how long that big guy sat there with his gun hanging out the window, expecting a monster to leap at him from any angle and at any moment.

Dean wandered the town for several hours. He never planned his route—it was always more fun when he traveled around aimlessly. He sniffed at any random thing he could find and marked his territory whenever he picked up the scent of some smaller domestic dog. (He wondered how the little mutts reacted when they came to their favorite fencepost to find that it had been claimed by something so wild and powerful. From what he could tell, it didn't look like they ever made any attempt to reclaim these spots.) At one point he happily chased down and killed an opossum that was attempting to cross the road. On occasion he would hear the sound of an approaching car and would be forced to hide behind a tree as a cop car came drifting along, but instead of frustrating him it only reminded him how stupid and dim-witted the residents of the town were—even the officials who were responsible for the town's well-being.

They're doing a great job, aren't they now?

Dean was wandering down the street, thinking about how he might turn in soon, when he heard a voice up ahead. He stopped and strained his ears toward the sound. From within the shadow of overhanging trees, he could hear someone walking this way. It was a man, and though it sounded as if he were speaking to someone, there was only one set of footsteps.

Dean ran to the side of the road and lay down in the grass, poking his nose out just enough to see. After a minute or so a man came lumbering out of the shadows and into the light of the streetlamp. He had shaggy hair and wore grimy clothes, his shoes hanging in broken flaps as he walked. He was mumbling a stream of incoherent babble to himself, and was clearly insane. The man must have been homeless, for the putrid stink of him hit Dean's nose before he had even passed. When the man rambled by and down the road several yards, Dean stood up and walked over to the painted divider line. He waited until the smelly man was a good thirty feet away before barking.

The homeless guy's string of nonsense never stopped or slowed—only grew quiet. He looked left and right as though he were being bothered by a pesky fly, then turned around. His mumble turned into an agitated shout as he saw the wolf lurking toward him with its head bowed low and its teeth bared. The man backed away and almost stumbled, then wheeled around and began running away comically with his arms flailing.

Dean had no problem at all catching up to him, and when he grabbed onto a grimy pant leg it was all too easy to bring the man down. The hobo fell with a grunt and turned onto his back as Dean bit him in the leg. He screamed curses and aimed kicks, but his words were still incoherent and his foot glanced feebly off of Dean's shoulders.

He tore through fabric and bit into flesh, feeling that primeval power surge through him. This man deserved it, he thought, for walking around so late at night when there was a monster on the loose. The monster owned this town, and its insufferable little inhabitants should know that by now. He laughed madly in his mind, the tearing flesh so much more satisfying than that of a stupid opossum.

When the screams grew tiresome and his mouth was adequately caked with blood, Dean broke off and let the man pull himself up and limp away, babbling like he belonged in a straightjacket. Dean felt the warm, coppery liquid drip from his mouth, and he thought there could be nothing more satisfying.

Chapter 17

Fortunately for Patrick, accepting one's cowardice and relinquishing all responsibility to make a difference in the world was easy to do when you had enough stuff on your mind. And his mind, it seemed, couldn't be turned off.

He had lay awake for the majority of the night thinking about Rachel, and it hadn't stopped by the time he was walking to school the next day.

It was true, he thought. Lizzy's teasing and his parents' shared little smirks and suggestions... They had been right all along. Patrick had never before fallen victim to the mighty Crush, but it seemed that now he was in its grasp.

He liked Rachel.

Not like a friend.

_Really liked_ her.

This idea was so foreign, but there it was; the way she looked, the clothes she wore, her little mannerisms—all these things had an odd power over him now. He found himself wanting to be with her more than he had ever wanted anything else. No exciting new video game was as magical as a moment spent with her, no celebrity or fictional character sounded as desirable to be around, and no good deed would ever seem as profound as simply making her laugh.

Those quick moments throughout their friendship in which he had ever noticed one of her more endearing features suddenly became memories that shone dazzlingly in his mind, crystal clear images of perfect beauty. He couldn't think of anyone in the world who was prettier, and he found himself wishing desperately that he had a picture of her to look at.

But the big question, however, was... Did she like him back?

They had become very good friends at an incredible rate, but was that any indication of romance, or had they simply been especially compatible as buddies? Did she feel even the slightest spark between them, or was she only out to make a friend? Patrick didn't know, but he figured it didn't help to think about it too much (not that that actually stopped him from doing it). It was probably best to take things one day at a time, he thought.

*****

When Patrick stepped into class and spotted Rachel in the front row, he thought she was more beautiful than ever. She was wearing a dark blue dress and sandals, her hair held out of her face with a barrette. There were dozens of other loud teenagers chatting with each other and clambering for seats around him, but Rachel may as well have been the only other person in the room.

Patrick sat down next to her with a smile.

"Hey."

"Hey! I had a lot of fun last night!" Her eyes seemed to sparkle as she spoke. "You're family's really cool!"

"Yeah, they're pretty alright."

The two of them smiled at each other for a moment before Mrs. Spotts walked in. He couldn't be sure that it wasn't all in his head, but Patrick felt something different after last night. The same way things had felt different after the evening he spent at her house, only even more so. Whether this was true or not, it sure felt magical.

*****

Mr. Vincent still hadn't returned to class, but that didn't seem to matter much anymore. His place at the desk had been taken by a perfectly ordinary and acceptable woman named Mrs. Barr. After class Rachel expressed her continuing hope that their usual teacher of world history would return soon, and Patrick shrugged it off with a half-hearted "Yeah."

Just before lunch the principal called another school assembly. Every student in the high school shuffled into the big echoing gym and sat at the bleachers on the right side of the room in no particular arrangement. The buzz in the place was very loud, and through the excited chatter rumors flew like stray arrows. Patrick and Rachel secured two coveted spots at the very top of the bleachers and leaned against the back wall as they waited for the assembly to begin.

Patrick's old high school (as well as every high school he had ever seen on TV) had had a genuine auditorium with a stage and rows of theater seats. Hillward High however was forced to use its gym for much more than just basketball games, and when Mr. Matlock was ready to deliver his message he was forced to simply stand in the middle of the court and shout up at the gathered students without even the help of a microphone. Patrick was sure they must have some sort of sound system, but maybe the assembly was too short-notice to set it up.

"Alright, everybody," the principal shouted over the din. Mr. Matlock appeared to be in his late fifties, sixty at the most. Patrick had heard rumors that the man's tidy grey hair was in fact a toupee, but it certainly didn't look like it from where he was sitting. Like a couple of teachers Patrick had known over the years, Mr. Matlock appeared to be a very friendly man who was nevertheless branded by many students as being something of a jerk. Patrick had always found that the people making these sorts of accusations were usually just troublemakers who didn't like being disciplined. This had been the case pretty much one hundred percent of the time, so Patrick decided to go with his gut instinct and assume that the grey-haired man standing in front of the bleachers indeed did _not_ pick on certain students because he " _just hated them_ ".

Mr. Matlock wiped his hands on his slacks. His light brown suit looked far too hot for the weather. When the auditorium was mostly quiet, he began.

"Now, as all of you know, there have been several reported incidents over the last few weeks wherein a member of the community was attacked by what they can now confirm to be a wolf. As you also know, there may be coyotes up in the hills, but there are no forests anywhere near here that house wild wolves. So the animal control officials have concluded that for an animal to wander so far astray from its home, it must be in some way sick. Rabies was the first theory, naturally, but surprisingly enough it has been all but ruled out. It seems that one man who was attacked, for some reason or another, refused to receive treatment. I can't say I know why, but I've heard rumors that he was an... _eccentric_ man... But whatever the case, they kept him in quarantine for several days and he never contracted the disease. Also, officials assure me that were it rabies, the animal would have certainly died of it by now. At this point they have no idea what it might be, but at the very least it doesn't seem to be infectious."

Patrick tried his very hardest to ignore Mr. Matlock, but it was hard to ignore someone when their voice bounced off of every surface and practically made your head vibrate with the sound.

"One thing they are sure about however, is that there is definitely something wrong with this wolf." He poked his anxious hands into his pockets and looked very seriously at the school. "No one has been killed, but five people so far have been injured, in most cases rather seriously. The fifth attack came to our attention earlier this morning. We just want to be very clear in communicating the danger here. It is extremely important that you never under any circumstances even step outside of your house at night. And though it has never shown itself during the daytime, we advise you never to walk alone or stray from the road. Hopefully we'll catch it soon and put this whole thing to an end, but until then you can assuredly avoid harm by being careful." He pulled one hand out of his pocket and gestured to the faculty seated in metal folding chairs behind him. "Now Regina is going to give you some further information on safety and first aid."

The woman with the southern accent from the front office stood up, and for the next ten minutes wreaked havoc on Patrick's ears.

*****

If the general mood of the student body was any indication of how seriously they took the information they had just received, it would have taken a wolf bursting through the gym's double doors and mauling Mr. Matlock on the spot for any of it to get through. They happily strolled to their lockers to get their lunches, still buzzing with excitement as though they had in fact come from one of the many yoyo demonstrations that Patrick had witnessed throughout his school career.

"It's getting kind of scary, isn't it?" Rachel asked as they walked across the quad to the hall. Unlike the majority of the other students, there was genuine worry on her face. "Five people now. It could be anywhere..."

Patrick didn't want to think about it anymore, but knew that Rachel needed assurance. He came up with the best thing he could.

"All the people who have been attacked have all gone out alone at night. So as long as we're careful, there's pretty much no way we can get hurt." He smiled at her.

She looked back at him, and after a moment she was smiling too.

"Yeah, I guess you're right..."

*****

Wednesday was a minimum day, and school let out at the gloriously early time of one thirty. They crossed the lawn and began to walk down the road, but Patrick turned around when he noticed that Rachel had stopped.

"I've got an idea," she said. "It's so early in the day, we should go for a walk before it gets dark!"

The butterflies took flight.

"Uh, yeah! Where?"

"I've got a place I like to go. I'll show you."

Every moment Patrick spent with Rachel they were surrounded by people, save for the walks home, and even then they were merely between two places and only for about five minutes. But now she wanted to walk somewhere else entirely.

Alone.

"Totally!" Patrick said with a voice that he hoped wasn't as shaky as it had sounded in his own ears.

Rachel turned and walked up the street in the opposite direction, and Patrick followed. The road led to the heart of town, and the houses soon gave way to businesses. After only about ten minutes of walking they started to come upon cross streets and the cars began to multiply. Up ahead Patrick could see the grocery store and the pizza place.

"Do you think we should have told our parents we'd be gone?" Patrick asked as he tried to imagine why Rachel would prefer to walk through the noisiest part of town.

"We won't be long," she said, looking at the ground ahead of her. "It's not far, either."

When they reached the small grocery store, Rachel led him behind it. He thought that they were simply walking into the back parking lot, but soon saw that there was a dirt road here, for the most part hidden by the building. The road led up a steep, grassy slope and to the left, and soon there were trees on either side of them. Patrick thought she might be leading them somewhere into the woods, but when he listened he could still hear cars faintly on all sides. The road was shady, and at the end was a decrepit old building with a playground in the front.

There were no cars parked here, and all the windows of the small building had been boarded up. The playground equipment was clearly designed for very young children: There was a swing set that was very low to the ground and seated two, much like the one in Rachel's yard; a metal merry-go-round (the kind of which Patrick had assumed had been removed from every playground years ago); a sandbox that was now more of a dirt-and-rock (and-most-likely-cat-poop) box; and two grotesque, unidentifiable animals with saddles on their backs placed atop large metal coils. Patrick could see the movement of cars down the hill through the trees, but the spot was secluded and undeniably peaceful.

"This place is awesome!" he said as they stepped over the small wooden divider that in an age long past may have actually contained the woodchips that now littered the entire area.

"Yeah, this is one of my favorite places to go when I want some time to myself. No one comes here much, not even kids. I guess their parents don't really want them wandering up here alone, especially these days."

"Why is this here?" Patrick looked in disgust at the crudely-painted smile of one of the saddled animals. It was orange, and he thought it might be a cat.

"I think this used to be a daycare, then it closed and for a while it was just an office or something. But it's been condemned for ages now, and I guess nobody cares to come and fix the place up."

Rachel sat down on one of the swings and Patrick sat on the other. For several long moments they said nothing, only looking around at the playground equipment and the tall trees above them, swinging gently. It was quiet and still, but Patrick's heart was beating as though he had just run a mile. Not a soul was around to see or hear them.

"Um, hey," Rachel said suddenly, her cheeks turning red. "I, um... I made something for you." She lifted her bag onto her lap and opened it. She reached inside and gingerly pulled out a long piece of green fabric. She held it out to him.

He grabbed it and held it up loosely, revealing the entire shape.

It was a scarf. It was dark green, with black Celtic designs in bands on the ends.

"I know it's still pretty warm out, but I guess I finished it a lot faster than I thought I would, and it gets pretty cold here during the winter."

Patrick admired the scarf closely, hardly knowing what to say.

"This is so awesome," he said, running his fingers over the black designs. "I didn't know you were into this stuff."

"Yeah, it's pretty easy. Do you like it?"

Patrick looked at her.

"It's amazing."

The soft light brought out her most striking features, making her look positively angelic. Her small hands gripped the swing's chains adorably as if she were a little girl again. And she was smiling that perfect smile that he had come to treasure so much.

His mouth opened before he even knew what he was going to say.

"Hey Rachel..." he said, and the words floated from his mouth as if he were in a dream.

She looked at him for a second, then turned her eyes back to the playground and the trees.

"Yeah?" she said with a voice so small that she almost did seem to belong on that tiny swing.

"I've had lot of fun with you the last few weeks."

Rachel didn't say anything for several moments—only looked at the rest of the playground, then the woodchips, then her feet.

"Yeah. Me too." She wasn't looking at him. But she was smiling so softly. She couldn't seem to relax her mouth. Patrick realized that he couldn't either.

"I'm really glad that..." Patrick reached for the right words and couldn't find them, "that you're here."

Rachel looked at him and drew her lips into a big sincere smile that reminded him of that first day of school, when they first looked into each others' eyes.

"Me too." Her voice was hardly audible.

She turned her head once more to the ground, and Patrick did the same, his arms and legs tingling, his head feeling exceptionally light. He stared at a single point in front of him, though his vision was a blur. He squeezed the chains, feeling like he might tumble from his seat at any moment.

His insides jumped when he felt fingers, warm and soft, sliding into his loose fist. He loosened his grip on the swing and the fingers glided across his palm and wrapped gently around his hand. Her hand felt impossibly small, and he clasped it as delicately as though he were holding a butterfly.

Neither of them said a word. Just how long they spent at that playground was lost to Patrick.

Chapter 18

Patrick lay in bed for hours. No matter how long he waited, it seemed that sleep wouldn't come; his mind was far too bright with something that was exciting and strange and impossibly special. The memory of Rachel's hand in his own sent his stomach fluttering every time it flashed across his mind, and the image of her perfect smile made him wish he never had to sleep again.

It was odd feeling something with such intensity when it was also so new. He had never been able to imagine holding so much admiration for just one person; yet here he was, lying in bed until the late hours of the night, doing nothing but thinking about a girl he had just met. They still didn't know that much about each other, yet he felt as though he would spend every second of the day in her presence if he could. The time they had even been in the same town could be checked off on a single page of the calendar with many boxes to spare, yet he wanted nothing more than to make her happy. She was someone whom he now felt the duty to protect, both from unhappiness and danger.

And it was this way that Patrick's mind returned to the woods. He felt like he had been retreating deep into a cave over the last several days, running further and further from the demons that hunted him. But just as he thought he had reached the deepest part of the cave, it opened onto the other side of the mountain, and he faced the monsters in the shadows once again.

He was tired of bouncing back and forth between cowering from fear and mightily triumphing over it. He was afraid, but it didn't matter. He wasn't facing his fears because he had done it once before and was convinced he could do it again. He wasn't doing it to prove himself or assert his strength and independence. He wasn't doing it because he had seen "Lord of the Rings" too many times and was harboring the delusion that the good guys always won in the end. He was simply doing it because he had to. He hadn't been brave before; he had been foolish. Now he knew what it was like to be beaten, and he could honestly say that he would endure it as many times as was necessary. It might even lead to his own death... But in the same way he had to walk into his house a soiled and bloody mess and face his parents on that awful night, he had to go back into those woods until he found answers. Because he doubted that the monster that prowled the streets even as he lay in his bed would be satisfied with bloodying legs for much longer. If there was even a chance that he could save someone's life, it was worth dying, wasn't it? As far as he was concerned, it wasn't even his choice anymore.

He had to do it for the town.

He had to do it for Rachel.

*****

Patrick awoke to full alertness precisely five minutes before his alarm was to go off. He hadn't been very far from sleep, yet he didn't feel groggy in the slightest. And from the moment he opened his eyes, he knew that today would be a very special day.

When he sat down beside Rachel she still couldn't seem to look at him. She smiled briefly and looked away, but the smile didn't wane. In the stark florescent light he could see that her cheeks were a little red.

"Hey," he said in his normal fashion, though his insides certainly were certainly feeling anything _but_ normal.

"Hello, Patrick." She used his name. And she said "hello" instead of "hey". Objectively, two very simple words. So why did they seem so profound to him?

She finally looked at him, and they locked eyes for a few moments, smiling. He didn't know what to say, but he didn't care.

Patrick couldn't be one hundred percent certain, but he was pretty sure that in this new and very different town he had stumbled into a relationship.

As usual the two of them were together for every possible moment that day, though this time Patrick's body was always tingling with unmatched and unbridled joy—almost like an actual physical lightness in his chest. Being with Rachel was like winning the lottery, or stumbling upon some massive treasure. It was the joy you would feel after discovering you had superpowers—the absolute wonder at such a miracle and the sense of adventure that would well up inside you. (He was coming to know that feeling very well, it seemed.)

When he was with Rachel he felt like the future would be a good one after all.

They still sat across from each other on the bench during lunch, and they didn't hold hands while walking between classes. But somehow, at least for the time being, it didn't feel like they needed to. Simply being in each others' company was such a deep and fulfilling experience, and just the idea of future concepts such as hand-holding made it all the more exciting. It was enough to sneak sideways peeks at Rachel during class and catch her doing the same back. It was enough to critique each others' lunches with the memory of last night still fresh in their minds. It was enough to simply live in the present, knowing that the horizon only got brighter.

Every other human being at school that day seemed like a soulless hologram, programmed to go about their daily business in a distant, robotic fashion. Patrick and Rachel were the only ones who seemed real—the only two actors in the spotlight, in front of a backdrop covered with hundreds of painted faces. And that was the way Patrick wished it could stay forever.

The dream didn't waver until the very end of the school day. Patrick hoped that Rachel would want to go for a walk again, or at least hang out at one of their houses.

"I really _really_ want to hang out," she said as they put their unneeded books in their lockers for the day, "but I told my chemistry study group that I would hang back and help work on our project for a few hours after school."

Leaving Rachel for the remainder of the day was a sad thought, but Patrick told himself that this was actually perfect. Despite the new drunkenness he was experiencing, he had things he needed to do.

"Okay, that's fine," he said. I'll just see you tomorrow, I guess.

Rachel gave him a warm smile.

"Okay."

She walked toward him and before he could tell what was happening she was giving him a hug. Their bodies were suddenly so close, and Patrick could smell the shampoo in her hair and the fabric softener on her clothes with great intensity. For a second he wasn't sure what to do with his arms, but with some mental effort he wrapped them around her back.

The whole thing only lasted a few seconds, and when Rachel quietly said, "See ya," and walked down the hall, Patrick was left standing in a daze, holding his backpack limply at his side. It took him several moments to shake off his shock and the explosion of butterflies in his stomach, but finally he managed to finish putting his books away and head outside, all the while a huge, stupid grin on his face.

It was hard to force his mind to return to business, but realizing how little time he had was certainly sobering. Patrick walked down the street and considered everything once more.

He was continuing in the face of danger, but the fact of the matter was that he wasn't much use to Hillward in the ICU. Dean made for a much bigger wolf, and he simply wouldn't let Patrick search the woods if he could help it. He wasn't sure when the guy slept, but it seemed that night was entirely under Dean's rule. In a confrontation, Patrick had practically no chance of defending himself.

Patrick's only choice then, was to search during the day. This idea didn't sound like a pleasant one, as the thought of people and cars in all directions made him feel very vulnerable. This was his only option however, and he decided with great effort that he would just have to be extra careful. He would need to be fast, too. Today he would search for a few hours and report to his parents to prevent them from worrying. He would then claim he was going for a walk and continue his search until the sun just started to go down.

Patrick walked to that infamous crooked post on the side of the road and peered down the path into the woods. He gave a quick turn to make sure that no one was watching and stepped into the trees. After a moment he slid his backpack off his shoulders and dropped it onto the ground, changing a few steps later.

The daytime smells were essentially the same as those at night, only the smell of squirrel was more fresh and the pungent scent of car exhaust clung sickly to the air. Completely gone were the sounds of the bats (he had grown used to them, but this was certainly much more comfortable), replaced by the hum of many motors and the shouting of children.

Being able to see the world through both his nose _and_ his eyes was very pleasing to Patrick. He didn't need the light, but it certainly made it much more comfortable to navigate without thought. He saw everything in muted grey colors, but the colors that he could see in his mind—practically _taste_ —were more than enough for him.

