JT was by no means a small dude. He was a full head taller than me, with a dense, efficient build that likely had me beat by 60 to 80 lbs. Not the puffed-up bulk of a gym rat or linebacker—more the kind of strength that came from habit, repetition, and necessity. The first time we met, his tight fitting t-shirt had made that clear—leaving nothing for the imagination. He looked like he could carry me like a sack of flour—or a large bag of dog food, if we were being more appropriate—without slowing down.

  He was a vet that—judging by the assortment of creatures in Sandy’s little menagerie—probably worked with all sorts of animals. Not just cats and chihuahuas, but big animals; goats, horses, and animals that didn’t listen unless you had patience, strength, and grit. The kind of creatures that kicked, bit, and didn’t care what your degree said. You'd naturally develop some strength if your job required muscling any creature—even a dog—that was your size, twice as strong, and three times as ferocious.

  Needless to say if he were to go face to face with a lone wolf—a normal wolf all by itself—he could likely wrestle it into a crate and pretend it was just another Tuesday.

  JT was still in scrubs. Light blue, a little rumpled. Name tag clipped to his chest: Caene. A splatter of something dark stained one of his pant legs. Could’ve been ink. Could’ve been blood. He looked like someone who’d had a long day. The kind of tiredness that settled in your shoulders. Soften the eyes. The face of someone waiting for the moment he could kick off his shoes, sit back, and breathe.

  But, before he could do that, he needed to talk. To me.

  He’d mentioned something on the phone earlier—that he needed to go over some things with me. Something about the pet-sitting job? Maybe it was just clerical. Maybe he needed to adjust the dates, or go over our payment. Maybe, worst-case, he was going to lay me off. I didn’t know. Had no way of knowing. He could have had a bad day and just wanted some tea and sympathy—I would have been down for that: an opportunity to get to know JT better, be able to ask him so burning questions I’d had about Sandy, and Nevermore, and, hell, even about Childs.

  But the timing couldn't have been worse, because instead of getting regular me, JT was getting wolf-me.

  Not the meet-cute I was hoping for.

  I could’ve just warned him. Should have. Opened my big, human mouth and told him what was coming. That the full moon would flipped the switch and turn me into a walking hairball of bad decisions. I had the perfect opportunity, too. This morning, when he brought me coffee and donuts. When I found out Sandy was a witch. When I learned JT thought I was a witch, too. And learned all my sorority sisters apparently ran coven through group chat. That would've been a great time to be like, "Oh, hey, by the way, I'm actually a werewolf."

  In hindsight, I didn't have a good reason as to why I didn’t tell him right then and there.

  But I did have a reason. Just not a good one.

  Part of it was that I didn’t trust him yet. Not fully. Not really. He was still mostly a stranger, even if he was a very nice, very good-looking stranger who brought me donuts.

  But, by and large it was because I had bit of a knee-jerk response to fawn over any guy who was remotely cute and nice to me. To impress them. To keep my weird tucked away and my options open. Didn't want to ruin the chance of something more, even if that “something” was more of a fantasy than witches or werewolves. My brain was like that sometimes—just blame it on the hormones or something.

  But now I'd dropped the ball—a moon-sized wrecking ball—and allowed things to escalate.

  So instead of ending this night with a conversation—instead of giving JT the answers he clearly needed, the ones he should’ve gotten over coffee and donuts—what he got was a collision.

  Some blunt force trauma to compound whatever stress he was still carrying.

  And that was on me.

  Me, a 130-pound assault-and-battering-ram, headbutting him directly in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer.

  One moment he was in the doorway of the barn, his attention drawn to my handbag and the ringing phone within. The next? He was Calvin being freight-trained by Hobbes after a long day at school.

  He yelped—kind of. It was more the sound you'd make when all the air in your lungs was forcefully expelled. He flew backward, clipped the barn doorframe with his shoulder (whoops), and hit the ground hard enough to bounce, landing flat on his back. For just a heartbeat, he lay stunned, staring up at the night sky, alight with the moon and spinning stars, his brain trying to parse what had just happened.

  Then he began to move, senses coming back online. But I didn’t give him time to recalibrate.

  I pounced.

  My front paws drove into his chest, driving the air from him a second time. A textbook double-tap. Stun, suppress, subdue. A clean takedown. Had to make sure he couldn’t speak—couldn’t let him shout a command that might shutdown the wolf—that was the deal. The solar plexus was a classic target: disabling, non-lethal, unlikely to bruise in a way that would raise questions at work.

  I might be a monster, but I wasn’t a .

  JT curled into a ball, rolling onto his left side, one arm coming up to shield his head and neck, and favoring his left arm—the one I'd injured—which he held against his bruised chest. He clearly knew now that he was under attack. There was no more confusion, no illusion of accident. Just survival instinct. Self defense.

  I winced. Okay, maybe I a jerk.

  Still, it could have been worse. The wolf would have gone for the throat. Or, in lieu of that, aimed for a lower target and raised him several octaves.

  That was her definition of "neutralizing."

  Slay and neuter.

  Nothing in between.

  So really, this was me being kind. I’d done him a favor.

  Tough love, lycanthrope edition.

  The dogs sprang to their feet the moment my paws slammed into JT's chest, the mental grip of his command faltering. The pack, already amped from sensing the wolf’s presence, went from tense to explosive. Their confusion turning kinetic. They didn’t know what had just happened, only that something had. It was fast, it was big, and it was here.

  The wolf, sensing their energy, seized the opportunity.

  she commanded.

  And oh boy, did they.

  Emma, Anna, and Rosie were the first wave—the lickers, the caregivers. They descended on JT’s face with unrelenting, overzealous affection, each determined to render aid the best way they knew how: tongue-first. Just as they had with me, they targeted his ears and mouth, ensuring that trying to speak was a deeply risky endeavor.

  Puddy, the jumper, followed, launching like a spring-loaded cannonball onto JT’s ribs. There was a pained “oof” from JT, which was quickly muffled as he got French'd by Rosie.

  