After a few moments of adjusting to the bright world of day, Patrick began his frenzied search. There were very few hours of daylight when one considered the fact that Wolf Watch pretty much began the second the sun hit the trees. When the first shadows began to peek out from under the people of the town and start to grow long, everyone ran for their houses. And who could blame them? It certainly seemed like taking the garbage to the trash can after nightfall had become a life-threatening ordeal. And Patrick was pretty sure that if your children were the ones whose safety was in question, nightfall would begin to creep into the world roughly around noon. For that reason, Patrick had to hurry.

He searched around the trail for a while, then took off in a random direction when staying in one place proved to be too nerve-wracking. He soon found himself at the edge of the creek, and in the daylight he thought he could see the imprint his body had left in the drying mud. He searched up and down the top of the embankment, his nose to the ground, snuffling rapidly around rocks and through the grass and weeds. At one point he jerked his head up to find a squirrel eating a nut on the ground in front of him, its black eyes bugging out at the world, its line of sight a mystery behind its lack of any discernable pupil. When it stuck the nut in its mouth and ran nimbly up the tree Patrick stopped himself with great effort from running after it and barking. (He had never wanted to do such a thing as a human, so why was it so _appealing_ now?) All throughout his searching his ears were pricked up and he devoted a section of his attention solely to listening for approaching people (or animals). With so much surrounding noise pollution and so many scampering squirrels and fluttering birds it was difficult to listen for the sounds of footsteps, so he readied himself to bolt at the first sign of an intruder in case he wasn't quite quick enough to pick up on it as it approached.

*****

When Patrick found it, it was sheer chance that brought him over that square inch of ground and luck that the tiniest sliver of intuition told him to stay there. He had only barely noticed it in the first place, instantly regarding it as nothing but a lapse in his thinking, but something told him to wait and give it another sniff anyway.

He had stopped in a small clearing a few dozen yards from his back yard. The trail that led to the road was off to his right. He sniffed at the spot for several long moments, trying to put his finger on exactly what was irregular about it. His body was still, every muscle tense as his mind reached out to the smell, probed it. He couldn't tell if it was even a smell at all, because he couldn't quite place it into any sort of category. Its color was simply... _different_. When he ran his nose over it he got a sense of _out of place_. These feelings were hard to articulate even to himself, and seemed to be mostly based on some weird gut instinct.

Unsure as to what it might be but almost certain that it was certainly something, he sniffed at it for a minute longer, wondering what he should do.

_What could a wolf do for a crow?_ he thought to himself.

The answer seemed pretty obvious.

Patrick scraped at the ground with his paw. He raked over the spot again and again, and when he had loosened an adequate amount of dirt he braced his hind legs and began to dig.

After what must have been about ten minutes Patrick had dug a foot into the ground. It took a while to get down the correct motions and muscle movements for the task, but soon it became very natural.

_I wonder how many tries before I can catch a Frisbee,_ a sillier part of him asked as he scooped the dirt out from under him and flung it between his legs. Thankfully the soil was far enough from the trail that it was relatively soft; it took some work, but it certainly wasn't like digging through solid rock. As he dug deeper he even began to feel (and smell, more than anything) moisture left behind from the last rain.

Patrick thought he could hear a slow change in the sound of his paws digging through the earth, but decided that it was most likely a trick of his mind—a product of the grating repetition of the sound. But when he dragged his claws across a surface that sounded curiously like the hollow scraping of wood, he stopped.

For a moment he didn't believe it. He stood staring at the bottom of his little hole, thinking that it had to have been his ears playing a trick on him. But then there it was, not just a ringing memory in his ears but a smell—the smell of wood. But not any normal wood, no; this wood smelled nothing like the trees around him. It was musty, it was old, it was out of place.

Patrick's heart began to race madly and he resumed digging, this time in a frenzied hurry. He scooped away enough dirt to reveal a six inch circle of a flat wooden surface, and he didn't need to venture far into his imagination to produce a theory as to what he was now standing on.

Despite the bolt of pure energy that had been gifted to him, digging in this fashion was taking far too long. After another ten minutes he had barely increased the size of the hole at all, and he decided that it was time for a different approach. He stopped digging and ran as quickly as he could toward his house. He changed back before he reached the yard and jogged up to the back door. When he reached it he saw that no one was in the living room to see his approach, so he decided to tiptoe around suspicion altogether and sneak to the front of the house where he let himself in by way of the front door. He held the door open and shouted down the hall.

"Hey, Mom!" His voice echoed across the hardwood floor and through the house.

"Yeah?" his mother answered back, probably from inside her office.

"I'm out taking a walk..." he shouted, and just in time added, "with some friends!"

"Alright, be home before nighttime."

"I will!" He shut the door and ran back around the house. Like the old rusty bathroom fittings, a few tools had been left outside during the renovations. His father had meant to cart it all into the garage a long time ago, but Patrick thanked him silently for putting it off for so long. Leaning up against the house along with a hoe and a few lengths of PVC piping was a shovel. It was still dirty from digging up the planters around the front porch.

Patrick grabbed it and swiftly ran back to the woods before anyone could see where he was going. He found his way back to the hole and began to dig with the shovel. He was thankful to find that his took much less effort, as the blade slid into the ground easily with a stomp or two, and each scoop felt like the equivalent of at least a minute's worth of soil dug with his paws.

Patrick dug for what must have been at least an hour. He worked at uncovering as much of the wooden surface as he could, stopping whenever it ended and he was only digging into straight earth. His heart began to hammer anew when the shape that was left in the ground slowly revealed itself to be a rectangle, five or six feet long. The smell of the wood was heavy now, though he was thankful that his human nose couldn't truly grasp what was undoubtedly an unnerving scent.

When the entire top was uncovered he flipped the shovel over and used it to scrape the last bits of dirt from the surface, revealing much of the light brown wood. Now he could see that along the edge were what appeared to be nails. Patrick marveled at the large box that lay before him, his head swimming. He began to ask himself what to do next, but before the words were even finished scrolling across his mind he jammed the blade of the shovel under the large plank that he supposed was the lid. The nails had rusted away to almost nothing, and Patrick pried the top off with only two cranks of the handle. He dropped the shovel and lifted the lid off with held breath.

Inside the box was something long, something wrapped in a black cloth bag. Patrick's heart felt like it might jump out of his chest. It was a body. There was a body in this box. There was a body in a box buried in the woods behind his house. This was why he was turning into a wolf. To find this box. He stared at the figure for several moments with wide eyes and short breath. There was something placed on top of the body, slightly concealed in the folds of the fabric. He leaned closer and saw that it was a necklace—some sort of red stone on a metal chain.

Amidst the thumping of his heart in his ears he barely heard the growling.

Patrick whirled around and saw Dean standing hunched on all fours, his fur bristling, his teeth bared. Without conscious thought Patrick's body changed and the very next second Dean was lunging at him. The enormous wolf snarled and leapt at him with his whole body, but Patrick jumped deftly to his right. Too shocked to be scared, Patrick wheeled around and tried to bite Dean on the back of the neck, but the huge jaws were coming at him again and he was forced shirk out of the way. They bit at each others' faces and were soon on their hind legs, scrabbling and trying to get a good hold. Dean nipped at his face and Patrick turned to avoid it, falling over in the process. He flipped back over as quickly as he could and saw Dean advancing on him, preparing to pounce.

Just as Patrick was about to throw his weight at the wolf in a savage last effort, there was a loud _CAW._ Dean turned his head to the coffin, as did Patrick.

The crow was sitting on the body, holding the stone in its beak. It flew across the clearing to the edge of the trail.

Patrick's heart sank as he saw with utter horror that Rachel was standing there, holding his backpack and staring at them with wide eyes.

The crow flapped over to her and dropped the stone at her feet, then flew off cawing madly. Rachel stared down at the necklace for a second, then closed her eyes, dropping the backpack. There was a sudden change in her posture that was so subtle Patrick almost missed it, and she opened her eyes once more with a look on her face that was nothing short of terrifying. Eyes that were not her own stared down at the stone and an eerie and unnatural smile crept over her face. She bent down and picked it up, slipping it around her neck with apparent glee. She looked up at Patrick, who could only stare unbelievingly.

"Thank you, child," Rachel said, only her voice seemed... _wrong_ —somehow not her voice at all.

Patrick's wits shot back to him like a lightning bolt and he suddenly knew with overwhelming certainty that her life was in danger. He leapt forward, shouting " _NO!_ " in a mental cry, but before he could cross the clearing she lifted her hand and thousands of leaves fell from the tree above, dousing her like water. The leaves cascaded onto her and swirled about her body in a brief flurry, and when they finally fell to the ground she was gone.

Patrick jumped to the spot where she had stood, turning his head from side to side, trying to spot her. He dropped his nose to the ground and sniffed, but the smell of her fabric softener and her shampoo and that underlying scent that was her own personal fingerprint on the world did not trail from the line on which she had entered the woods. Patrick stopped and looked up into the trees, complete dread spreading through his mind and his stomach and his heart like a noxious flame. Behind him he could hear Dean running off through the woods.

Patrick stood staring, his breathing heavy, wanting to run but knowing that there was nowhere to go.

Chapter 19

The students didn't laugh much at school the next day.

When Mrs. Spotts walked into the room she was close to tears. She informed the class that Rachel hadn't come home the night before. She told them how the students in her study group had said that she left the school alone a little after five o'clock the day before. Mrs. Spotts asked the class if any of them had seen her after that, or known where she might have gone. No one made a sound, lest the scooting of a chair or the shuffling of papers be mistaken for a raised hand or a confession.

Patrick could feel the eyes on him. He and Rachel had hung out exclusively for weeks, and he was clearly having the hardest time with the news. The spotlight was on him the entire day, and all of his classes were stricken with an unnerving hush. People spoke in unnaturally quiet tones, keeping laughter to a minimum out of either respect or fear. If this were an abduction it would be bad enough—kids and teenagers often returned from them unharmed—but Patrick didn't have to poll the school to know if they thought Rachel was coming back. Before the attacks had been harmless—just another fairy tale news item, another " _brush your teeth before bed, drive with your seatbelt on, don't pick up hitchhikers_ ". Now it seemed that they were wrong; and this, for a teenager, was a very scary thought.

The whole day Patrick tried his best to ignore the pitiful stares, the little whispers. His mind was numb with grief, and he only stared at the front of each class, ignoring the teachers entirely. He didn't bother taking down homework assignments. He didn't plan on doing them. He only sat in his chair, fulfilling at least that obligation, his head hurting too much to even think. Thinking, he found, did nothing. There were no ideas. No theories. No plans. Just a maddening emptiness. Emptiness that he couldn't escape no matter how hard he tried to shut off his brain.

Besides, the thoughts had already come. He had spent the majority of the previous night lying in bed, running it through his mind until it exhausted him, though the sleep was still reluctant to come even then. He realized with bitterness how the main reason he had continued to pry into this mystery despite Dean's warnings had been to protect Rachel, and it ended up being the only reason she had been affected at all. If he had simply listened to that horrible little voice inside his head that told him to give up, Rachel would be fine. He did what he thought he had to do, and now the most important person in the world to him was gone. Venturing into the woods that first night had been such a scary thought, but despite all his apprehension he did it anyway, being truly brave for perhaps the first time in his life. And it was this action that had set the entire thing in motion... If he hadn't done this, he would have simply attended school like a normal sixteen-year-old and struck up a safe and happy relationship with Rachel. They might even be further along by now without all of the odd distractions...

But it seemed now that Patrick had been taught time and time again some cruel cosmic lesson: that every time you try to be courageous and do something selfless, you end up making things worse. It was painful, and it didn't make any sense, but it certainly seemed to be what the universe was trying to tell him.

Somehow the final grain of sand in what must have been the most enormous hourglass in history finally fell and the impossibly long day ended. Patrick walked home alone. He didn't glance at the trail where Rachel had obviously seen his improperly hid backpack (another fact that was much too painful to dwell on), and he walked past her street without taking his eyes off the ground.

He had considered what he might do to help Rachel, but not a single idea proposed itself, because nothing in this situation made sense. Something had taken over her body and Patrick had felt it; he could sense a change in her with that sixth sense that he supposed was unique to animals, could feel a different being looking back at him. And that being had simply disappeared. Without a trail to follow, there was nowhere to even look for her. Without a single clue as to what it wanted, there was no way to predict where she might end up. She could be a hundred miles away by now. There was just nothing left to consider.

His family didn't talk to him much during dinner, and resorted to the same respectfully hushed voices employed by his classmates. They tried to include him in the conversation, but when they saw that every answer to their questions was only a small nod or shake of his head they left him alone to stare at his food.

They had found out that something was wrong the night it happened. In fact, when Rachel hadn't come home by six thirty they were the first people that Dave called. Patrick hadn't heard the conversation in detail, but from his room he could hear the inflections of his mother's voice: pleasantly surprised by a call from Rachel's father, a pause as he asked her if she'd seen his daughter, a concerned answer, then assurance that if Rachel showed up she would call him right away. His mother had then called him downstairs and asked if he knew where Rachel might be. He felt like he had to muster every bit of control he possessed to keep the worry from his face until his mother asked the question. He told her about the study group and how it shouldn't have lasted this long. It had been a bitter convenience for Patrick that Dave had called before dinner, because he knew that hiding his grief while facing his entire family for such a long period of time would have been impossible.

Patrick spent much of that Saturday in his room. Unable to do anything but lie on his bed (a habit which had grown old quickly but was unavoidable all the same) he watched the hours tick by on his alarm clock.

*****

Sometime in the afternoon he heard a knock on the front door. He heard his mother open it and exchange a few muffled words with a man. Then she called for him and he was forced to pull himself out of bed and trudge slowly down the stairs on weak legs. When he reached the bottom and looked at the door he saw Dave and his mother talking softly. His mother gave an utterly weak smile and walked away down the hall, leaving the two of them alone.

Dave's eyes looked sunken, the dark rings under them most likely matching Patrick's. The man looked like he hadn't been sleeping much either. His hair had never been tidy, but the casual ruffle had turned into a completely ignored bed head. He still held his car keys and fiddled with them, much as a nervous man in a western might wring his hat. The look he gave Patrick was almost pleading, and that hurt a great deal.

"Hi, Patrick," Dave said as Patrick walked up to him.

He didn't say anything—only waited for the man to talk.

"I already talked to your parents and they said you didn't know anything that I didn't..." His voice was shaky and he stared at the floor, shifting his feet around anxiously. "and I believe them, but I just..." He paused and winced for a split second as though trying to hold back tears, then looked into Patrick's eyes. "I just wanted to talk to you for myself. You understand, right?"

Patrick nodded.

"Good," Dave said, looking down again so much like Rachel had on the swings that it sent a pang of grief through Patrick's heart. "I knew you would, Patrick. You're a good guy." He paused for a few moments, considering, turning his car key around and around in his fingers. Then finally he looked up again. "So tell me, in your own words," he specified again, as if to fully avoid any small chance of offense, "what happened that day after school."

Patrick felt as though his life had derailed and smashed into a cliff side, but he could tell that Dave felt much worse. After his wife died, Rachel was probably the only thing he had left in the world. Now he had to come home every day to an empty house, clinging onto the tiniest, most fragile hope that she may still be alright, but knowing deep down that he would most likely never see his daughter again. It was hard for Patrick to look into this man's eyes and tell him that he didn't have the slightest clue as to her whereabouts, when it was in actuality his fault that harm had come to her. He had a vague idea of what happened to her that he didn't fully understand, but telling Dave that certainly wouldn't aid the search teams who now joined the animal control people working vigilantly out in the woods of Hillward.

"We usually walk home together, but she said she had to stay for a little while with her study group." His voice was weak with misuse and very low. "So I took a walk and went home. And that was it."

After a pause Dave's brow furrowed slightly and he sighed. He may not have expected anything to come of this interview, but he had certainly hoped.

"Alright," he said, now as quietly as Patrick. "Thank you." He turned and stepped through the door without another word, closing it softly behind him.

Patrick stood in the hall for several moments. The house was completely silent save for his breathing. Outside a car drove by and a bird tweeted cheerily.

"I need to go for a walk," he said to himself.

*****

Walking into the woods was easier than Patrick had anticipated. He thought that it would do nothing but rekindle the regret and helplessness that seemed to burn behind his eyes and in his chest, but he walked through the trees with an unsettling ease. It almost felt as though whatever evil had been here had completed its scheme and moved on. He felt like a ghost lurking down the streets of a ruined city months after an earthquake.

As he walked he could feel the bulge in his back pocket. Although it pained him every moment it was in his mind, he couldn't seem to part with the scarf. He had folded it and tucked it into his pocket before he left the house. He almost wished that it were cold enough to put it on, though wearing it probably would have made him feel a lot worse anyway... Still, he often found his hand groping for it, as if for comfort.

When he reached the clearing where it had all happened, he was surprised to find that every trace of what took place two days ago was gone. There was no hole, no coffin, no body, not even a disturbance in the ground. The shovel was nowhere to be found. For a moment he thought that he must be in the wrong place, but he looked to the left and saw what was unmistakably the trail to the street.

Whatever had taken Rachel had apparently come back to clean up. This brought up fresh new feelings of dread; she had come back, right here behind his house, and he hadn't been there to stop her. He thought that maybe this should fill him with righteous anger and strengthen his reserve to find her, but instead it just reminded him of how little it mattered what he did or where he looked. He was just one person, and she could be anywhere.

It was hard to be thankful for anything during a time like this, but he did acknowledge that if the hole remained the police would have certainly found it instantly and Patrick would have been a prime suspect in her disappearance. Even if they couldn't link it to Rachel's case directly, it was an odd thing for a teenager to locate the exact spot of a shallow grave and unearth it without telling anyone. He hadn't fully considered any of this before, or perhaps didn't really care, but at least this small amount of grace had been granted to him. There weren't many ways the situation could be worse, but being in jail was definitely one of them.

Patrick looked at the spot where a huge hole and two piles of dirt should have been and saw only unbroken soil covered in dry leaves. The bizarreness of the whole thing began to hit him again, and he was staggered by the number of questions he had. It was ridiculous to think that in this whole world there wasn't one person who might have some of the answers he was looking for. There had to be someone who could somehow understand what he was going through.

_But there is,_ he reminded himself. _Maybe it's time we give him another try._

Unable to think of anything else to do other than wait out the rest of his life in his bedroom, he jogged back home and found the phone book.

*****

He had to root through his school binder to find the sheet he had been given during his meeting with Mr. Matlock. It contained all of the teachers' names and the room numbers of the classes he was taking, and when he finally found it he was relieved to see that it did indeed include the teachers' first names as well. He ran his finger down to the bottom of the list, searching for the man whose first name he hadn't gotten around to remembering.

_Vincent, Mark D._ the paper read. He tossed it aside and flipped the phonebook open on his lap. He found his way to the 'V's and after a moment gave a quiet sigh of relief when he spotted the name. He held his finger on the spot and picked the cordless phone up off the bed. He dialed the number and sat very still, waiting with held breath as the line rang once, twice, three times.

_This is stupid,_ he thought. _Of_ course _he's not going to answer his phone. He's practically shut himself off from the rest of the world._

It was at this thought that Patrick was suddenly hit with a sharp feeling of guilt; despite everything that had happened, he owed it to Mr. Vincent to at least let him know that he hadn't been responsible for the recent attacks. The man was most likely wallowing in shame and fear, and Patrick had barely made an effort at all to contact him. He had tried once, but when everything was set in motion he had simply stopped thinking about it. Depression could make a guy do some stupid things...

Like unplug the phone.

Two more rings came, and Patrick's heart sank a little as the answering machine clicked. A prerecorded voice spoke to him in a way that was intended to be cheery but ultimately was nothing but eerie and robotic.

" _I'm sorry,_ " it said, "Mark Vincent," (Mr. Vincent's voice spoke for a second) " _is not available. Please leave a message after the tone."_

There was a _beep,_ and though he knew it was coming Patrick still cringed at the piercing sound.

"Mr. Vincent," Patrick said in a low voice, for some reason worried that one of his parents might walk by and wonder who he was talking to. He waited for a moment, wondering if the man could even hear him or if he had switched off the answering machine too. "Mr. Vincent," he said again, "this is Patrick." He only paused for a second before adding, "I really need to talk to you."

At this point, further words were useless. He waited for a sound, any sound. He noticed that the hand holding the phone to his ear was shaking slightly.

Finally there was a click, and the unmistakable background noise of an open connection. There were several quiet seconds that were touched only by this hum.

"Hello, Patrick," said a voice so low and gravelly that it was hardly audible.

Suddenly Patrick didn't know quite what to say. He only held the phone and thought about every single event that had taken place over the last few weeks, wondering where to start or what he was even calling to ask. Thankfully, Mr. Vincent spoke again.

"Maybe you should meet me here."

*****

Mr. Vincent's house wasn't a half hour drive up the mountain after all. In fact, it was within walking distance of Patrick's house, as he was beginning to realize a good percentage of the houses in Hillward were. He walked into town until he passed the grocery store (which he only now noticed was apparently called "Sunset Market") and took a left a few blocks later. This led him into a neighborhood much like Rachel's, though being closer to the heart of town the street was much busier. He walked until the numbers reached the 1800's, then located the number he had been given.

Mr. Vincent's house, like most of the houses on this street and in this town in general, was modest. It was dark brown, and between the small covered porch and all the overgrown trees, bushes and grass, it was home to many shadows. None of the lights were on in the house, and it looked as if no one had lived here for a good few years.

Patrick started up the walkway slowly, certain that this was the correct house but for some reason hesitant all the same. He walked up the steps and was swallowed by the shadow of the porch, wondering exactly what would end up taking place within these walls. He stepped up to the door and could see that there was a doorbell, but for some reason he felt it more appropriate to knock. He rapped his knuckles three times, maybe a little too quietly.

When he thought maybe he should try knocking again, a little louder, the door opened and Mr. Vincent stood in the darkness of his cave.

He was wearing a worn, brown t-shirt and what appeared to be sweat pants. This reminded Patrick of his father, but the illusion broke a split instant later when he looked up at the man's face. In the shadow of the unlit house his eyes looked as though they were floating in two actual holes in his skull. Patrick had never seen darker rings or a more weary expression. Any other feature that may have spoken of Mr. Vincent's current state was lost under his thick beard, which had apparently been left to grow wild.

Mr. Vincent had a reputation of looking tired and often distracted, but this was the first time Patrick had seen him completely disheveled and without an ounce of coolness or professionalism or even a smile on his face.

His teacher stepped to the side and gestured for Patrick to come in with a turn of his head. When Patrick walked inside he was struck by the man's thick scent—the one Patrick had caught when they had shaken hands, the smell that clung to the man's every possession like ectoplasm.

The front door led directly into the living room, with the dining room and kitchen off to the left. Mr. Vincent shut the door, bathing the house once more in darkness, and walked slowly over to a recliner. He lowered himself into it as if it took the very last of his energy. Patrick followed and sat down on a couch on the opposite wall.

Mr. Vincent breathed in deeply and sighed, then leaned forward and rested his chin on his clasped hands. He regarded Patrick sullenly for a moment, then spoke.

"So, Patrick... Needed some help on the research paper, did you?"

Patrick couldn't find it in him to even acknowledge the comment with a smile.

"Mr. Vincent," he said, his voice unable to rise much above a whisper in the eerie hush of the house, "what, exactly, has been going on?"

There was a pause. The floating eyes bore uncomfortably into his mind.

"At this point, it's hard to tell," the man said.

"Have you stopped coming to school because you've been hurting people?" Patrick asked. It was the first time he had ever acknowledged his other life verbally to another human being. It took some effort, but when it was finally out he felt a little relieved.

Mr. Vincent's face was unchanging.

"You know a lot," was all he said, and it was Patrick's turn to speak once more.

"Mr. Vincent, I don't know exactly what you're going through, but it's not you. Dean's been the one attacking everybody."

The man let his face slide down into his hands and ran bony-looking fingers through his wild hair where they remained, his face pointed toward the floor.

"But I _have_ attacked people, Patrick." His voice was tired and rough, but completely calm.

"It wasn't you, it's been Dean the whole time. He wanted me to stay out of his business so he did this to me." Patrick gestured to the scratches on his arms and neck that were beginning to fade, though his teacher didn't look up to see them. "I don't know why, but he's been hurting anyone he can. You've got to believe me, it hasn't been you at all."

"You're mistaken."

"I'm not! I've smelled Dean, he reeks of blood! I think he might be doing it for fun!"

"I killed someone, Patrick."

Patrick was about to make another point but his mouth stopped and it was forgotten. There was a long silence where the two of them only sat, no noise but for the occasional passing car.

Mr. Vincent finally lifted his head and put it back in its original position on his hands. He didn't look at Patrick, but somewhere around his feet.

"I know that Dean has been running amok. But I've had a part in this too." He took another deep breath, gave another sigh. "I've lived here for fifteen years. I started teaching at the high school when I was only twenty-five. I've always suffered from insomnia, and between the stresses of marital life and teaching kids, nighttime walks became frequent for me. One night as I was walking in the patch of woods across from the school I came across a crow. It was so odd to see such a bird walking around so late at night... and it was staring at me. Just sitting on the ground and staring up at me. So I walked up to it, thinking it must be sick, and I started to get this funny feeling. Well, you probably know how the rest of that goes, I guess."

He paused as if allowing a response, though Patrick didn't feel that one would be appropriate.

"At first, it was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to me," he continued. "Suddenly I had so much power... It was like being superhuman!"

Patrick's stomach churned a little as he heard his own words coming back at him from a ruined and tired man, and he wondered if he were talking with a future version of himself.

"My life had never felt more meaningful." Mr. Vincent dropped his hands onto his knees and looked around the entire room as he spoke, as though he were seeing the memory all around him and was trying to catch every detail. "After a while it felt like that world was more real than this one, and I started spending every moment possible just running around town and through the woods..." He paused, apparently finding a detail in his vision which troubled him. "But it didn't take long before it began to affect my marriage. She thought I was having an affair. And in a way, I was... I gave my whole life to my other half, and the daytime world seemed less and less meaningful all the time. When she finally left I could tell that my life was crashing down around me. I was..." He groped for the proper words. "...angry. I was angry at her for not understanding, angry at the school's threats to fire me, angry at myself... I just lost it. And as you probably know, when your mind isn't all there, it's hard to control yourself or even remember what you've done some nights. I had so much rage inside me that everything went black. It's like the wolf-mind just sort of swallowed up my own. There was only one single thing that I remembered about that night..."

He stopped, perhaps probing his memory, or maybe looking for the right words to say and the courage to say them. He looked back down to the floor.

"Mr. Fitzgerald was the groundskeeper for the school. He had insomnia, like me. He was really old, but he could never seem to stop working. Most nights when he couldn't sleep he would get in some off-the-clock lawn work. The school told him he shouldn't work unless he was getting paid, but he kept on doing it and eventually they quit bugging him about it. It was just the way he was, I guess..."

Another pause, this one much longer. Mr. Vincent sat so still he might not have been breathing.

"I have the smallest snippet of memory. He was spreading fertilizer out in the field, and I..." Mr. Vincent's mouth remained open, but no sound came out. Behind the weariness Patrick could now see a pain in the man's eyes so intense that he could hardly stand to look.

The vision apparently broke, and Mr. Vincent slumped back into his chair and stared blankly at his lap. He waited several more seconds before speaking again.

"Some kids found him the next morning. That night someone's dog had come home with blood all over its fur. It had probably just killed an opossum out in the woods, but they had no reason to believe that. They had it put down and the case was closed.

"I couldn't believe what I had done... I didn't want it to happen again, I wanted to get away from this town and try to get my life back, but... I couldn't. I couldn't risk losing the power. I found myself going day to day as I always had, not making any effort to move or change. I didn't want to hurt anyone else, but it's like a drug. No matter what I do, I can't get away from it. I've lived here all these years, moving nowhere in life, just so every once in a while I can feel like I have an ounce of power in the world. I've tried to maintain control of myself, but it doesn't always work. Some mornings I wake up and I just know that I went out, yet I don't have the faintest memory of doing so. And every day I wait to hear the news from a student or another teacher—that someone else has died. Every day I feel my luck wearing thinner and thinner. Yet I'm still here... because I'm a coward."

He shut his eyes and very slowly wiped a few strands of hair from his forehead. Then he looked at Patrick with those weary eyes as though to say " _And now here we are._ "

Patrick didn't know what he could say. He had wanted so badly to believe that the man he had come to respect was completely innocent. Mr. Vincent had always seem so collected and confident, as if he was in on some special secret about the world...

Patrick fished around his frazzled brain and found a question to start with.

"Why did you stop coming to school?"

"I couldn't stand to see Dean every day and know that there was nothing I could do to stop him. I've seen his other form; he's built like a bull, and he's got nothing but fight in him. But most of all I couldn't keep going to work as though nothing was wrong. Something had to change, and even if it wasn't moving away or locking myself up or taking more..." His eyes fell to the ground for a moment. "...drastic measures... at least it was something. I can't pretend like I'm a normal person anymore. And I don't deserve to teach you kids when I don't even have the courage to try and fix things..."

" _you kids_ " reminded him of Rachel. He decided to get to the root of the matter.

"Mr. Vincent, what do you know about... the change?"

"Probably as much as you do," he said, his body now apparently resigned to remaining completely static on his chair. "It started when I saw the crow. I never looked into it more... I thought I might disturb the process somehow. Plus, I never thought there was anything to find. I suppose you saw the crow too?"

Patrick leaned forward and shook his head, dismissing the question.

"Mr. Vincent, something's happened, something's changed. The crow was looking for something, and Dean didn't want me to find it. I think he probably had the same fear you did. But I found it... I think the crow might have been a person, someone who died."

It looked like Mr. Vincent's brow raised slightly, though it may have just been a trick of his eyes.

"I found it... I found the body. It was buried in a box in the woods. I searched for so many nights until I found it, and I dug it up. There was a pendant or something lying on it. Then Dean came and we fought."

The man leaned forward, the surprise now clear on his face. It looked like he might have hardly believed what he was hearing.

"And then we heard the crow and there it was, holding the pendant. Rachel had followed me into the woods to bring me my backpack and the crow flew over to her, and I think whatever was in the crow went into _her_. Her face and her... her spirit, her aura, her whatever-you-want-to-call-it changed, and she picked up the pendant and disappeared in a gust of leaves. I tried to track her, but she'd simply vanished... And now I don't know what to do."

Mr. Vincent regarded him incredulously for several long moments. Then he leaned back onto the chair.

"Patrick, I'm not sure what to make of all this."

"There's nothing to make of it. All that matters is that we find this thing that took her and get her back. She's been missing for days, everyone thinks Dean got her. But we can do something about this if we work together." In the still house his voice rang uncomfortably in his ears.

"I don't..." Mr. Vincent shook his head slightly. "I don't think there's anything I can do."

"But we _can_ do something if we just try! We _have_ to!" He was leaning forward, practically on the edge of his seat, speaking directly to the man sitting in front of him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was actually giving the pep talk to himself. He hadn't known that there was an ounce of hope left inside of him, but he found these feelings forming in his mind as quickly as he could spout them out to someone else. Mr. Vincent might not have discerned just how similar the two of them were, but Patrick could see it. Speaking to what might have been a failed version of himself empowered him in a way he would have never expected.

"Patrick," Mr. Vincent said, "I don't know anything more than you do. You seem to at least have an idea of what's going on. I gave up the chance to help myself a long time ago. I don't think I have the power to help you, or anyone else, for that matter. I'm sorry."

Patrick wanted to assure the man that he wasn't a coward after all, and that he _could_ help... but looking at his sad, weary body on that chair, in this dark house where he did nothing but wallow in shame day in and day out, it was hard to think otherwise. He wanted to be mad, but only pity surfaced inside him. He wished that he could press his point further, but it didn't look as though reasoning would work.

The two stared at each other for several seconds, then Patrick stood up. He didn't want to stay in this place any longer. He walked to the door without looking at the man, opened it, and paused.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he said, and stepped outside without waiting for Mr. Vincent to respond.

*****

When Patrick had left for Mr. Vincent's house night was falling, and now the day had been reduced to a blood red strip above the trees. He had told his mother that he should be back before dinner, but it was undoubtedly finished and cleaned up by now. Fortunately he had had the foresight however to assure her that he would find a ride home from his "homework-related meeting".

Patrick walked through town and noticed that even at this early stage in the evening the number of cars had dwindled down to nothing. He wondered if this was due to recent events or if the majority of the town simply shared the "early to bed, early to rise" philosophy. There were only two cars parked outside of Sunset Market, and he would bet money that they were owned by employees who were either scared out of their wits or packing a loaded shotgun under their front seats. The darker part of Patrick hoped it was the latter.

Eventually the buildings turned back into houses and the road became more familiar. Patrick must have been walking very slowly, he thought, because by the time he reached the high school the sky was completely dark. Every light was off save for two street lamps, and not a single car was parked in the lot or along the street. He remembered how his old school had never been empty; there were always at least two nighttime custodians and one or two security guards to keep the place in ship-shape. Hillward High however was apparently too small to bother with any sort of security, and could probably be cleaned by a single janitor on a Saturday or Sunday.

Patrick was about to look away from the school and continue down the dark tunnel of trees and houses when he spotted something dark on the ground beside him. He stopped and kneeled to get a better look, but he couldn't identify the dark little circle that sat stark black against the white dust until he inhaled and tasted a tinge of copper in the back of his throat.

It was blood.

His heart began pumping and he looked around wildly, searching for any movement and almost expecting an attack. When the dark street proved to be wholly silent and still, he looked back to the blood. Several feet beyond it there appeared to be something else on the ground, though it may have simply been the shadow of a rock. He stepped around the spot and walked to it anyway, hoping deeply that it wasn't what it appeared to be.

_Bingo,_ he thought to himself, immediately wondering why he chose that particular word. The second bit of blood was more of a smear in the gravel, mashed into the ground as though it had been stepped on. Patrick saw that the splotches of blood were leading toward the grass, where he somehow hoped that the trail would be lost, but as his line of sight followed the trajectory across the lawn and up the steps to the hallway he saw that one of the double doors was slightly ajar. His heart beat even faster, and he found himself wishing that he had never looked down. He told himself that he was being a coward, just like Mr. Vincent, and it actually helped bolster his courage a little. Keeping the image of that sad husk of a man slumped in a recliner in mind, he crossed the grass and walked quietly up the steps.

One door was resting against the other, as though it had simply not shut all the way when the last person went through. Did they lock these at night? Maybe that was another protocol they failed to enforce in a town this small...

Patrick scanned the street to assure himself that no one was watching, then opened the door slowly, mindful of squeaking. It gave without a sound and he stepped into the dark hallway. There was just enough lamplight coming in through the high windows to see the vague outline of the L-shaped hall, the blurry faces of the lockers, the tall and threatening doors that gave way to classrooms by day, but led to strange other worlds of pitch black once the sun went down. Patrick couldn't see any more immediate signs of intrusion, and quickly began to consider how the blood had probably been left by a teacher with a nosebleed earlier in the day, and how the door had simply been left open by a negligent janitor after his or her shift, and how he was now majorly breaking the law.

Something compelled him further however, and he crept down the hall as silently as possible, as though at the slightest noise one of these doors would open and out would pop a raging dragon, angered by the disturbance of its slumber. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a strip of black to his left.

One of the doors was open.

Only a few inches of the darkness beyond was showing, but it was enough to give Patrick the distinct impression that he was wavering on the brink of an abyss. He had all but tossed the negligent janitor theory aside, and he knew that if he thought on it more he might end up turning back. So, feeling the all too familiar sensation that he was stepping into the mouth of a great beast, he pushed the door open slowly, the hinges creaking.

He smelled the blood before he saw a single thing.

The coppery taste in his throat was back, now fresh and bitter. He never knew that blood could stick to the air with such intensity. But there was another smell, too—one that he couldn't place. His eyes darted around the dark room and finally landed on the figure sitting against the wall in the far corner, half-obscured by desks.

The pale light of the moon shone on Dean's large face, casting his features into shadow and making them sharp and menacing. He sat holding his legs in his arms, his head hung low. Even during Patrick's entry he didn't look up.

Patrick stood and stared for several moments. Then, still fighting the urge to run home and forget that any of this had happened, he walked as slowly as he could deeper into the room, never taking his eye off the shadow in the corner. He reached the window and made it half way down the line of desks, and completely unsure as to why, sat down warily, half-expecting the guy to strike at any misstep. He crossed his legs and watched the huddled figure in the shadows, waiting for something, anything.

Dean's eyes were two glints of light in pools of darkness, completely unmoving. The shadows contorted any emotion that may have been on his face.

It was several moments before Patrick could work up the courage to speak.

"What are you doing here?" His words reverberated in the empty room.

Dean blinked, but still didn't move.

"What do you care? She's gone."

Patrick stared at him for another moment or so, waiting to see if he would say something else, but he didn't.

"Are you hurt?" Patrick asked. It sounded stupid coming out of his mouth, but it was all he could think to say.

Dean's eyes flicked up at him for an instant and fell back to the floor.

"Yeah, but a lot of other people are too, huh?"

Patrick watched as Dean lifted a huge hand and rubbed his eyebrow as if wiping something away, though there appeared to be nothing there. Afterward, Dean spoke again.

"It got out of control." His voice was almost a whisper; nothing like the invasive mental voice that had forced itself into Patrick's mind. "When it started, I was just having fun. I had this power, and I wanted to use it." He gave long pauses between his sentences. "I didn't know why I had it, but I didn't care. The whole town was mine... Every single person in this town is a lying, cheating, stealing idiot, and I thought I would send them all a message... I wanted them all to know fear... It was fun hurting them. I loved to hear their stupid screams, I loved to watch them try to crawl away from me. I felt so free. It was like I was God. I could make anyone in the whole town unhappy at a whim. No one was safe..." He shifted his legs and bent his head down to wipe his forehead on the back of his hand.

"I heard him opening his door as I was walking by. This old guy, his sprinklers were on, and he was stepping outside to turn them off. He was so stupid to go outside, just like every other moron I'd messed up. That was reason enough to do it. Someone so stupid didn't deserve to live happily. So I snuck up on him. He was turning off the faucets and they were squeaking so loud he didn't even hear me come up." He gave a small, humorless laugh. "It was great. Then he turned around and I gave him the scare of his life. I knocked him down and messed with him for a while. He screamed and screamed, and I just loved it..."

He paused for a long time now, and Patrick could only look at him stupidly with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. Dean swallowed and spoke again.

"...until he started crying." Dean's brow appeared to furrow, and his eyes grew even darker. "He didn't just scream, like the others had... He whimpered and cried like a baby, and he begged me to stop. And I did stop. I looked at him, and his face was so wet with tears and he was covered in blood. He was pitiful. He was totally helpless and begged me to stop hurting him. I didn't know what to think... I just watched him, crying and wriggling on the ground, and I could feel his blood dripping from my mouth. For a second I didn't know why I had been doing it...

"But before I could do anything else I heard a noise and I looked up and saw his wife standing on the steps. She was so small and frail, like he was, but she was holding a shotgun. I jumped backwards and she fired. It grazed my chest. It was so loud... I couldn't hear anything afterwards. I ran away, and she fired at me again, but she missed. I could feel blood on myself again, but this time it was mine. I was bleeding because I attacked an old man and his wife shot at me to save him. Because I attacked him as he went outside to turn off the sprinklers..."

He shook his head so slightly that it was hardly visible.

"I thought the whole town was under my control... but nothing was. I hate everyone in this town, and I'm used to being hated... But after standing over that old guy... It was just pathetic. _I_ was pathetic. I always thought I was becoming more and more wolf, but the wolf was just becoming less and less me... I don't want to kill anybody. I don't want to lose control of myself. If you can't control yourself, then you're no better than all the other blind idiots..."

Patrick considered this for a moment.

"If you had the choice, would you give it up?" he asked.

Dean took a moment to answer, as though the choice was difficult to make, or at least the answer was difficult to say.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Would you?"

Patrick found that it was indeed a difficult question. There was no physical pleasure he could imagine that was greater than that of slipping through the woods as his other self, basking in the array of incredible sensations. Dean and Mr. Vincent both had problems controlling their violent urges, but the fact of the matter was that Patrick didn't really have any. In fact, the longer he spent as a wolf the clearer and more controlled both worlds became. Was there a chance that he was simply different, and could possess this power without abusing it? If so, he certainly didn't want to give it up. But there was always the chance that he was wrong, and that his violent tendencies would simply come with time and maturity. Ultimately it was the image of the tired, frightened man in the recliner that swayed his decision.

"Yeah. And I think we can make it stop if we find the thing that took Rachel. You felt that way too, right? That's why you didn't want me snooping around."

Dean nodded his head. "I didn't know anything, but I felt like the more I knew, the closer it was to being taken away. It came so suddenly, why wouldn't it leave just the same?"

"So you don't know anything else about the crow or anything?"

Dean's face changed slightly, and he appeared to be considering the question.

"Yeah..." he said vaguely, as though the importance of the crow was only now coming to him. "I remember seeing the crow the first time I changed. I don't know what happened to it after that point, that night was too amazing."

Patrick felt a twinge of embarrassment as he remembered the panic and terror he had experienced on his very first night. He had been so scared that his mind fell apart after only a minute or so and he crawled back to his bed in a daze.

"It showed up every once in a while," Dean continued. "I saw it around, and it would just stare at me, but I ignored it. I even snapped at it a few times... I tried to push it out of my head as much as possible."

"I think that that crow was a person—either that, or it was helping a person—because when we were fighting, something went into Rachel. She changed... on the inside, though. You felt that too, right?"

Dean nodded.

"But before she changed," Patrick continued, "the crow grabbed that pendant off the body and took it over to her. I think whoever was dead in that coffin took Rachel's body. Do you remember what she said to me before she disappeared?"

"She thanked you."

"Right. I think we've been tricked, and now it doesn't need us anymore. So why can we still change? And whose body was it?"

"Why don't we go see?" Dean asked, finally looking up at Patrick. Some of the shadows left his face when he raised his head, but he still looked absolutely menacing in the moonlight.

"I don't know how, but it cleaned up when we left. I went back to the spot and everything was gone—the coffin, the hole, everything. And there isn't a single track or scuff in the dirt. You can't even tell that anyone had dug there."

"Then what can we do if we don't have a single trail to follow?"

It hit Patrick suddenly, as most good ideas tend to do. And like most good ideas, it came with an almost painful sense of " _why didn't I think of that before?_ " His hand went to his back pocket and he pulled out a long piece of green fabric. He held the scarf up for Dean to see.

"What's that?" Dean asked.

"A scarf," Patrick said, staring at it as if it were some magical artifact that had fallen unexpectedly into his possession. "Rachel gave it to me the day before it happened."

Dean scoffed—a sharp, contemptuous outtake of air—and looked out the window.

Patrick held the scarf up to his nose and breathed in deeply. It hadn't been in her hands for several days, but still smelled richly of every scent that identified her: her hand lotion, the candles she lit in her room, the plethora of different types of wood that dominated her house...

And he could barely imagine how it would smell through his other nose.

"We can use this to find her," he said. "Her mind may have changed, but her body should be mostly the same. As lame as it sounds, we can do it if we both work together." He paused. "Are you in?"

Dean stared out the window for several moments longer, then turned back to Patrick. By the look on his face it was honestly hard to tell what his answer would be. They stared into each others' eyes for a long moment, then Dean nodded his head with what appeared to be some effort.

"Good," Patrick said. "We can start tonight."

### Part Four

### ~

### The Woods

Chapter 20

It was well past dinner when Patrick got home, and probably a couple steps into "worry territory". His only hope was that the pretext of a study meeting with an adult—as opposed to a very long walk alone or with other irresponsible teenagers—was enough to assuage any fears his parents might have regarding his tardiness.

When he opened the door he found that all the lights in the house were off. A quick jolt of panic struck him as he imagined the possibility that he had spent more time with Mr. Vincent and Dean than he had realized and actually managed to stay out until his family had gone to bed. (This would certainly get him in a great deal of trouble now that his perfect track record had been marred.) After a moment of observation however he saw a centralized glow coming from the living room and heard swelling music along with many faint shouts. Whatever movie they were watching, he must have walked in on the quietest part, he thought spitefully, his heart now beating just a little too fast.

Patrick walked down the hall and into the living room, where his family was watching a movie he didn't recognize. Everyone craned their necks to verify his presence, and his father, remote ever at the ready like a revolver in a holster, paused the movie.

"Sorry I'm late," he said before anyone could speak. "I didn't mean to miss dinner, we just went a lot later than I thought. Sort of lost track of time."

"That's alright, Patrick," his mother said assuringly, though her slightly concerned expression and eyes that seemed to probe a tad too much were anything but assuring. "There are some leftovers in the fridge, on the top shelf."

"Thanks Mom," he said, and walked to the kitchen.

Patrick was beginning to realize that when depression or fear or even simple nervousness washed over him he was rarely hungry, but after regaining at least some small amount of confidence he was always left feeling like he could eat a small horse. He opened the fridge and located his meal. There was some sort of bean soup in a Pyrex container and an ear of corn in a plastic bag, but the real star of the meal was sitting on top of the soup, wrapped in tinfoil: a massive piece of tri tip steak, undoubtedly done medium-rare, as he had recently begun to prefer it. Patrick's mouth nearly watered at the smell of it, and he thought he would probably just end up eating it cold.

"So did you guys get a lot done?" his mother's voice came from behind him.

Patrick turned around, still holding the bundle of foil in his hands. The booming bass from the TV had masked her already slippered footsteps.

"Yeah, we spent a ton of time on it, he really helped me understand things a lot." Suddenly it occurred to him that spending such long amount of time alone at a teacher's house was undoubtedly peculiar, and he added, "I think he really helped all of us."

"How did you get home?" It looked as though she might have been trying to ask casually, but it didn't come out that way. It was her face, Patrick decided; there were too many lines in her forehead for it to have been casual.

"Mr. Vincent drove me. He dropped me off at the top of the driveway."

There was a long and very uncomfortable moment where they only stared at each other. His mother looked at him expectantly, either thinking of a way to suggest that he might be lying or attempting to communicate it with her silence. Either way, it was hard to look at her, and judging by the way she kept wringing her hands at her sides she was having a difficult time as well.

"I swear Mr. Vincent dropped me off," Patrick said, adding a fake touch of pain to his voice that made him feel positively nasty. "You can call him if you want."

His mother looked at him for a moment longer, then her face relaxed into an expression that was both ashamed and warm.

"Of course I believe you, Patrick," she said, and her posture seemed to relax as well. Her shoulders drooped a little and she leaned on the kitchen table. "Have him drop you at the front door next time." She forced a smile. "Bring your food in there, if you want. We're not too far into the movie."

Patrick returned her smile as best as he could.

"I think I'll just go to bed after this," he said. "Haven't been sleeping too well recently."

"Okay," his mother said. She smiled again, though the worry or guilt or whatever mix of the two was still in her eyes. She turned and walked back into the living room.

Patrick wasn't sure which made him feel worse: the fact that she had doubted his story, or the fact that she had ultimately believed him.

The knowledge that he would be indulging in a long "walk" tonight didn't help either.

*****

When one o'clock rolled around and every bedroom had fallen silent, Patrick snuck downstairs as slowly and quietly as humanly possible. The whole process took him at least five minutes, as he decided not to take even the tiniest risk of his door knob making the slightest noise as he turned it open and shut, or a board creaking as he descended the stairs, step by agonizing step. He reached the front door and put on his shoes, still hardly daring to breath despite now being an entire floor away from his family.

His perfect stealth was fueled by the consequences that would surely come from being caught: apart from getting in more trouble than he had ever even fathomed (he had popped the clean, untouched bubble of perfect behavior and was now a potential target for the newly oiled and broken-in Discipline Machine), he doubted that his parents would ever be able to trust him again. Though his suspicious behavior was occasionally the cause of some stress (such as earlier, in the kitchen), the disconnection between them had begun to mend. But Patrick didn't think it could withstand another blow.

The front door didn't threaten to rattle if opened too quickly as did the back one, but he didn't take any chances and opened it perhaps even slower that he had his bedroom door. When it was finally shut behind him he tiptoed down the steps and jogged lightly across the gravel. None of the upstairs rooms had windows that opened to the front yard, so Patrick ran freely to the road, the only danger now being insomniac neighbors who happened to be looking out of their windows at this very moment—a concept which he found pretty unlikely. Out of sight of the house he was finally able to relax a little.

He had arranged several pillows under his blankets to make it appear as though the bed were occupied. It was an old trick, but he found that it looked quite convincing nonetheless. It wasn't likely that one of his parents would make a special trip down the hall simply to peek into his room unless he had somehow been heard leaving, which he was all but certain was impossible given his excruciating care. And even if pigs flew and someone _did_ find the need to physically enter his room to verify his presence, there was no chance that they would see a body-shaped lump under the blankets and immediately assume it must be some sort of dummy, stomping over and yanking off the covers like an angry warden in a prison break movie.

Patrick reached the road and the searing yellow light of the streetlamp fell over him, making him feel vulnerable. He hurried to the right side of the street where it wasn't quite as bright and walked briskly toward the school. All the landmarks were the same, but nighttime offered an odd parallel: the sky was almost black, nearly erasing the outline of the trees, and so many details that were normally perfectly clear and friendly were now bathed in shadow, plain black sheets of obscurity covering the whole world around him. Walking to school at night felt so out of place—wrong somehow, like it could only be happening in a dream.

All the while Patrick strained his ear for any approaching cars. Both Animal Control and the police would undoubtedly be on the prowl tonight, so he would have to be extra careful. An unconscious or dead wolf transforming into a sixteen year old boy would raise some very odd questions, Patrick thought.

When he reached the school he couldn't spot Dean anywhere. Just as he began to wonder if the guy had backed out he saw the vague shape of a massive animal sitting in the shadow of the marquise. He had expected to find a wolf here, but the menacing image was still incredibly unsettling, and his insides jumped slightly at the sight.

Patrick jogged over to the marquise, which read, " _OCTOBER 14 TEACHER CONFERENCE,_ " and on another line, " _STAY SAFE NEVER WALK ALONE._ " Dean looked at him calmly and made no effort to move.

Patrick reached into his back pocket and took out the scarf. Its green color wasn't quite as vibrant in the muddy light of the streetlamps, but the distinct smell was certainly still intact.

"Alright," Patrick said, unsure of what else he might say and feeling a little silly for it, "let's do this."

*****

They decided that the woods surrounding town were relatively vast and would take an incredibly long amount of time to comb through, so they opted to search the town itself first and get it out of the way. They were aware that this was incredibly dangerous, but it simply had to be done. Especially after the evidence that Rachel's "captor" had returned to the woods behind Patrick's house at least once to clean up unfinished business.

The two of them spent several nights searching every nook and cranny of the town, Patrick learning its layout in the process. He held the scent of the scarf in his memory, waiting to catch the tiniest whiff of it on a tree trunk, or a mailbox, or in some dark alley.

Patrick doubted that the thing inside Rachel's body would risk being seen after her disappearance, but surely there had to be a trail _somewhere_. It had vanished in a gust of wind, sure, but it couldn't just teleport out of the town completely without the tiniest interaction with something physical... Could it? Patrick didn't know, but he knew he wouldn't be comfortable until they covered every bit of ground possible.

The two of them didn't search nearly as thoroughly as Patrick had searched to uncover the crow's mystery (doing so would have simply taken years), and as such they felt that they had covered the majority of the town after only a few days. Patrick was glad, too; hanging around a town full of people who would love to see you dead was proving just as dangerous as they had expected. Some nights it felt like there were cop cars around every corner, and though they were easy enough to hear and avoid, their presence was unsettling. On top of the cops they had seen people parked in cars in seemingly random areas of town, lying low in their cabs or truck beds like snipers in some weird war. "Probably just stupid hicks who jumped at the chance to shoot something like us," Dean had said. At a distance it was hard to tell if they were toting tranquilizer guns or normal ones, but given the circumstances it was becoming harder and harder to believe that _anyone_ would still want to handle such a wild and ravenous wolf humanely.

Patrick had for some reason avoided the open grounds of the high school for as long as he could, but finally decided one night that he had put it off too many times. As he trotted between the dark buildings toward the school's single big green field (which was always lit by enormous overhead lamps, the types of which he was surprised the school could afford), something Dean had said on the first night kept running through his head.

Patrick had changed and the two of them were getting ready to split up when Dean looked at him and spoke directly into his mind, in that way that was so natural yet so invasive.

" _Remember,_ " he said, " _I'm not doing this for your girlfriend. I'm doing it for_ me _. I'm doing it because of that_ thing _._ "

For what seemed to be no reason at all the memory played itself again and again as Patrick snuffled around toward the field. He wondered if what Dean had said was true or if he had just been acting tough.

Patrick slid through the dark space between the biology classroom and the supply shed and surveyed the brightly lit field. Sheer white light poured out over the green grass and illuminated the bleachers.

His heart quickened when he saw a black shape out in the middle of the field.

It was hard to tell exactly what it was, but it had the unmistakable look of a human slumped onto the ground. Either that or some black animal. It wasn't moving.

Patrick studied the perimeter of the field closely, looking for any odd shapes that might be "snipers". (The thought of snipers in the case of a dangerous wild animal seemed ludicrous to him, but he supposed that it had gotten genuinely serious to such a point that they were necessary.) An enormous circle of light was really the last place he wanted to be under these circumstances, but it didn't seem a likely place for him to show up, and thus he doubted anyone would take the time to stake the place out. He couldn't see anything in the bleachers or along the fence or even in the shadows of the commentator's box (which he was pretty sure hadn't been used in years, judging by the state it was in). There were no signs of people at all, and so far the rifle-toting residents of the town hadn't been very subtle in their hiding places. (They probably hadn't been counting on a wolf with a human consciousness, had they?)

His heart beating a little faster, he pushed himself into the light and headed toward the figure lying in the middle of the field. Venturing outside of the woods had been difficult enough—it still felt a little like those dreams where you somehow wind up at school wearing only your underwear—but walking into this bubble of bright daylight in a sea of darkness was more than a little unsettling. So he trotted quickly, trying his hardest to brush off the irrational feeling that he was being watched. As he drew closer to the black thing he walked faster and faster until he was jogging, then practically running. When he finally closed the last few steps and slowed to a complete stop, the figure's identity revealed itself to him.

A garbage bag. By the looks of it, filled with beer cans.

The tenseness melted out of him in that way that leaves your heart still racing and your muscles feeling twitchy. He gave an inward sigh and turned around. He was relaxing his shoulders when he caught a glint of movement up in the commentator's box.

There was a short yet very horrible instant when he wondered if his oversight would leave him dead or dying in the next second, but the thought was quickly overridden by the realization that the only thing that mattered at the moment was that he moved.

Patrick darted to his right and started running as fast as he could. There was a second when he thought he might actually be running from a nighttime illusion, but that theory was thoroughly debunked when the crack of a gunshot rang in his ears and threatened to split his brain in half. His heart began to pound and panic clutched at his chest, and he tore across the field and toward the parking lot with every ounce of speed he could manage. When he was just about to pass the bleachers and exit the field, along with the line of sight of the sniper, a cop car whipped around the corner and barreled into the lot, its flashers spraying colored light in every direction like a sprinkler and its headlights glaring at him savagely. Patrick didn't need to see the gun poking out of the passenger's side window before he decided to alter course.

He veered to the left on impulse and nearly ran into a metal beam. He weaved around it and dove under the bleachers, running through the shadows and the food wrappers alike. Another loud crack split the air, though in his panic he couldn't tell which direction it had come from. He came out the other side of the bleachers and left the grass, now darting across the pavement of the outdoor basketball court.

There was a dim yellow light on the side of each building, and it was difficult for Patrick to stick to the shadows while running at full speed. He began to cross the open quad when he heard another gunshot. This one came from somewhere on the other side of the school, and before he could slow his mind enough to consider where he was planning on going, Dean burst from out of the darkness, heading straight for him.

He was hardly a blurry shape moving in the dirty light, but the thought he impressed on Patrick's mind was clear:

" _OTHER WAY._ "

Patrick came to a skidding halt as Dean passed him, and without another thought followed the huge wolf into the shadows of the uniform buildings. Dean led him between two classrooms then up a sloped walkway with long buildings on either side, dotted with doors every twenty feet or so. At the top they turned left and crossed once again onto the field.

" _SNIPERS ON THE FIELD,_ " Patrick shouted mentally.

The voice in his mind responded immediately, " _FRONT BLOCKED OFF._ " A pause, then, " _GATE AHEAD._ "

In the glare of the stadium lights Patrick could see it: a break in the fence at the far end of the field—a little swinging door held by a thick chain that was for some bizarre reason long enough for practically anyone to fit through.

Another crack rang through the night and Patrick felt like he was losing his mind, running frantically across this field, expecting the sting of a bullet at any moment, the ground and death coming up to meet him in one quick instant.

When they were halfway across the field two words shot into his mind:

" _VEER LEFT._ " They were so loud and clear that they almost moved his body of their own power. He dug his paws into the dirt and redirected his momentum to the left in a heaving motion. Immediately after breaking stride with Dean there were several ear-splitting reports from behind. Suddenly very aware of how close he had just come to being hit and not wanting to keep in a straight line he opted to veer again, now heading back to his original destination. He could see that Dean had done the same and the two of them were once again converging onto the same path. There was one more terrible moment when Patrick could almost feel the guns trained on him, feel the searing bites of the bullets that would pepper his back at any second. Death was closing in fast and all he could do was pump his legs, praying to God that his screaming muscles would bear him the last few yards to that little opening in the gate.

Dean reached the gate first and shot through, followed closely by Patrick. The immediate threat of being shot was now gone, but the panic hardly lessened. Dean continued to run and Patrick followed obediently, certain that the guy still knew the layout of the town much better than he did.

The two of them headed up a dark alley and emerged into a small shopping center. It was immediately clear that there was at least one sniper lying in the bed of a truck parked off to the left, though when they turned and darted into the darkness of yet another pair of buildings it seemed that whoever it was had apparently lost his nerve or fallen asleep.

They emerged this time in a neighborhood, lit by only a single streetlamp and sufficiently filled with shadow. They ran down the street toward the trees at the end of the cul-de-sac, but when they were halfway there a car at the end clicked on its high beams, drenching them in piercing white light. Dean twisted suddenly to the left and crossed the street. Patrick, hardly able to see the vague shape in front of him for the blinding light in his eyes, followed what he hoped was the right path. When they left the beam Patrick could see that it had been a cop car, and there was at least one gun protruding from its windows, as he had of course expected. The next second the two of them were running in the narrow space between two fences (the existence of which, in a neighborhood consisting primarily of shared fence lines, Patrick owed exclusively to blind luck).

They exited the dark passage and were finally met by the woods. The trees swallowed them and the world went black, but Dean kept running and Patrick was in no mood to stop. There were houses here and there, but all of them were completely silent and without light. They ran a seemingly random course through the trees, the adrenaline in Patrick's body wearing off and his lungs becoming more and more reluctant to draw breath.

Just when Patrick thought his legs might give out at any moment, Dean slowed down. The two of them came to a stop in front of a house so dark and ancient-looking that it might have been abandoned. They panted with their heads hung low, and Patrick felt like he might never take a decent breath again. His lungs burned and it was all he could do to keep himself from falling over.

Patrick looked over Dean to the porch of the decrepit old house that stood in the center of the clearing. It was even blacker than the trees, sheltered even from the scant light of the moon, and he could just barely make out some patio furniture and a railing on its porch. His heart was still hammering and the shapes seemed to blur and swim in his vision, but he almost thought there was something lumped into one of the chairs...

That was when a single point of light bloomed in the darkness.

The fur on his back began to crawl as he smelled the harsh stink of smoke and saw a glint of light, as if on some shiny surface.

" _MOVE!_ " Patrick screamed with his mind, heaving his body forward once more and nearly knocking Dean over in the process. No sooner did the two of them start moving again than the crack of a gun rang through the trees, assaulting Patrick's already ringing ears. It was so loud that at first he couldn't hear anything at all and wondered whether Dean had been hit, but after another second he could hear the wolf's footsteps pumping beside his.

The two of them ran for another several minutes until all they could see in any direction was trees. They stopped and Patrick immediately fell to the ground, holding his chest. He looked down and could see the faint outline of his hand clutching at his shirt as he gasped and struggled to fill his lungs with air. He had barely even noticed changing.

When Dean stopped he merely sat down, remaining in his wolf form. He panted heavily and saliva dripped from his open mouth, but he didn't seem to be nearly as winded as Patrick. He may have been imagining it, but Patrick thought he could sense a huge amount of anger—actually _sense_ it—coming off of the hulking wolf.

After a few moments Dean gave something between a grunt and a growl and walked off into the woods.

Patrick wanted to know where he was going, or what they should do next, but it was several minutes before he could breath comfortably, much less stand up.

*****

"I'm telling you, Patrick, you must have been _out_." His father reached to the center of the table and hefted a scoop of spaghetti onto his plate. "There must have been a dozen gunshots in the course of five minutes."

Patrick tried to smile, but couldn't seem to get his mouth to move. He got the same result whenever he tried to take a bite of his food.

"It was crazy," his father continued excitedly, "I'll bet the whole neighborhood woke up."

Up until tonight Patrick's parents had been allowing him to take his dinner up to his room (at least on the rare occasions that he felt like eating anything). But this time when he got home and tried to sneak upstairs his mother had stopped him and asked if he could join them tonight. He wanted nothing more than to grab a few extra hours of rest, but he went without a fight; he figured it meant a lot to her if it were important enough to ask. And in some small way he thought that maybe he owed it to them; all he ever did anymore was sulk in his room, and in the words of his mother " _sleep an abnormal amount_ ".

Patrick grimaced inwardly at his father's overreaction to his " _very deep sleep_ ," which was an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. He had apparently poked his head into his son's room just to " _see if_ _it had woken him up too,_ " and was surprised to see the lump on the bed completely unmoving.

"Boy, I just about poked you to see if you were still alive!"

At that, a wave of unease washed over Patrick, and when considering how shoddy his "perfect insurance" had actually been, he felt much like he had the previous night after hearing a gunshot and considering how the bullet could have just as easily hit its mark. He needed to be more careful; the thought of how close he had come to either dying or being grounded for eternity filled him with a certain dread, very much like nausea. In fact, he was quite certain that the remainder of his spaghetti would go uneaten, at least for the time being (no one could ever say just how hungry his father would be at the start of each meal).

And on top of everything he was bone-tired, his muscles aching from both the chase the night before and the overall lack of sleep that had been steadily gaining on him. He had been following a regime in which he went to bed as early as possible, searched with Dean around one o'clock, and got in a few more hours of shuteye before the sun came up. He could only last so long on such a schedule, however; failing to procure the first segment of sleep due to a simple inability to shut off his frazzled mind was all too easy, considering his recent experiences. And once he finally got to sleep somewhere around four or five o'clock in the morning it was nearly impossible to pull himself out of bed when the alarm went off so soon after. The lack of sleep left his muscles unable to repair themselves, and simple acts such as climbing the stairs or walking to school were becoming increasingly difficult. As a wolf things were generally easier physically, but even such a perfect, energy-efficient animal had its limits.

Patrick put his elbow on the table and rubbed his temple. A dull ache was forming there.

He wouldn't be searching tonight.

After dinner Patrick lugged himself upstairs. He tried to sleep, but despite the weariness in his body that was so deep it was painful, it was the classic case of Train Brain; his thought process was traveling a mile-a-minute and he would give anything for it to only slow down long enough for him to jump off.

When he couldn't manage to shut off the flow of thoughts and fears even after five, ten, fifteen minutes, he sat up in his bed and looked outside. His family had eaten a relatively early dinner; there was still plenty of daylight left. The thought of going for a walk wasn't a very pleasant one, but it was better than lying in bed and going mad, and certainly better than going downstairs and acting awkward and guilty around his family.

_Just a little more physical exhaustion should do the trick,_ he thought dryly.

Despite the screaming protest of his legs, he got out of bed and went downstairs. He found his father in the dining room, reading an electronics magazine at the table which had now been cleared of food. He looked up as Patrick entered the room.

"Hey, Pat," he said almost suspiciously, obviously not used to seeing his son at all after dinner. "What'cha up to?"

"Can I go for a quick walk?" Patrick asked quietly, hoping that his mother wasn't close enough to hear his request and issue her own concern. "I really need to clear my head. I promise I'll be back before the sun goes down." Speaking to one of his parents without lying or withholding information was a refreshing change of pace, and that fact in itself was a little depressing.

His father took a second to consider, then said, "Isn't it dangerous to walk anywhere alone?"

"Only at night," Patrick insisted in a way that might have been a little too defensive. He attempted to make his voice more casual: "All the attacks have been at night. I don't think it ever comes out during the day."

His father lowered his magazine and considered this for an uncharacteristically long moment, looking at Patrick in a way that was oddly probing for the man who had thought the name "Aralaysia" sounded like a farting disease.

Finally, he said, "Alright, as long as you stay in town, never out of sight of people."

"I will, I promise."

And there was the lie.

_That's more like it,_ he thought.

*****

Patrick had immediately dismissed the idea of visiting the deserted playground, but he found himself drifting into town, behind Sunset Market, and up the sloping road into the trees regardless.

It was late in the day and the sun was well on its way down to the mountains, but Patrick figured he had at least an hour before it would be dark enough to warrant heading home.

It was just as barren and quiet as before; the old building still stood dark and untouched and the playground equipment sat about the scattered, dirty woodchips, as lonely and childless as ever. Patrick stepped over the little wooden divider and plopped himself down on the swing he had used the other day.

For several minutes he sat, the train still chugging along, its cargo consisting of uncertainties and questions, with not a single answer or bit of comfort to be found in its holds. Image after image flashed across his mind and he closed his eyes in an attempt to shut them out: a flurry of leaves, Dean's teeth digging into the flesh on his neck, a wolf staring up at him from outside his window, Mr. Vincent's tired face, a sharp point of light followed by a glint off the barrel of a gun, Rachel sitting beside him on the swing, smiling softly—and suddenly every fiber of his being cried for this image to be true, for his eyes to open and see that it wasn't a product of his mind after all, that it was real, that Rachel was right there on the other swing as she had been that magical day...

Patrick opened his eyes.

"Hello," Rachel said softly.

Chapter 21

Rachel's face was touched with the faintest smile, and she clutched at the chains of the swing with her small hands. She was regarding Patrick with eyes that were friendly and welcoming.

But it wasn't Rachel at all, Patrick thought. In the same way he had sensed it in the woods he knew that the girl sitting next to him was someone else. Someone who didn't belong.

He only stared in shock for several moments, and the thing inside of Rachel waited patiently for him to speak.

"Who are you?" he asked when he could find the nerve to do so.

It considered this for moment, then said, "I am one, and I am many, as is so with every creature." It paused, looking out at the trees. "There was a time when my mother called me Grace, though when I broke my earthly ties I took my true name: Ramildienne. It was what the wind called me..."

Patrick didn't know what to do or say. There was a moment when he wondered if he might be in immediate danger, but he ultimately decided that he couldn't care less at the moment. He could only stare into the eyes of the friend he once knew, baffled as to how they could be right in front of his own and yet so far away. His heartbeat was incredibly heavy and fast, and he thought that if life was possible after this most bizarre and horrible dream he might have a massive coronary.

"Why are you here?" His voice sounded so sad and quiet in his ears.

Ramildienne looked back at him through Rachel's bright eyes, then again to the trees. She gave a sigh through her nose, then began talking.

"I understand that I have taken something from you. It is because of you that I am here now, so I owe it to you at least to explain myself." She paused for what felt like minutes, gazing up at all the leaves that were just beginning to turn yellow, considering. (She couldn't seem to take her eyes off the trees, Patrick noticed.) Then she continued.

"They called me a witch... Although I suppose it is only natural to use such a name, when it is all you know. I never had a name for what I was, for like every living person I am merely a child of the Earth. But I could do things that the others did not like. This was back before there was even a town here, of course. Just a small village..." She paused again, and her brow furrowed slightly in the grip of memory.

"They were gifts available to all of the Earth's children, but they frightened the people of the village. They called me a witch and on a particularly sunny day they decided it would be best just to put an end to me. It took more than a handful of men to bring me down, and let's just say that a good few of them didn't survive the struggle. In the end they were only able to accomplish their goal because of this." She looked down and held the pendant in her hand.

Observing the pendant up close, Patrick could see that there was something very unusual about it. At a glance the red stone on the end of the darkened metal chain appeared to have simply been polished in a rock tumbler, no different than a shiny piece of river rock found in a gift shop. But now the red color seemed exactly that of fresh blood, and what had appeared to be a reflection of the sky now looked almost like a glow from within. It wasn't perfectly round, but it was very smooth, and Patrick doubted that the rock tumbler had yet to be invented in whatever era Ramildienne was referring to. But above all things, it was the _feeling_ he got from the stone that made it stand out the most. He thought he must be crazy, but the mere sight of it sent a wave of unease over his whole body.

"You are wondering what this is," Ramildienne said, as more of a statement than a question. "This, perhaps, apart from changing into a crow at my will, was what bothered the fair townsfolk the most. It is a deep sort of magic—if you will call it that—that saw this into my hands... Within this stone lies a part of my soul. Placing a piece of myself into this strengthened me, for as long as the stone was mine, I could never truly die, and I could forever do great works of the Earth."

She regarded Patrick curiously as he examined the stone from his swing. After she stopped talking he found that he couldn't stand to see it any longer. He looked away quite purposefully, and saw her drop it back onto her chest before continuing.

"But in the final struggle someone took this from me. And that, in the end, is what drew away my strength." She glanced at him. "You see, there is a very deep magic at work in this world, and it is that of ownership. When I put myself into this stone, it became as much a part of me as my head or my legs or my heart. My body was intact, but the very moment that man pulled it off of my head it was no longer in my possession. And not being in my possession, its power was taken from me and I became weak. This is how they managed to tie me up..." Her face suddenly grew dark, though her voice remained decidedly light.

"It was so long ago, though the memory is still fresh in my mind. I hung there from the stake, above the heads of every jeering villager, utterly unable to defend myself. The men gathered up straw and timber and placed it around me. Many of them took straight from their personal holds, apparently eager to donate to the forthcoming flame that would have them finally rid of me. And as such, the wood and bales of hay were all perfectly dry; I could smell it. They wanted to make absolutely certain I didn't die of suffocation from the smoke before I roasted before their very eyes, like a pig..." She paused and heaved a great sigh, her face becoming somewhat resigned.

"They lit their unnecessarily large pile, and the flames went up, and as I felt the life draining out of me I found one last bit of strength. A crow had come to watch from a nearby tree. I was able to use what was left inside of me to put myself into its body. I had spent much time as a crow, so naturally it was an easy mind to commandeer. I watched as the flames took what was left of my body and the people cheered. They were so happy to be rid of me, when all I did was use my gifts—the same gifts they could have had themselves had they only wished to open their minds... I laughed in my heart when they found that no matter how high they piled the wood they couldn't reduce my body to ashes. It burned on the outside, but a body it remained. That much power was left in it, at least. After they had finally given up on the fire no one dared touch me, using long ropes and stakes to get me into a casket. They decided that if they couldn't send my ashes into the air they would bury me under their feet.

"I laughed again when they tried to destroy the stone. They had thrown it into the fire to burn with me, but someone came across it in the ash while cleaning up. It was completely untouched. A few had a go at it—casting it under the wheel of a carriage, smashing it with a sledgehammer, shooting it with a rifle, even... But when they found that not even a scratch appeared on its surface they threw it in the casket with my body.

"I didn't laugh however when they lowered that wretched box into the ground and there was not a thing that could be done about it. They buried it in the woods, far enough from the village that no one would pass that way willingly. But it seemed I stuck around for too long, because soon after someone suggested having every crow in the area killed on sight; and as you can guess, the rest of them were more than happy to oblige. A good many animals died after that, but I got away, and traveled as far as I could from the village...

"But it turned out that that was not very far at all. For you see, I couldn't seem to get myself to leave the place where my body perished. I was always drawn back, back to the place in the woods where the stone was buried. There was nothing for me to do, of course, as no amount of furious pecking could unearth something so large, as you can imagine."

She laughed and looked to Patrick, as though to see if he could understand or relate.

His face didn't move. He had decided that yes, this was a nightmare.

She looked away again and continued.

"Over time a true town was planted here, and civilization grew around me. And after so many years of sorrow and loathing there were long periods of time that I can't even remember... I only wandered, apparently just... being a bird, I suppose."

This feeling she described was something Patrick _could_ relate to, though he didn't say as much.

"The town grew, but somehow this little patch of woods remained untouched. It was the oddest thing; it didn't appear as though anyone was making the conscious decision to avoid it, but decade after decade passed and these trees were left floating like an island. Apart from the occasional harvesting of firewood, so few people ever even passed through them..." She trailed off, appearing to consider this with some wonder.

Though he knew the answer must be coming soon, Patrick used the brief silence to ask the question that burned inside him.

"Why can I turn into a wolf?"

Ramildienne smiled a strange little smile and looked around at the playground equipment blankly.

"As the town grew and my small island of woods remained untouched," she continued as though Patrick hadn't said anything at all, "I somehow lost track of the exact spot where I had been buried. I suppose I can owe this to the long periods of haze that often overcame me. But one day someone did venture into the trees. It must have been a hundred and fifty years ago, though maybe more and maybe less... It is very hard to keep track of such things after a while. Something was different about this man. He did not simply pass through as some were known to do; he lingered. Somehow the act of venturing into the woods of his own accord and staying for a prolonged period of time spoke about him. There was something deep inside that I couldn't quite place... The man saw me staring and as he looked to me I found myself trying to speak with him. I could communicate thoughts to other crows—I _always_ could, in fact—but I doubted that I could make such a connection with a human in my current state. Yet for some reason I reached for him, and even though I was without my stone and thus without my true power, I found that I could tell him about the gifts of the Earth. I cannot quite explain how, for it seems that I have trouble understanding it myself... but I planted something in him, opened up his mind, and he changed. Needless to say I was soon forgotten by him, though I thought that surely if I could tell him I needed help he might try to look for my body. I could not communicate this to him clearly however, and he was immediately engulfed in his new power."

She paused again, and Patrick took the opportunity to ask another question that he sensed would soon be answered anyway. He felt that if he didn't speak on occasion he would go insane, lost in the world of this woman's memories.

"What happened to him?"

A grim look passed over Rachel's face for a moment.

"He died. It seemed he couldn't handle the power of turning into a creature of the woods and savagery soon overtook him. He was shot a few weeks later."

At this, Patrick suddenly wanted to kill her. She had apparently given him this power knowing full well what might happen, and now he wanted to lash out at her, scream at her, tell her that she was evil, but he couldn't get himself to move. She still had so much information he needed.

And she had powers that frightened Patrick more than any unseen terror he had ever experienced.

"I gave this gift to many, in hopes that they might help me," she continued (a fresh surge of anger passing through Patrick at her use of the word "gift"). "I'm not sure why such a power drove so many mad, though I suppose it was simply a matter of character. Their primal minds reflected their human ones, and their newfound strength proved too much a temptation to abuse. Not all died by others' hands, it's true. But they did die...

"But over the last several years I found three that were somehow different. First, the older gentleman. I sensed a courage in him that was uncommon—determination, yet also an unusual gentleness of heart. When I gave him the gift he succumbed to the same sort of behavior that ended the others' lives... yet after a while he began to exhibit more control than they had. For a time I was hopeful! It was very disappointing however when his courage finally failed him, and instead of overcoming these feelings or ending in madness and gunpowder he merely retreated to live out his years in darkness. It seemed that my assessment of his courage had been rather wrong indeed.

"From the large boy I sensed an immense strength. He did not falter in his actions or his beliefs, and seemed to have a reserve as hard as the stone around my neck. But in the end there was indeed a fear inside him, and instead of letting the animal part of his mind overtake him as I feared it might, he was the first to ever embrace it. Again, he didn't lose his mind to his primal side; he chose instead to live his life as a terror. As such, I could not communicate with him no matter how much I tried. He had turned out to be strong indeed, though the thought of using his strength for the purposes of something good never crossed his mind at all."

She looked at Patrick with eyes that were warm, though the light behind them was somehow cold as ice.

"Which brings us to you. What is your name, boy?"

Patrick looked into those eyes and didn't speak. He didn't know if there was any power in a name, but he suddenly felt the very strong conviction to keep his to himself. She didn't deserve to have it, just as she didn't deserve to be sitting next to him now.

When it was obvious that he wouldn't be giving it to her, she turned away again.

"I felt something in you that was different still. It was as though you held the courage that the older gentleman could not bring to the surface, and the strength that the large boy could not manage."

It was strange to hear this, as Patrick didn't quite feel the same way about himself.

"I normally wouldn't give the gift to someone while two others also shared it—in fact, each individual opportunity normally only arose once every several years—but I couldn't seem to help myself. I couldn't place it, but you were more different than different. There was a determination inside of you. A power that you had before I even gave you the one you now hold. Even if you didn't realize it yet."

She looked at him again and smiled. "And it seems that this time, I was right... Are you certain that you won't give me your name?"

Patrick looked into those eyes for another long moment. He didn't move a single muscle, for hate and for fear.

Ramildienne broke the silence once more and said, "Alright. I will learn in time. I can almost feel it, somewhere within this brain. When I look into your face it comes so close to my mind that I can almost reach out and grab it."

At those words, something broke inside Patrick's mind.

"Give her back," he said quietly. His voice was almost a croak, but there was more malice in those words than he even knew he was capable of. For a moment his fear was lost, and instead of a dangerous creature full of dark power sitting on the swing beside him he saw a grotesque, sniveling monster, holding the most important person in the world in its claws.

Ramildienne didn't respond. She only looked at him, as if waiting for him to say more.

"Give her back," he said, louder and more clearly.

"I have worked far too long to get this body, child," she said calmly. "I am afraid that I have too many works to accomplish on this Earth to give it back."

Patrick's mouth had loosened.

"You haven't done any work at all!" he shot at her. "You had others do it for you, and it cost them their lives. How many people have to die before your 'works' can no longer be justified? How many lives is your _one_ life worth? If you were a true servant of the Earth, you would know that no one of its children is worth more than another."

Patrick wasn't quite sure where this last thought came from, but it apparently struck a little too close to home. Ramildienne's face grew dark.

"I am one of the few to ever truly touch this Earth—to tap into its deeper powers and discover its secrets. I assure you that my heart weeps for those who have been lost, but I simply must go on with my study. I have discovered so much that to turn back now would be madness."

"If ownership is so important, how can you justify taking the body of an innocent girl?"

"Because it was simply something that had to be done. In the grand story that is our world, when all of us join back into the stream that is Life, she will thank me."

Patrick was seething. His hands clenched at his legs in an attempt to stop himself from jumping out of his seat. He wanted to act, _had_ to act, but there was nothing to be done.

"Give her back _now_ ," he growled.

Ramildienne seemed to read his thoughts.

"Or you will do what, my dear boy? I'm afraid that as long as I have this body there is nothing you can do to harm me. Even if you were powerful enough, you simply would not be able to do it. This girl meant a great deal to you, I can feel that."

Patrick's body was hot all over, and he felt a rage that was so intense it was painful. He squeezed his legs even harder, until his fingers began to ache.

"You _are_ a witch."

Ramildienne looked at him solemnly through stolen eyes.

"I thank you deeply for what you have done. It is the only reason I have taken the time to come here and tell you all of this. I felt that you deserved it. You should consider yourself fortunate."

Patrick's eyes flitted to the stone around Rachel's neck, then back to her eyes.

She smiled, but the look on her face was more a sort of regretful pity.

Patrick's hand dashed to the stone with a speed that felt inhuman.

His hand closed around dry leaves, a flurry of which fell onto the swings and to the ground in a swirling gust. He clutched the leaves in his hand for a long moment, then let the crumbled remains flutter to the ground with the others.

Patrick sat on the swing until the sun touched the mountains, weeping into his hands.

Chapter 22

Patrick wished that he had announced his presence before trudging quietly up to his room, because not doing so apparently gave his father permission to come up and see him under the pretense of "checking in".

He was lying in bed, trying hard to push every thought from his mind and even harder to hold back the flow of tears, when there was a knock on his door.

"Patrick?" his father called from the other side.

Patrick imagined that his eyes were probably puffy and red, and it would be very obvious what he had done on his walk. He knew he should be comfortable with his father knowing, but a nagging and undoubtedly teenaged thought tried to convince him that it was shameful and embarrassing.

Without another option, he called, "Yeah, Dad?"

His father opened the door and poked his head through.

"Just making sure you got home okay," he said innocently. "Didn't want you to be stranded somewhere without a ride."

Patrick managed a smile, but only in the literal sense of raising his cheeks in that specific manner, as there wasn't even an ounce of sincerity in it.

"Thanks, Dad." He tried not to look directly at his father and attempted to obscure his red eyes and haggard face by scratching at his forehead, covering the puffiness as best he could with his arm. (The puffiness that had undoubtedly been made worse by his great effort to cleanly wipe away every single tear, he thought bitterly.)

His father opened the door fully and stepped into the room. Patrick wanted so badly for him to just leave, though he could never say so.

Six days had passed since Rachel had gone missing, and though they hadn't found her body anywhere around town yet, the hope that she was still alive was diminishing. As far as his parents were concerned, his worry about her safety was now turning into mourning of her death. In ways, he thought, that would be better. He would be able to let go of her memory and move on with his life, as her father would undoubtedly have to do as well. But this... This was torture. Every day the lingering hope that he may be able to help her grew smaller and smaller, and surely a crushing loss couldn't compare to an ongoing helplessness—knowing exactly what had happened to her and who had done it and not having the tiniest bit of power to reverse it. That was, of course, unless you _were_ Dave, in which case Patrick couldn't think of a pain more horrible than the one the man must be feeling now.

His father walked slowly across the room and sat down on the bed next to Patrick, who scooted up and rested his back on the head board. His father wrung his hands together and stared at the floor for several long moments. Then he turned to Patrick.

"I know it's hard," he said, so quietly that it was almost shocking. "It's been a long time, and I know you're worried more than you ever even thought possible. It's a horrible feeling, just sitting here, not being able to help or do anything but wait... I haven't had experience with this exactly, but I know what the waiting is like. It's unbearable. It never feels like it's going to stop, ever..."

Patrick's father had been sad before; like any family, they had gone through their hardships—financial stress, the loss of loved ones—but his father had a look on his face now that was unlike anything Patrick had ever seen. There seemed to be several different emotions fighting for dominance in those eyes: fear, uncertainty, confusion, the anger of injustice... His father's face in that moment looked like a perfect reflection of every feeling inside Patrick's own heart.

"But I want to tell you something, Patrick," his father continued. "No matter how hard it gets, no matter how much you feel like you'll be sitting in this room waiting forever..." he looked directly into Patrick's eyes, "you can never, ever give up hope. Because when you give up hope, that's when life itself becomes unbearable. As long as she _might_ still be out there, she _is_." His face had taken on a new emotion; now on top of the sadness and the pain there was determination, and a sort of plea that was almost urgent. He didn't break his lock on Patrick's eyes, and the look he was giving him seemed to reach out to some deeper part of his heart. A few minutes ago Patrick would have doubted his father was even capable of such a serious look.

He stared back at his father with his puffy eyes and didn't say a word. After a moment he only gave a small nod of understanding.

His father finally looked away and stared once more at the floor.

"When it's the only thing you have, you hang on to it, as hard as you can. It's all you _can_ do..." He sat on the bed for another several seconds, then stood up. "It was good to have you at dinner, Pat," he said as he walked slowly to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled it to, stopping to add one single thing:

"We love you, son."

His father closed the door, leaving him alone.

The tears struggled to escape Patrick's eyes once again, but he tried his very hardest to hold them back.

*****

Patrick could not have been more relieved that Friday was a teacher conference day. Just as the marquise in front of the school had promised, the teachers were in meetings all day, and the students were once again free to enjoy a three day weekend.

The little guy in Patrick's mind who wore a suit and tie and wanted to get into a really good college reminded him that the next few days might be a good time to catch up on his homework. (Lately this guy had been much easier to ignore.) Patrick did generally want to do well in school (at least enough to keep him on his teachers' good sides), but over the last week he'd lost his taste for all the tedium. He'd barely done any work since Rachel was taken, and what little he did was of questionable quality. He still had yet to receive a single complaint from a teacher, though. In light of the disappearance it seemed that no one had the nerve to go up to Patrick and say, " _Hey, Patrick, I'm really sorry to hear that your new best friend has gone missing and under the circumstances been presumed dead, but, um, about those stupid little assignments I gave you, do you think you'll be able to, uh, do them any time soon?_ "

He woke up somewhere around noon, but his body was still so heavy that he could barely move. He fell asleep again until one o'clock, and half-slept for another half hour after that. When he finally heaved himself out of bed he reflected with disappointment that a long night of sleep after having been enormously deprived of it didn't feel as satisfying as one would hope. He always somehow expected to feel energized and gloriously alive the next morning, but instead only ended up feeling like a zombie with lead weights on its wrists and ankles.

He shambled downstairs and rummaged through the fridge for something to eat, relieved beyond measure that no one appeared to be home to make some dumb " _sleepyhead_ " comment. He couldn't seem to find anything very good, so he settled with cereal. When he'd choked down enough of his mother's "Reduced Sugar Bran Flakes" to satisfy the gurgling void in his stomach (it was regrettably the only cereal they seemed to have at the moment), he pulled on his shoes and went outside.

The day was uncomfortably bright after so much sleep, but it was refreshingly cool. The sky was still without clouds, but Patrick figured that rain couldn't be too far off. He thought he could smell it, though immediately dismissed it as imagined.

He walked down the driveway and for the first time since he'd lived in this town took a left on the street. Not that the northern part of town was new to him; he'd had the opportunity to explore this neighborhood along with the combined elementary and middle school during his night searches with Dean. Walking this road was still odd though, as all those hours scouring every road, tree, and lawn, watchful for "snipers" and cop cars had seemed like a strange dream, the darkness and the moon and his own altered perception creating a bizarre parallel world in his mind. Now everything was bright and clear, and as he walked he got the strange impression that he was entering a place he had only dreamed of before, discovering suddenly that it was real after all, and that the dream had been some sort of precognitive vision.

One detail of those nights that he certainly hoped had been real was Dean's car being parked at a nearby house. He had seen the guy driving in this direction every day after school, and though he couldn't tell its color in his other form (at least not its "sight color") it had been the only such car he had seen in town thus far. When Patrick turned down the appropriate street and rounded a corner he found that his observational skills had served him well. Parked on the street was Dean's car; some sort of old, red metal thing that might have been deserving of the label "classic" if it weren't so beat up.

It sat in front of a run-down looking house that was painted a sad, dirty yellow. The paint was peeling and the roof looked like it had been through many seasons without any sort of cleaning or repair. Two other junky cars sat in the driveway and another in the lawn, the latter's windows broken and its presumably white paint almost completely gone. The lawn was an ocean of cigarette butts, and a remarkable assortment of other objects littered the barren and rocky ground—engine blocks, broken furniture, various pipes, crushed beer cans... These certainly didn't look like half-finished projects, however. They just plain looked like junk.

Upon studying the house Patrick was suddenly very reluctant to walk up to the front door. The only thing that pushed him onward was the fact that he could do nothing until he talked to Dean; the hulk had stormed off two nights ago after their narrow escape from the police and the man on the porch, and he hadn't shown up to school the next day. Patrick felt it important to tell him about his talk with Ramildienne, and though it seemed pointless, Patrick held on to his father's words and decided that they should come up with a new search plan.

Patrick passed an impossibly dinged up grey car that may have been black once and walked up the sidewalk, avoiding the bits of trash that were strewn about the ground. He stood at the splintering door and placed his finger over the doorbell.

There were raised voices coming from inside the house. At first it sounded as though two people were fighting, but after a minute it didn't escalate. Were these angry shouts just being thrown around casually? Thinking that if he didn't do it soon he would lose his nerve, Patrick pressed the button.

He didn't hear the bell chime inside the house, and thought it might just be a particularly quiet one. When no efforts were made to answer the door however, he gathered his courage once again and knocked.

This set off another flurry of angry shouts, and after a few moments he heard someone stomping up to the door. Patrick's heart fluttered in his chest, and despite the cool air he found himself sweating.

The door swung open with a sickening creak and a very large woman looked at him with a scowl. She was wearing shorts that looked much too small and an enormous powder blue shirt with the ghostly remains of a faded sports emblem on the front. Her hair was a mess; it looked like it might have never been brushed in her entire life.

She didn't put forth much of an effort to make Patrick feel welcome.

"Yeah?" she said with a rough voice, and under those scornful and suspicious eyes Patrick nearly forgot why he was here.

"Hi, is Dean home?" he asked, his voice coming so close to cracking that he could actually feel it. At that moment the smell of the house wafted out to him, and it was so strong with cigarette smoke and old wood and mildew and _people_ that he thought he might throw up.

The woman looked him up and down as though she just might eat him like a monster in a storybook and shouted, "DEAN, GET OUT HERE!" though she didn't spare Patrick the courtesy of turning her head first. He nearly shuddered under the full force of the yell, yet was very thankfully able to control himself.

The woman turned and walked from the door and out of sight. After a moment Patrick heard a deep voice say "What?" and the woman replied, "Th'door!" There was another moment of silence, then Dean strolled up to the door with his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah?" he said with his usual indifference. His face was straight and unreadable, and Patrick got that familiar feeling of slight shock when he saw that the guy's frame nearly filled the doorway.

"I need to talk to you," Patrick said, and even as he spoke the woman and someone else shouted at each other from inside the house.

Patrick moved aside as Dean stepped through the door and shut it behind him. He slipped a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and proceeded to take one out and light it. Patrick only watched with an odd sort of curiosity. (The concept of smoking had always baffled him, and Dean seemed so young and physically fit to start such a damaging habit.

"Sorry it's not a mansion," Dean said, flicking open a Zippo lighter and lighting the end of the cigarette sticking from his mouth, his hand cupped around it.

Patrick didn't know how he could possibly respond to that, and only grimaced unconsciously as Dean took a drag and let the smoke pour out of his nostrils, so much like a raging bull in some Saturday morning cartoon.

"She came to me yesterday," Patrick said finally. "I went for a walk and she showed up.

Patrick gave him the gist of what Ramildienne had told him, minus the parts about Dean himself. As he spoke the guy's face was completely unchanging, and at the end you would think that Patrick had been talking about homework for the last several minutes. Dean only stood there with his arms crossed, staring at nothing, taking an occasional drag from his cigarette.

When Patrick was done he stopped, waiting for a response. Dean remained silent for several moments, all the while little bouts of angry yelling sprouting up from behind the closed door. When he'd smoked his cigarette down to the filter he flicked it onto the lawn without snuffing it out. He leaned up against the dirty wall with a sigh.

"If she can just appear wherever she wants," he said, still not looking at Patrick, "what makes you think we can find her by sniffing around?"

"To be honest, I don't think we can find her just by sniffing around anymore."

"Then what do you expect us to do?"

Patrick had hoped that a plan would have magically presented itself to him by now, but it seemed he was still on his own.

"I don't know," he said, kicking at a pebble absentmindedly. "We've got to do _something_ , though..."

"I want this thing done with," Dean said, his voice a little sharper but his eyes still pointing nowhere in particular, "but if there's nothing we can do, just doing _something_ isn't going to help."

"But we haven't even searched the woods around town yet."

"To hell with the woods! If she can come and go all she damn well pleases, sniffing around for her out in the trees isn't going to lead us to a trail. She might as well be gone."

"But she _isn't_ gone! It's been a week and I don't know why, but she's still here! For whatever reason, she won't leave!"

Dean stood upright and turned back to the house.

"Until you can come up with a plan to bring her down for good, you know where to find me."

"Dean, wait—"

Suddenly a high noise was floating on the air. At first it sounded like a siren on the other side of town, but when the steady note began to fall, the two of them recognized it simultaneously:

It was the howl of a wolf.

And it was coming from the direction of Patrick's house.

Without speaking the two of them set off across the lawn and up the road. They rounded the corner and headed up Deer Creek, Patrick trying his hardest to keep up with Dean (who he was sure under other circumstances would have made a fantastic football player). They passed Patrick's driveway and headed for the trail that connected the street to the woods, hammering the quiet day with their heavy footfalls. They reached the opening in the trees and launched themselves through, kicking up dust and pushing branches away as they made their way down the trail.

They skidded to a halt in the clearing where it had all began, and lying on the ground was a grey wolf. It was covered in wounds and bleeding profusely. On the other side of the clearing was Ramildienne, standing completely still.

Rachel's face was solemn, even grievous. Her mouth was turned to a frown, and her eyes were full of pain as she watched the bleeding wolf on the ground in front of her.

"I am glad that you have come, boy, and gladder yet that you have brought your friend." Her words were slow and meaningful, and she never took her eyes off of Mr. Vincent, who was struggling to stand up and failing each time. "I spoke to you of ownership last night. I told you how it is a deep law of nature, did I not? Well it seems that I have set things in motion that cannot be undone, and as such I find myself unable to leave this place. No matter how I try to escape to the land beyond, giving you these powers and involving you in my plans has bound me to these woods."

She paused for several seconds, and no one moved.

"This cannot be undone..." her voice became low, almost too quiet to hear, "but it can be ended."

Suddenly, like an abrupt gust of wind, there was an eruption of sound and the woods were filled with black movement. Crows—hundreds of them, _thousands_ —poured out of the trees and circled the clearing in a cyclone of feathers and beaks and talons. The black wall swirled around them and the flapping of so many wings sounded like a waterfall, the caws a million voices scrambling to get inside Patrick's head.

He changed on instinct and immediately noticed that Dean had done the same. The sound was now amplified to the point where it was hardly bearable, and the dusty, decaying smell of the birds assaulted his nose.

Rachel's long blonde hair flapped around her shoulders in the gust from thousands of feathery wings.

"I regret that this is the way it must end," Ramildienne said, her voice hardly audible over the din, "but it is something that simply must be done. I am sorry..."

She raised a hand in the direction of the two wolves and sheer terror grabbed hold of Patrick as the wall broke and the entire flow of crows rushed at them like a torrent of water breaking free of a suddenly crumbling dam. Before he could even turn to run a black curtain fell over the world and sharp pain ignited all over his body. Crows covered him like a blanket, the fluttering of wings filling his vision and his ears, his mind turning to a single solid color from the awful dust of their feathers. Talons scratched and beaks pecked, and Patrick yelped in pain. He lashed out and found a few with his teeth, but the ones on his body were relentless and drove him to the ground. He gnashed at them and shook his head, trying to keep them from his face and eyes. With each fresh blossom of pain he could feel the strength draining from him, replaced by a panic and dread and helplessness that began to consume him.

Just when he thought he might soon fall down for good, a noise arose over the awful cawing and fluttering. It seemed distant, unreal, as if floating from a dream, but it sparked the last flair of courage inside him. Using the last of his will and his strength, he lifted his head into the storm of piercing beaks and claws and returned the call with one that seemed to flow straight from his heart. The long, high howl pierced the air and suddenly an enormous pressure began to lift off of his body. The note cut through the darkness, revealing the trees and blue sky once more, and the black cloud that had tried to consume him broke apart into chunks, then further into individual black figures which flapped away madly on glistening ebony wings.

The crows scattered, confused, and Patrick could now see Ramildienne, gazing at the dispersing chaos with shock and confusion. He turned away from her and ran to Mr. Vincent, who was trying again to stand up.

" _Mr. Vincent, are you alright?_ " Patrick asked frantically with his mind.

A low mental voice answered.

" _We have to get out of here._ " The grey wolf heaved himself up off the ground, blood seeping from dozens of wounds on his back, as Patrick was sure was true of himself as well.

Patrick turned just in time to see Dean running straight at Ramildienne. She only stood and watched him coming, and when Dean was close enough he launched himself at her. Patrick's stomach clenched and he watched breathlessly as the enormous wolf, fangs bared, flew bodily at Rachel's tiny, shocked figure.

When she disappeared and Dean landed on the leaf-covered ground, Patrick was both relieved and struck with that familiar sense of dread.

Dean barked savagely and snapped at passing crows as they all scattered, returning to the woods.

*****

Patrick and Dean kicked open the door and shuffled into the dark house, Mr. Vincent's arms draped over their shoulders. Most of his wounds had stopped bleeding, but he had already lost so much blood that his every attempt at walking on his own had ended with a fall. The two of them attracted a few odd looks and even an offer for assistance or to call an ambulance as they hurried down quiet backstreets to the man's house, but they insisted that they had it under control. Patrick and Dean had received several wounds to the back, but had narrowly avoided any debilitating injuries and walked with nothing more than the occasional wince. All the while Dean rattled off a series of curses to himself and to the witch who had escaped them once again, this time leaving a good deal of physical damage in her wake, no less. The fact that the guy hadn't gotten a chance to put in his fair portion of the fight seemed to infuriate him.

Patrick was angry, sure; but for the moment he was mostly thankful to be alive.

They carried Mr. Vincent into the living room and made their way to the hallway.

"Where's the bathroom?" Patrick asked, out of breath.

"No," Mr. Vincent said, his voice a harsh whisper, "just bring me to the chair."

"But you need to clean yourself up, you just about died!"

"I'll be fine, I'll have plenty of time to do that later. We need to talk about this now."

They obeyed and carried him over to the blue recliner. They eased him into it and he slumped back with a painful sigh. His shirt was full of holes and he was undoubtedly covering the upholstery with blood, but he didn't seem to care. Patrick and Dean sat on opposite ends of the couch facing him. Patrick's own bloody back screamed in pain as he sat, but he found that pushing it out of his mind was somehow easy under the circumstances.

"What happened out there?" Patrick asked, unable to contain himself. "What were you doing in the woods?"

There was pain in Mr. Vincent's face, the prominent lines dark in the curtained room, but his voice sounded as though he might have been giving a lecture on the Byzantines.

"I couldn't stay in here any longer. I remembered how you wanted my help and I told you I had no help to give. I thought maybe I should at least go look around for her, whoever she is, so I could get some questions answered—so I could feel like I was doing _something_..." He wiped absentmindedly at a trail of blood that was sliding down his temple, smearing the back of his arm with dark red. "And I found her. It was like she was waiting for me there. The crows attacked me, and I think I blacked out... When I came to, you were coming down the trail. I don't know why she didn't finish me off before you got there."

"It was the howl," Dean said. His deep voice was low, but carried sharply in the still air.

"Your howl came long after she first attacked me."

"No," Patrick interjected, "not ours. You howled before we got there. We heard it, that was why we showed up."

Mr. Vincent eyed them curiously.

"That's odd, I don't remember that."

"It must be why she didn't finish you off," Patrick said.

"But why did the howling get rid of the birds at all?" If Dean was as disinterested as he normally looked, he was doing a good job of hiding it; he was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, his face serious, his eyes now wide with anger and confusion.

The three of them considered his question for a few moments.

Patrick thought about the talk on the swing.

"Maybe we have some power over her," he said. He turned to Dean. "What made you howl in the first place?"

Dean's brow furrowed as he thought about it, making him look incredibly intense.

"I don't know, I guess it just... kind of came out of me. When I felt like I was losing control it's like it welled up from... from the wolf part of me, maybe."

Mr. Vincent looked at each of them in turn, though his body didn't move an inch.

"I get the feeling that you two know more about all this than I do."

Patrick told Mr. Vincent what he had told Dean, similarly leaving out what Ramildienne had said about both of them. He put a special emphasis on the fates of all the other people that the witch had "gifted" over the years, a motivational tactic which Patrick immediately regretted after seeing the effect it had on Dean.

The huge figure sitting on the couch next to him was practically shaking with anger by the end of the retelling. Dean kept mostly still but the shadows on his face grew as did the hatred, and he looked like he might lash out and punch something at any moment. Patrick was reminded of a grand piano with all of its strings wound far too tightly, the knobs still slowly turning.

"I can't believe she would just _run_ like that," he said through gritted teeth, "why can't she just _face us_? When I catch that damn witch I'm going to tear out her throat!"

"No!" Patrick shouted. He startled himself with the sound and automatically readjusted the volume of his voice, though the urgency was the same. "That's still Rachel's body! You can't touch her!"

"Maybe we won't have to," Mr. Vincent said quietly.

Patrick and Dean looked at him, and his eyes were so heavily lidded he might have been sleeping.

"The necklace," he said. "It was the reason she lost her body in the first place, right? If what she told you was true, then maybe we only need to take it from her."

"She's so fast..." Patrick nearly whispered, remembering how his fingers had snatched at the little red stone and closed around dry leaves.

"It's true, but it's the only plan we have. If you can call it a plan..." Mr. Vincent lifted a shaking hand to his forehead, where he wiped away another trail of blood that was running from a distorted gash that looked as though it would be leaving a nasty scar. (Patrick suspected he would have plenty of his own scars if he survived all of this.)

"I don't think she'll ever stop trying to kill us," the man said a moment later. "It sounds like too many people have already died for her benefit for her to turn back now. But there are two things that we seem to have going for us..." He shifted in his chair, winced at the pain, and settled again with a sigh. "She doesn't seem to want to make her appearance public for whatever reason, so we shouldn't have to worry about being attacked while other people are around."

"That's true," Patrick chimed. "When I went back to the woods she had cleaned up the hole and the casket and made it look like nothing had ever happened."

"The second advantage we have been given—though this is purely speculation—is that we are protected while in our homes. Otherwise there has been nothing to stop her from simply poofing herself into our houses and killing us while we sleep, or even as we speak now."

"Ownership..." Patrick said vaguely, hardly aware that he had said it at all. When the others turned to him for elaboration, he straightened up in his seat and regarded them with mild surprise. "When Ramildienne was talking to me on the swings she said something about ownership. How it was really important. The reason she lost her powers when that villager took her necklace was because it was no longer in her possession. I guess it's the same reason why she can't leave town; she said that she affected us, and in turn was bound to this place. So maybe it would make sense that she couldn't harm us if we were in our own houses."

"The only problem is, we can't stay in our houses and around other people forever," Mr. Vincent said. "And above all else, we want this whole thing to end. I'm sure you miss Rachel very much..." He looked at Patrick, who met his eyes with all the determination he could muster.

"So what do we do?" Dean had calmed down considerably, and now stared blankly at the floor.

"I don't know what we do," Mr. Vincent said. "But whatever is going to happen, I think it will happen soon.

Chapter 23

It was often hard to read his wrinkly face, he made many comments and jokes that were so old-fashioned they were practically indecipherable, and his breath smelled rather bad, but no one could deny that Mr. Baker was a very, very nice man. The fact that he was willing to meet with Owen on a teacher conference day for an unpaid hour of algebra tutoring proved this if nothing else.

He agreed to meet when the conference was over, at three o'clock. Owen thought that his office contained at least three different smells that were completely unidentifiable and a tad disturbing, but there were some little Reese's Cups in a bowl on his desk.

Mr. Baker (who insisted upon being called Fred, though Owen could scarcely remember to do so) wasn't like other teachers who had given him help over the years. Owen had always had trouble asking an adult for help; somehow he always found himself under an enormous amount of pressure, trying his very hardest to understand the material that the teacher was so comfortable with, psyching himself out into a panic in the process, each concept bouncing off the mental block in his mind. Something about having the full attention of someone who knew it all so fluently, whether it was math or English or science or Spanish, intimidated Owen a great deal.

But for some reason Mr. Baker was different. Maybe it was the candy, maybe it was his incredibly soft voice and his big bushy eyebrows that made him look a little like Dr. Brain, but something about the man sapped most of the nervousness right out of him. It took a little while of course; walking into the strange office with its odd smells and weird bear statues had been uncomfortable at first, but as the old man went over the concepts that Owen had been struggling with he found it easier and easier to take it all in. In fact, by the end of the session Owen was quite confident that he had learned more in that one hour than he had in any month of class; maybe even any _year_. And the best part about it was that with a new understanding of these basic concepts, other concepts would surely come easier. Mr. Baker even surprised him by explaining a formula and testing him on it until he understood its execution and application clearly, only to reveal that he hadn't even gone over it in class yet.

Owen marveled at the long series of calculations on his paper, strength and accomplishment coursing through his veins, almost tangible enough to actually _feel_.

"See?" Mr. Baker said with a chuckle, his nostrils flaring oddly. "You came in here thinking you were terrible at math, and now you're ahead of the game!"

Owen left the office and walked across the deserted lawn with a fresh new outlook (and a pocket full of peanut butter cups, as per Mr. Baker' orders), ready to get home and break out the old textbook for another few rounds of problems.

_Who's getting KO'd_ this _time?_ He thought, smiling at the mental image of himself in a ring, wearing boxing gloves and wailing on an oversized anthropomorphic version of his textbook, "Beginning Algebra by Anne King," delivering the final blow and watching as it tumbles to the floor, the ref counting _one_ , _two_ , _three_ , and the crowd erupting in a mighty cheer.

He would swat those problems one by one like flies.

He would shoot them out of the sky like nearsighted pheasants.

He would stab each one and send it reeling, like... like...

This last thought faltered and came to a complete stop. Owen's mouth hung slightly open as he looked across the street, deciding that his glasses must need cleaning.

Rachel was standing by the trees, smiling at him. She was holding her book bag as though she had just gotten out of school.

Owen stood still for a long moment, all thoughts of math problems spiraling from the sky like downed birds and of giant textbooks sporting boxing gloves suddenly leaving him. He couldn't think of what he should do or say, or even _think_.

"Uh..." The sound escaped his lips without intension, and when Rachel only continued to stare at him and smile for what was an uncomfortable amount of time he said, "Hi... Rachel. What are you doing here?"

When she had disappeared, Owen had been much more distraught than he let on. She had always been so nice to him, and even on occasion had tried to help him with his homework. The pressure of having something explained by someone who was not only really smart but also a _girl_ had proven to be too much, of course, but the gesture had given Owen a great respect for her. And more recently she had stood up for him when Mr. Poulton gave him detention—her and Patrick both. While he felt really bad for getting them in trouble, he would never forget how they had fought the undue punishment simply because they thought he didn't deserve it. It was a lot more than anyone else had done for him in his twelve long years of schooling so far...

Now Rachel stood on the other side of the road, alive and well.

And that smile. At any other time it would have been enchanting, but now it only made Owen feel strangely uncomfortable.

"Hello!" she said cheerily, one hand resting on her bag and the other dangling casually at her side.

Owen looked around to see if anyone else was witnessing this odd scene. The street was completely silent, all the teachers having left after the conference, the nearby houses very quiet and still.

"Where have you been, Rachel? Everyone's been looking for you for over a week. We thought the wolf got you..."

Her smile didn't falter; if anything, it grew wider.

"I know I've been gone a long time," she said, "but I can show you where I went!"

Owen kept telling himself that he should have been jumping for joy at the mere sight of her, but he couldn't shake this overwhelming peculiarity.

"What do you mean, you can show me?"

"I want to show you where I've been all this time. Come on!" She reached out a hand for Owen to take.

His stomach immediately jumped and his heartbeat quickened at the thought of holding her hand, though the feeling only lasted a moment. She stood with her arm outstretched, smiling that big smile of hers, and all he could think about was how none of this felt right.

Nonetheless, after a long pause and another look up and down the street he found himself inching toward her. He moved across the remainder of the lawn and to the asphalt, walking with a great hesitance but unable to stop himself. Soon he was standing in front of her, looking from the smile to the hand and back to the smile, wishing desperately that there was an adult around to see this and bring some sanity to the situation. He was almost tempted to run off and simply fetch the nearest adult he could find, putting an end to this weird suspension of reality, but even though it didn't make the slightest bit of sense, he was afraid that Rachel may run off again—maybe for another week, maybe forever.

Finally, he raised his hand slowly and offered it to her. Rachel's smiled widened, and after a moment she stepped forward and took his hand in hers.

Suddenly Owen was swallowed by blackness, the world draining from his vision in an instant. The last thing he remembered was falling.

Chapter 24

The sun had long since gone down and Patrick sat in his bed, holding a book in front of him in a failed attempt at passing the time, hearing the faint voices of his family downstairs, suddenly and fully realizing the fact that sometime very soon his life could end.

This thought petrified him—filled him with a terror that cut more deeply than a hot blade. The possibility of death was a reality; not just a vague idea that popped up from time to time, surely not to be fully realized for oh so many years, but something that was upon him now, as he sat in his room pretending to read a book. It perched on top of his TV and stared down at him, its beady red eyes glowing with menace, its talons gripping at the plastic eagerly. Every memory, every feeling he'd ever experienced threatened to rush back to him along with a wave of nausea, but he fought both. He shunned away each image as it crossed his mind.

_There's no reason to go reminiscing,_ he thought, _because I'm not going to die._

(Watching The Fellowship of the Ring in the theater with his father. His father making a dwarf-fart comment during the Mines of Moria scene that sends Patrick into a fit of laughter.)

There was absolutely no reason to believe that he would soon be dead.

(Pushing Lizzy on the swing at the old playground by the church. Lizzy giggling madly as she climbs higher and higher into the sky, Patrick laughing with her.)

He had power over the witch, and he wouldn't let her get away with her crimes.

(Sitting next to his mother on the Farris wheel, the two of them sampling each others' ice cream cones. Being filled with a sense of complete wonder and awe as they reach the top and see half the city sprawled out before them.)

She was powerful, but not powerful _enough_.

(Rachel sliding her fingers into his. Holding her hand in the fading daylight.)

For the beating of his heart and the heavy breaths in his lungs, he barely heard the call from downstairs.

" _Patrick?_ " his mother's voice drifted faintly up to his room.

He bolted upright and looked to the door, involuntarily taking a gasping breath. He took a moment to gather himself, then put the book down on his nightstand and went to the door. He opened it and stepped outside his room, leaning over the banister.

"Yeah, Mom?" he called, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice.

His mother walked into view below him, holding the cordless phone with the mouthpiece covered and craning her neck up to look at him.

"Do you know an Owen Wheeler?" she asked, her voice echoing in the uncarpeted hallway.

This question took Patrick off guard, and for a second he didn't know how to answer.

Finally, he said, "Owen? Yeah, he's in most of my classes."

"Would you happen to have seen him today, or do you maybe know where he might be right now?"

Patrick paused.

"No," he said. "I haven't seen him since yesterday. Why?"

His mother looked a little concerned, but did her best to hide it.

"He's just late getting home. Thanks, Patrick." She walked back down the hallway, out of sight. Her voice faded to vague mumbles and Patrick stepped back into his room.

He shut the door and held his hand against it for a few seconds, his head pointed down, thinking.

_That phone call sounded too familiar,_ Patrick thought. His own mortality was still fresh in his mind, but another more immediate fear clawed at him now. Was there a chance that Owen was simply hanging out with some friends, none of which had access to a phone? Or perhaps he was taking a walk, feeling a new confidence in light of an entire week without attacks. The rest of the town didn't happen to feel this way, but maybe Owen had stumbled upon some grand bravery that had been lying dormant deep inside him his whole life—this courage and strength suddenly blooming to life like a phoenix rising gloriously from the ashes.

Somehow, Patrick doubted it.

He turned and looked at his window. With the lights on the glass plane was completely black, and suddenly Patrick felt very naked standing in front of it. Even after everything that had happened over the last month, he had still never gotten around to asking his mother for curtains. Being on the hit list of an evil witch with deadly powers, he thought maybe this would at least bring some very small bit of comfort.

He took a step toward the bed and his heart jumped as a spot of grey appeared on the window and began to spread, like that of hot breath against the glass. As the foggy spot grew to cover the window it revealed words—ones that appeared to have been etched into the glass with a finger beforehand. Patrick's eyes widened, and a fierce chill cascaded down his back like a torrent of ice cold water flowing over his shoulders and to the base of his spine. The fog spilled across the face of the window, and when it stopped there was a single sentence standing black above his bed:

" _You may hide in your home, but can you save the small bespectacled one?_ "

His heart threatened to leap out of his chest. Panic and shock held him still for one brief moment, and then he made a dash for the door.

He took the stairs three at a time on the way down and almost lost his balance on the last step, thumping onto the floor and grabbing his shoes all in the space of a few seconds. The ruckus brought his father into view at the other end of the hallway.

"Patrick? Is something wrong?" His father regarded him curiously as he pulled on his shoes.

"I have to go somewhere, Dad. I'll be back," he said with frantic speed. The words seemed unreal as they drifted from his mouth. A blurry haze was forming over his vision, his head flushing with cold blood. He tied his shoes with fumbling hands.

"You're joking, right?" His father walked down the hall toward him, and his mother brought up the rear. "It's almost bed time!"

"I'm sorry, but I have to go. I'll explain later." The nagging doubt that he would ever return to his home tried to surface, but Patrick pushed it back down. It wasn't important now. He finished tying one shoe and started on the other.

"Patrick, you can't just leave the house so late at night! What are you thinking?" His mother was upset. She sounded baffled, on the verge of tears. Patrick had to ignore this, too.

"Stop _right now_! You're not going _anywhere_!" his father shouted. He looked sincerely angry, about to make a move.

Patrick finished, stood up, and looked at each of them in turn, unsure how his face might appear at this moment due to the numbness settling in his skin. He felt the blood pumping through his entire body, and there was a light tingling in his fingers.

"I'm sorry."

He turned and threw the door open, launching himself down the steps and into the night at a speed of which he hardly knew he was capable. He heard his father shout behind him, but in a few short seconds Patrick was down the driveway and running through shadow on padded feet.

*****

There was no reason to believe that Ramildienne would be located anywhere but in the woods—in the clearing where she had been unearthed and had tried to kill the three of them, most likely—but Patrick's gut had him believe that the witch was somewhere else. Every bit of logic told him to hang a right at the fencepost and follow the trail into the trees, but whatever mysterious force was driving him now kept him going straight, along the street.

He passed the school and skirted the edge of the woods until he reached a dirt road that split from the main one and wound around to their rear. Patrick had seen this area through the veil of the trees during his searching, but he had never walked around to the other side during the day. Off the street the houses grew thin, and the road eventually led him to a large round lot. The gravel here was loose and scattered, with little tufts of weeds sprouting up here and there. The only building in sight now was what appeared to be an automotive shop, but all the windows were dark and the parked cars unoccupied.

Patrick looked to where the lot met the trees and saw something dark lying on the ground. Thinking that he might go completely insane if it turned out to be a plastic bag filled with beer cans, he ran to it, his ears pricked up for any sound. In the sour yellow light of the streetlamp that observed the scene from beside the little two-car garage there was no mistaking the glasses or the backpack.

Patrick reached Owen's side and sniffed at him instinctually. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving, but his breath was loud and obvious in Patrick's ears. The sweet smell of blood—that smell with its color unlike any other substance on this earth—was thankfully absent from the air. He didn't appear to be hurt.

A crow fluttered down from a nearby tree and landed on Owen's side. Patrick snapped at it with a surge of red anger and it flew away. He turned around.

She was standing about twenty feet away, her hands at her sides, her face blank. The natural beauty of Rachel's face was completely lost in the shadow cast over her by the streetlamp and by the intruder that stirred behind her eyes. Her face was haggard, her hair a mess, and she stared at him like a statue, only the little strands of gold on her head moving in the slight breeze. That wind brought with it a rich smell—that of moisture and soil.

Patrick bared his teeth and growled.

"Do you see what happens when you try to avoid your fate?" she asked with a voice that was soft but clear in the quiet neighborhood. "Those who surely don't deserve it begin to get hurt."

" _What have you done to him_?" Patrick snarled into her mind. There was no question of whether or not she would hear him.

She still didn't move—only looked at him blankly.

"Not a thing, my dear child..." She paused. "Yet."

A cloud of black spewed from the shadows of the trees and suddenly the world was filled with the roar of thousands of fluttering wings and harsh cackling caws. The stars were blotted out and the sky turned from darkest blue to pure black, the lamplight failing under the thrumming, thrashing creature that was descending upon the world. Patrick stood over Owen's collapsed body, bracing for the cloud to descend.

Instead, a cylinder of swirling crows emerged from the middle of the storm and began to lower itself toward them, like a cyclone slowly touching down. It shifted and distorted as it reached out for them, the caws growing louder and more murderous, and Patrick stared up into it with defiance.

"Give up, boy," her voice came through the din with impossible clarity. It was somehow calm.

" _You don't scare me!_ " he shot back at her, and he lifted his head and howled.

The call went up through the black cloud like a blast of wind, and for a moment it began to break apart... but after a few seconds the crows swirled together again and reformed the whirling funnel, reaching for them once more with one enormous feathery tentacle.

Patrick's heart jumped up into his throat.

Loose crows began to swirl around them, aiming flying pecks at Patrick's head and brushing him with their sinister wings. A few landed on Owen and began to peck him, but Patrick bit at them savagely. One was too slow, and Patrick snapped his jaws shut around its brittle body. He felt hollow bones snap and feathers tear from paper-thin flesh, a sensation which only fueled his desire to kill each foul creature that came within his reach. He growled and bit at every bird that dared to enter his bubble of protection, somehow feeling both helpless and powerful.

"He need not be harmed," her voice floated through the air. "If you give yourself to me, he will be spared. Do not let your pride hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it. Give up."

And for a horrible moment, Patrick considered it. His teeth were sunk into a feathery wing and he was flinging the animal to the ground with a sharp twist of his neck, and thinking how it may only be fair. Here was Owen—someone who was not involved in this mess whatsoever—and his life was in danger due to Patrick's refusal to give in to Ramildienne's wishes. He didn't think he deserved to die any more than the boy lying on the ground underneath him, but it wouldn't be right to make someone pay for something they had no part in, right? What if the witch truly was unstoppable, and after killing Owen she would only continue to take the lives of innocent townsfolk until Patrick finally laid his life before her? What if next she moved on to his family? For one terrible instant he thought that it might be better for everyone if he just gave in.

But it would be more than just three lives, wouldn't it? After Patrick and Dean and Mr. Vincent were dead, what of Rachel? What about every single person the witch had sent to their graves so that she could live? What about all the horrible things she would surely do after this was over? It wasn't just his life on the line. It wasn't just Owen's.

Looking up into the black tempest that swallowed the night sky, Patrick knew that Ramildienne was a monster. One that had to be stopped.

_It is simply something that must be done_ , he thought with an empowering malice.

Patrick raised his head and howled again, this time the call nearly breaking the cloud completely. The swarm of birds flew around in confusion, revealing a few stars before regrouping once more.

" _I won't give in,_ " Patrick thought to her. " _I'll fight until one of us is dead._ "

Dozens, if not hundreds of the crows flew around randomly and independently of the cloud, occupying every cubic foot of the air like some sort of gas, and through them Patrick could see Rachel standing against the dark night. The awful yellow light drenched the left half of her face, leaving the other a twisted and menacing parody of the girl he once knew.

"That's a shame," she said. "Now you will both die."

" _But we won't, because you can't kill us,_ " Patrick said, his eyes locked on her small figure.

"Oh, and why is that?" He could just barely see her mouth moving amidst the fluttering wings. There was a very small touch of amusement in her voice.

" _Because I don't think you have the power. At least not to kill_ him _._ " The words left him as though from nowhere. Vague ideas formed in his head as he spoke them, coming one by one until he felt as though someone else were planting them there. Whether some dawning of divine understanding or madness in the throes of death, he couldn't tell.

" _You knocked him out, but you didn't bring him into the woods. Why wouldn't you? That's where it all started, so wouldn't that be where you wanted it to end? But you only brought him to this lot. And why don't you just send your birds to end it_ now _? What's stopping you? I think you have less power than you say. I think the one in control here is_ me _!_ "

As Patrick spoke, he could see the faintest shadow moving across the parking lot. At first it looked like a trick to the eye, an illusion amidst the swirling black wings; but soon it was very clear that it was lurking toward the witch, slowly and steadily.

"You speak utter madness," Rachel's voice cut through the caws, clear and ghostly. "I gave you that power and I can just as easily remove the life from you."

" _You said yourself that you only showed me 'a gift from the Earth'. If you have the power, go on!_ Take me _!_ "

The black funnel that was slowly reaching for them stopped. For a moment it seemed that the din of wings and caws grew oddly quiet. Patrick could see her standing on the gravel, not moving an inch, not saying a word.

Then a shape launched itself toward her and in an instant she was swallowed up in darkness, the cloud breaking and the crows scattering into the sky. An enormous wolf landed on the ground where she had stood only a second before, flinging a dying crow from his mouth and barking with fury. Patrick looked up and saw that the cloud had reformed, closer to the trees. Standing on top of the churning black mass was Rachel's small body. She stood in the center of the cyclone now, as still as though she were only atop a ladder. The storm whirled about her, whipping her hair around wildly.

"Perhaps you were right," her voice floated down to them. "Let us end this where it began." The cloud drifted toward the trees and Patrick began to lose sight of her in the shadows of the branches. "I will not run this time, and neither will you. It will end _now_." Rachel and the storm melted into the trees and every trace of the tumult was gone in an instant. The night was suddenly quiet.

Patrick heard a snarl and turned his head. Dean took off toward the woods at full speed, not sparing him or the unconscious boy a glance. There were no coherent words passing through his head at all, but Patrick felt an overwhelming sense of emotion coming from the wolf, and it appeared to him in a color that only his wolf-mind could perceive, so much like a smell.

He saw an anger so savage that it bordered on insanity. The color was that of incredible hate, and above everything else the primal desire to kill. Dean's mind was nothing but pure, blood _red_.

He made to take off after the wolf, then looked down at Owen. He hadn't moved a muscle since Patrick arrived. His glasses lay askew on his face and his hair was tousled as though he were asleep soundly in his own bed and might wake up at any moment, groggy and stretching.

Patrick couldn't just leave him here. Was he even okay, or did Ramildienne do something horrible to his mind? Patrick grabbed a loose pant leg and started to yank, in his panic not sure whether he was pulling him to safety or just jostling him awake. While trying to get a better grip Patrick accidentally bit Owen's shin, and the second his teeth pinched the concealed flesh there was a stir and a moan from the small teenager lumped onto the ground. Owen pulled his leg away and sat up slowly, rubbing his face and straightening his glasses. Patrick stared at him in shock, immensely relieved that he was alright, forgetting in that moment that he was seeing the boy through the eyes of a wolf.

Owen turned toward him and for a few seconds his eyes couldn't seem to focus properly. Then a dawning terror washed over his face and he began to crawl backwards away from Patrick.

"Guh—get away!" he shouted, his voice cracking. As he stood up shakily he fumbled blindly for rocks and began chucking them wildly.

Still fighting shock, Patrick broke his gaze and headed for the woods, rocks falling around him and one striking him in the thigh. As he ran he could hear Owen stumbling off up the road.

When the gravel gave way to earth and the trees loomed over him, Patrick stopped. He hadn't meant to—he had meant to simply dive in as he normally did—but something held him back.

There wasn't just darkness in these trees, he thought. So many times he had treaded through these woods knowing beyond a doubt that there was nothing to fear. Now he knew with great clarity what was waiting for him in the belly of this great beast, with its teeth of bows and bubbling saliva of shrubs and moss...

It was death.

Just as the witch had died here hundreds of years ago, tonight would see the end of one or more lives. Whether or not his own was included was simply a roll of the dice, the flip of a coin, and here on the edge of this accursed place of murder and spiritual bonds he found himself wishing above all things that it were daytime and he was in his house, with his family, with Rachel, laughing and enjoying his life. Instead he faced this impassable wall, in the dark, in this strange town and in this foreign body. He could smell clouds in the sky above and the moisture on the wind sharpened every scent wafting about him. The trees, the soil, the dust, the very air itself all painted the most dazzling picture he could ever imagine, and he breathed deeply, wondering if the breath would be one of his last.

Every voice inside him that had ever told him he wasn't good enough, or strong enough, or important enough rose in a mighty choir. Every fear he had felt over the last month snowballed into a gargantuan knot in his stomach and the sheer black of the trees—so much darker tonight than ever before—pierced his mind and sang him a wicked song of death, of the end, of failure. Every pebble, every leaf, every speck of dust pushed at him, told him to turn back, told him that there was no way he could win this fight. The wall he stood before was nothing but a void. If he entered, it would all be over.

He wasn't good enough.

(Dean's teeth sinking into his neck.)

He wasn't strong enough.

(Crows, crows stabbing at his back and screeching into his brain.)

He wasn't important.

(The crack of gunfire, the sting of death coming at any second.)

He couldn't win.

(His father shouting, his mother crying.)

Death was waiting for him.

(The screech of bats, a rush of confusing sensations, utter and complete fear washing over him.)

This was the end.

(The pretty girl at the front of the room turning toward him. A big, sincere smile.)

_It_ is _the end_ , he thought.

Defying a thousand opposing forces and breaking through a wall of pure shadow, Patrick stepped into the woods and didn't look back.

Chapter 25

The darkness pressed in on Patrick as he ran through the pitch black woods, his heart hammering and his blood feeling impossibly chill. He pumped his legs with all his strength, following the smell of fur and feather dust that hung in the air. After several moments he came to a clearing, and before he saw anything he caught that unearthly, ancient scent.

In the very center was the tree—that twisted thing that defied its banishment of the woods around it. Standing under its gnarled branches was the dim form of Rachel. In the dark of the oncoming clouds, she was little more than a ghostly shape against the surrounding trees. In front of her, hunched and growling, was Dean.

Ramildienne was talking, her voice now quiet in the absence of the crows.

"Why do you struggle so?" she was asking. "Why can you not just give in as fate has willed you?" Her words were shaky. Patrick couldn't see her face, but it looked as though she might be crying.

Dean leapt at her, and in a flurry of leaves she appeared off to his left. He jumped again and she was standing back at the base of the tree.

" _STOP RUNNING!_ " he heard Dean shout from behind a snarl.

"As I told you, I will not run," Rachel's voice came through the darkness. "And neither will you."

She raised her hand to the sky and there was a blinding flash of light followed by an explosion in Patrick's ears. He yelped in pain and shock as several bolts of lightning crashed into the woods around them. In an instant flames erupted on every tree and yellow light spilled into the world, the shadows of the woods behind growing even blacker in the glare. The thunder resounded, leaves crackled, and bows began to split. Flaming branches were falling to the ground only a few moments after the fire began to spread.

Patrick had involuntarily cowered the moment the bolts hit, and as he stood up he could see Dean leaping at Rachel's body again and again, the witch disappearing in a gust each time. Through the black splits in the trees and the fire crows began to leak into the clearing, filling the air once more with their hateful calls. They swirled around Ramildienne and began to shield her from Dean's attacks. Instead of leaves, soon each jump was thwarted by a rising wall of cackling birds. The witch began to lift from the ground once more in a growing cyclone, and every time the wolf launched an attack the storm broke and reformed several yards away, the pale figure reappearing on top each time. Crows began to fly at Dean and land on him, pecking at his back and face, but he yanked them off one by one and even bit them out of the air, spitting them onto the ground in a rain of blood and feathers.

Crows flew at Patrick as well, and he shook them off as best he could, but every time he downed one, two more took its place. The flames roared and the scent of burning wood and feather dust and decay filled the air, creating a tumultuous mash of sensation that threatened to bowl Patrick over.

Red, murderous thoughts came from Dean, and with each jump Patrick thought that surely he would strike and Rachel would be savagely killed. Patrick ran to the center of the clearing, fighting off oncoming crows, his mind reeling and his senses confused. He snapped at the foul birds and watched the fight with exponentially growing panic, the sheer helplessness nearly making him wish that he were dead. Rachel's face came inches away from being torn by those enormous jaws again and again, and each failure sent Dean further into his blind fury. Patrick wanted to call out for Dean to stop, for it all to stop, but couldn't seem to move or think. He felt stabbing pains in his back, but now he only shook them off absentmindedly, sparing them the snapping of his teeth. He stared up into the storm, feathered demons circling around him, the huge wolf leaping into the roiling cloud that stood jet black against the towering flames.

Then, Patrick did something he couldn't explain.

He changed back.

Patrick stood up and gazed at the scene unfolding before him, crows pecking at his arms and torso. He beat at them with bare, clawless hands, blood dripping from his unprotected skin. He shouted into the storm.

"Rachel! Rachel, if you can hear me, come back!" Crows gathered on his shoulders, pecking furiously, and he wriggled them off. "Rachel, you have to come back!"

Ramildienne looked down at him, and with that impossible clarity shouted, "She can't hear you, boy! This body is _mine_ now!" Her voice was still shaky, her face filled with sadness. Dean leapt, and the storm swirled around her and a moment later she was standing in the air ten feet away, still looking at Patrick with eyes that glowed red.

"Rachel, I know you can hear me! It's _your_ body, and you can fight her! I know you're in there, Rachel, _fight_!"

The flames cast an eerie orange glow onto the girl's pale skin and shone in her blonde hair, which whipped in her face amidst the whirling cyclone. Through the little golden strands Patrick could see crystal tears glistening on her cheeks.

"Do you think I find pleasure in doing this?" she called through the roar of wings and fire. "Every child of the Earth is precious. I will weep at your passing, my dear boy!" Dean leapt and she swirled out of the way once more. A fiery branch cracked and fell to the ground beside her, throwing up a fluttering cloud of cinders and flaming leaves.

There were now crows on every arm and leg, and Patrick's attempts at shaking them off were becoming progressively more futile. They dug into his flesh and he swatted at them, but they wouldn't relent. Soon the sheer weight of the vile birds drove him downward, and he fell to the ground, onto his stomach.

"Please, Rachel!" he called, his voice quiet in the din and growing weaker. "Remember the walks home! Remember the dinners! Remember the swings! I know you're still there, please, just _fight_ her!" The malicious strength of the talons gripping his skin was almost too much to bear.

Dean stood panting, staring at the witch with blood covering his face and chest, crimson and black feathers sticking to his fir. Crows were swarming onto his back and be bit at them wearily.

"Why do you do this?" Ramildienne was sobbing openly now. "Please... stop..."

"Rachel..." Patrick whispered, his plea lost under the scraping feathers and sinister caws. He felt the last of his strength slipping away from him, draining from his body like water from a cracked jug, and with the final bit of mobility he could manage he groped around to his back pocket and felt for the little lump there. He reached his fingers in, latched onto a handful of thread and pulled.

Patrick held the strip of green fabric above the swarm of pecking, cackling crows. Through the chaos he could just barely see the glowing figure floating in the air above him.

When Ramildienne's gaze met the scarf, a look of pure horror washed over her face and her eyes widened with fear. She gaped at it, and in that moment of dawning comprehension she didn't see the shadow growing behind her.

The grey wolf struck her in the back and she fell forward, the crows underneath her and the ones covering Patrick and Dean all scattering. She hit the ground and turned instantly onto her back, looking the snarling wolf standing over her eye to eye. Mr. Vincent opened his mouth to bite and she plunged her hands onto his chest. He cried out in pain as smoke sizzled from between her fingers and she shoved him off of her with a heave. She made to stand up, but before she could even regain her balance, Dean was moving in.

Patrick pulled himself off the ground and tried to run to her, but when an enormous branch crashed to the ground between him and the three others, shooting sparks twenty feet up into the sky, his bleeding body stumbled and he fell back onto his hands and knees. Through the screen of fire the scene painted itself in sheer black shadow and dazzling orange flame. Patrick's heart stopped and everything slowed to a crawl.

The huge wolf, a blurry, hulking mass undulating in the shimmer of the heat, came to a skidding halt in front of Rachel. She stood slowly up, and just as she regained her feet, the wolf jumped onto his hind legs. Grotesque, monster-like jaws clasped at her neck, his massive bulk pouring shadow over her body as he braced his front paws on her shoulders, and he wrenched his head back, tearing savagely away. Black chords ripped from her neck, blood of fire and darkness spilling out of her. The great wolf pulled back and Rachel's small, limp body fell slowly, slowly to the ground.

Patrick cried out her name, though he could scarcely hear his own voice. All at once his pain was forgotten and he tore around the edge of the branch, his heart now feeling like it had eternally ceased beating. He ran to the little pile of blue fabric and blonde hair, dropping immediately to his knees at her side and pushing her onto her back.

There was no blood.

Rachel's skin was unbroken, her blouse spotless. Patrick looked to Dean, and from the wolf's bloody mouth hung a metal chain with a red stone on the end. The pendant glowed brilliantly in the flame.

He turned back to Rachel, who was stirring, and he put his hand under her head and brought his face close to hers. She coughed and fresh tears spilled from her eyes. They opened and shot around blindly for a moment, then focused on him, sobs emerging from her open mouth.

"P—...Patrick," she whispered. The smallest, most delicate smile emerged on her lips.

Patrick was about to say something, but Dean spoke.

"We need to leave," his deep voice urged. Patrick turned and saw that he had changed back into a human and was holding the pendant in his hand. Dean reached down and scooped up Rachel in his arms.

Patrick looked behind him and saw a long, ragged figure splayed out on the ground beside the tree, dark red pooling around it. He ran to Mr. Vincent, who was on his back, two black holes burned into his chest. He knelt beside him.

"Mr. Vincent! We have to go!" Even as he spoke, trees were cracking and casting flaming branches to the ground. The increasingly hot air was still filled with confused crows, whipping around aimlessly.

"No..." the man's low, gravelly voice returned. "I've had enough. Leave me."

"I'm not leaving you, get up now!" Patrick ordered.

"We have to _go_!" Dean's voice boomed from behind.

"This is the end for me," Mr. Vincent said. Blood dripped into his eye and he wiped it away with a shaky hand. "I've done enough damage to this world. Now I can leave it in peace."

Patrick could hear the woods crashing down around them, and looking up he saw the great twisted tree catching aflame. The smell that erupted from the burning wood was sickening. He looked back down at the bleeding man.

"Mr. Vincent, you have to get up!" he shouted over the roar of the flame. "If you don't, I'll send them on without me, and I'll die here with you! Do you want to leave this world with even more blood on your hands? Now for the last time, _get up_!"

Mr. Vincent turned his head and their eyes met. His face was covered with blood, the burns on his chest still smoked, the wounds from earlier in the day had all reopened in the stress of the fight, and he had never appeared older or wearier in the weeks that Patrick had known him. He looked like a wraith, lying in a pool of his own blood with impossibly sunken eyes and lines in his face that made him seem ancient beyond his years. He looked at Patrick with those tired eyes for a long moment.

"LET'S _GO_!" Dean shouted again, but Patrick only returned the man's stare, not daring to look away or even blink.

Mr. Vincent held his gaze for a moment longer, then extended his hand. Patrick took it and heaved the man onto his feet, Mr. Vincent grunting sharply in pain. Patrick slung a bleeding arm over his own shoulder and the they both hobbled over to Dean. The four of them made for the only discernable opening in the flames, the trail that cut a treeless path through the heart of the woods. Dean jumped through the crack, Rachel trying her best to cover her face from the burning tendrils that grabbed at them as they passed. Patrick helped Mr. Vincent slowly toward the path, but just before they reached the wall of flames something stopped him and he turned around on instinct.

Hundreds of crows were still swirling about the clearing, confused and cawing madly through the din. A moment after he turned however, they all took to the sky as though whatever had impeded them had finally been broken. They rose in one great flock, up through the conduit of fire and into the cloudy sky, lightning striking around them.

When the flock lifted, one crow was left standing amidst the scattered, broken corpses. It stared at Patrick, unmoving, its beady eyes regarding him with an unreadable expression. As the woods fell around it, burning foliage rising in showers of sparks and great plumes of smoke billowing up into the starless sky, the crow only stood its ground. Even as the last of its brethren disappeared into the darkness above, it didn't take flight. The world around it soon swelled with flame, and it was lost.

Patrick and Mr. Vincent turned around and hurried out of the burning woods.

Chapter 26

"Hillward was struck by an unexpected thunderstorm on Friday—the general consensus being that no such storm has blown over it in many decades.

"The small town has recently been the source of media attention due to an irregular series of wolf attacks, along with the presumably related disappearance of a local teenager. Animal control personnel were dispatched to the area, but haven't been able to capture what was recently discovered to be two wolves. Due to various deductions, officials have concluded that the animals are not infected with rabies as originally thought, though they stand firm that it must be some sort of neurological disease and urge residents to take their dogs inside the house at night.

"While the number of concurrent lighting strikes was record-setting, the real oddity was their location. It has been confirmed that the majority of these strikes were centered on a small patch of woods near the center of town, sparking a fire that completely wiped out every tree in the area. Officials have searched the smoldering remains though as of yet have not found any sort of massively conductive material. The reason behind the focused strikes remains a mystery, and to add to the confusion, every tree in the area burned to the ground without the fire spreading to any other locations. All surrounding power lines, streetlamps and houses were untouched by the flames, though "unquenchable" as they apparently were, says Fire Marshal Rick Purcelli. 'I've witnessed a few fires that seemed unstoppable, no matter how much water you put on them,' he said during a recent interview, 'but I've never seen _any_ fire that stayed in one place and didn't spread at all. It was small, but we couldn't do anything to put it out. [It was] almost like those woods wanted to burn.'

"It has been reported that Owen Wheeler, a student at Hillward High witnessed one of the wolves entering the woods immediately before the storm struck. Due to the ferocity of the fire, some officials are speculating that the animal became trapped there and died during the night. And due to the lack of any attacks for over a week and the last sighting being the previous Wednesday, animal control is remaining hopeful that the other wolf was either in the fire as well or has finally succumbed to its sickness and wandered to a remote area to die, though they still remain watchful for the time being.

"To top off the odd series of events, the night of the storm also saw the return of Rachel Alexander, Wheeler's classmate, who had gone missing the week before. Her previous whereabouts have not been disclosed and the family has denied comment, but after being released from the hospital on Sunday morning it has been reported that she is in fine health."

Rachel folded the newspaper and put it down on the plastic tray, smiling.

"Well?" she said. "What do you think?"

"Pretty interesting stuff, I'd say," Mr. Vincent said, nodding his head approvingly. The head of the bed had been raised to a forty-five degree angle and he rested against it, doing his very best not to move anything but his head. He was covered from head to toe in clean, white bandages, and if his gown and blankets had been white instead of powder blue, he would have looked a little like a mummy. "I don't know about front page stuff... but interesting."

Patrick and Rachel both chuckled. Patrick was covered with squares of gauze himself and it pained him to move much, but after seeing the man in the bed in front of him, he couldn't complain.

"So when do you think you'll be able to come back to school, Mr. Vincent?" he asked. He thought he probably knew the answer, but he decided to ask anyway.

"I don't think I'll be coming back to school any time soon," he said, his gravelly voice just a little solemn. "I need to get away from this town. I think it will do me some good. I've got someone I'd like to visit. Plus, I don't think the board would like me back after my very unexpected, ah... personal leave."

"We're going to miss you," Rachel said softly. "I never told you, but you've always been my favorite teacher."

There was a touch of surprise on Mr. Vincent's face.

"Why thank you, Rachel," he said with quiet sincerity.

"I haven't had as many years with you as Rachel," Patrick said, "but I've got to say, I think I'll miss you too." Patrick smiled from the corner of his mouth.

"We'll certainly have to keep in touch," the man said, wincing as he scratched at a bandage on his forehead.

Patrick looked over to the nightstand beside the bed. Next to the small stack of Time magazines was a bundle of flowers sitting in a large plastic cup full of water.

"Who are those from?" he asked, gesturing to them.

Mr. Vincent looked to the flowers and smiled.

"Mr. Wheeler brought me those. A few hours ago."

By the time Monday rolled around Owen had become quite the hero. The story of how he fought off the wolf and watched it run into the woods to its death was told many times throughout the day.

"Well he comes up and bites me in the leg, see..." At this point he would lift his right pant leg and peel the bandage from his ankle, revealing bruised and scabbing teeth marks to the "ooh"s and "ahh"s of his fellow classmates. "And so I kick him right in the face and he backs off. Then I start shouting at him and throwing rocks, and he runs away with his tail between his legs. I totally pelted him right in the butt, too."

Patrick smiled at the memory, and thought he could still feel the bruise amidst the gashes on his thigh.

"Have you seen Dean recently?" Mr. Vincent asked.

"He was at school this morning, though I can't say I was expecting him to be," Patrick said. "He looked just as bored as ever... But you know, I might have been imagining things, but I'm pretty sure I saw him turn in a bit of homework in history today."

"Maybe he actually plans on graduating this year," Rachel said. "That's one hundred percent more homework than _I've_ ever seen him turn in."

"And he did give me a nod when I walked into Mrs. Spotts' class."

"That's certainly more _attention_ than he's ever given most students," Mr. Vincent reflected. His face suddenly grew solemn. "If you don't mind me asking, Rachel... what was it like? What was happening to you with that... _thing_ in your body?

Rachel seemed to struggle for the correct words.

"It was... the weirdest thing I've ever experienced. I could see what was going on, but I couldn't do anything about it. It was almost like I could _feel_ her in my head, and she probed around and tried to know things about me, but I didn't let her. Having someone else there, with you all the time, trying to get into your mind, it was just..." She shook her head slightly. "It was awful. Things happened right in front of me, and I... uh, _she_ , hurt you guys, and I couldn't stop it. I didn't even understand what was going on and it was all so hazy, like a dream. Like I would wake up at any moment and it would all be over... The only time the world was clear was when... I saw the scarf." She looked at Patrick. "It was like I was in control for just a second..."

"So what have you both been telling everyone?" Mr. Vincent asked. "How can you possibly explain it all?"

Rachel gave a tired sigh and looked down to the floor.

"It hasn't been easy. I was gone for so long, and everyone was so sure I was dead, and then I just sort of popped out of nowhere... I tried my hardest to come up with some sort of explanation, but I just couldn't. I've been saying that I was walking home from school that day and that I simply can't remember anything between then and Friday night. Sort of like I was in some fugue or something... I'm not sure if anyone's bought it, but it earned me a whole series of brain tests yesterday. They only barely let me come to school today, and only because I seemed to be in such perfect health."

The faculty and the other students had been extremely relieved to see Rachel that morning (Mrs. Spotts perhaps most of all, who hugged Rachel so tightly she later reported to have almost thrown up). But when they asked where she had been she could only say that she couldn't remember. They didn't think this a very satisfying answer, though they were dissuaded from further questioning when she told them she was undergoing a series of tests on her brain to see if there were any problems.

"My dad was so happy to see me..." She smiled affectionately. "He was the only person who didn't keep pressing for answers. My story doesn't make sense, and I think he probably knows that there's something I don't want to tell him, but right now he's just so glad I'm alright."

To say that Dave was happy to see Rachel was an understatement.

When the four of them appeared in Patrick's back yard, his mother and sister had seen them through the window and run outside without putting on their shoes. His mother's shock upon seeing their battered bodies, the fire in the woods behind them, and Rachel in Dean's arms was so complete that for several moments she could barely speak, only babbling incoherently, the occasional "Patrick" and "Rachel" slipping through. Eventually she remembered how to work the phone she had grabbed on the way out and called his father, telling him to return home right away. Then she called an ambulance, followed by Rachel's father. At this point Dean had presumably gone home.

When Dave arrived only moments later (he had opted to simply run instead of jumping in the car or even putting on shoes) he was bursting with tears before he even reached Rachel's side. She was sitting on the ground next to where Mr. Vincent lay, with Patrick by her side, holding her hand. When Dave rounded the house and crossed the lawn he nearly bowled her over with his massive hug. He sobbed into her shoulder and she cried with him, the two of them holding each other tightly and rocking back and forth. He stroked her hair and told her how much he'd missed her and how much he loved her, over and over.

Patrick's father rounded the house a moment later, and when he saw the scene the expectant anger on his face dissipated instantly. Patrick looked away from Dave and Rachel and to his parents, who were now trying to make sense of things, his mother relaying what she had seen through the window to his father. As Patrick walked to them he felt a twinge in his eye, and all the pain and stress and disconnection came rushing back to him in an instant. His father tried to ask him what was going on, but Patrick wordlessly pulled his parents into a tight hug. They stopped their babbling and put their arms assuringly on his back, clearly confused. That was when Patrick's own tears began to flow, and he sobbed into their chests, struck with an overwhelming regret for giving them so much grief. His mother began to cry as well, and she squeezed him tightly. His father patted him on the back, and Patrick thought he could hear the man sniff back a few tears of his own.

Patrick had given them a similarly vague story later that night. The only thing he could think to say was that he had seen Rachel out his window and had run off to help her. He spun some shoddy yarn about a wolf attacking them and the fire starting and Dean and Mr. Vincent happening upon the scene, but when he was done it was very obvious that he wasn't telling the whole story. But how could he? There was no possible way they would believe him, no matter how he might try to word it. It was hard to hold the truth from them this one last time, here at the end of everything when it was clear that something extremely bizarre had taken place, but he had no other choice. Again he felt the pressure that had tormented him after he had "fallen down the hill," the same nervousness and discontent coming from his parents as when they first sensed he was keeping strange secrets from them, but somehow this was better. They were more confused than they ever thought they could be, but Patrick took great comfort in the fact that it was all over. In time they would just have to accept that they would never know exactly what happened that night, and somehow Patrick didn't think it would affect their relationship for too much longer. At least he would have to hope.

"You can be sure that I've been getting some odd questions as well," Mr. Vincent said. "My wounds were very plentiful, and very strange. The nurses all kept asking me what had happened. Even a couple of policemen came up here and tried to get an answer out of me. But what's fortunate for me is that while all of this is extremely bizarre, none of it happens to be scandalous in nature. It is very obvious that it was lightning that started the fire, not some ex-teacher arsonist, and with your honest testimony," he regarded Rachel with warm eyes, "they have no reason to believe that I was responsible for your disappearance. Or not an ounce of solid proof, at least. The whole thing may have been remarkably strange, but I didn't owe them a thing. I just told them I'd gone for a walk and been attacked by a swarm of crows, and that the woods then proceeded to catch fire. Seems I got off pretty easy, doesn't it? Though the most confusing part—for the nurses at least..." He held the blanket firmly at his waist and with an effort lifted up his gown. He pulled it up and peeled back the bandage that was stuck to his skin with little strips of tape.

On his chest were two parallel burns—long, dark handprints with ghostly thin fingers that stretched up toward his neck.

Patrick and Rachel gazed at the burns in amazement. Mr. Vincent only looked amused.

"Yes, I've had quite a time explaining that one. I think the most believable of the stories is that I rubbed my hands together very quickly for warmth and unintentionally pressed them to my chest when they grew too hot. I haven't quite been able to explain the stretching, though... But the staff shouldn't care much if my insurance agency is keeping up with bill payment." Finally he lowered his gown and heaved a large sigh.

"One more question," Mr. Vincent said, looking directly at Patrick. "What did you guys do with the necklace?"

"I went to Dean's house the next morning to see what he had done with it," Patrick said. "I was almost expecting him to tell me that it was still unbreakable like Ramildienne had said, and that we would have bury it again somewhere. But when he answered the door and I asked him, he pointed to the middle of his yard, where there was an old, rusty engine block laying in the weeds. I walked over and on top I saw a dark chain lying amidst shattered pieces of red stone. On the ground next to the block was a sledgehammer. I guess when she was finally left without a body the pendant lost its power."

"So it's really over then?" Rachel asked. She turned to Mr. Vincent. "Can you still change?"

"When Dean took the necklace I changed back into a human involuntarily. I could literally feel whatever it was draining from me. It was fortunate, too; had I been left to lie there in my wolf form I most likely would have bled to death. I haven't tried to change since then, but I know with certainty that it's gone." He looked at Patrick. "What about you two?"

"I asked Dean if he still could, and he said no. The same thing happened to him when he grabbed the necklace. A part of me was afraid that in the end he wouldn't want to give it up or even attempt to destroy the pendant... But apparently losing control of his mind was his greatest fear."

"And you?" Mr. Vincent asked.

It was funny. Even after the whole affair was over, Patrick still preferred his steak rather rare.

"It's gone." He nodded his head slightly.

Mr. Vincent heaved another sigh.

"Well, I appreciate you both visiting me, but I'm sure someone must be waiting for you in the car."

"My dad's probably in the waiting room staring at sick people." Patrick gave a little laugh. "If dinner table stories were an animal, he would be a mighty hunter."

Mr. Vincent laughed.

"They'll be sending me home soon enough. When I can stand again without stabbing pain shooting through my entire body, maybe we should all do dinner."

"I know a good pizza place," Patrick said with a grin.

The three of them said their goodbyes and Rachel and Patrick headed for the door. They stepped into the hallway, and just as Patrick was about to pull the door shut behind him Mr. Vincent called his name. He poked his head back into the room and Mr. Vincent stared at him for a long moment with a very serious look on his face.

"Thank you," he said.

Patrick nodded, then closed the door.

The two of them sat in the back seat of Patrick's father's car while the man drove them once again toward Hillward, very dramatically recalling the account of how a man in the waiting room had looked like the perfect human equivalent of a pug dog.

When they left the parking lot and jumped back onto the freeway (his father jabbering on all the while) Patrick felt soft, warm fingers slipping into his. He grasped the hand firmly and looked over to Rachel, who gave him the biggest and most sincere smile in the world.

He returned it without effort.

~~~~~

A note from the author:

I would like to take this time to thank you for reading my book. It is in fact my very first novel, and your support is what keeps me going. I do hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. But whatever the case, I encourage you to write a review and post it on one or more of the sites that distributes this book. I cannot adequately express just how much each piece of feedback is appreciated.

If you would like, feel free to connect with me on Facebook via The Color of Night's page. Also, stop by my blog, Of Quill and Keys, for tips and general thoughts on writing. And to read my unrelated and entirely ridiculous webcomic, visit DerpSandwich.com. I hope to tell you another story soon!

Sincerely,

Jack Thomas
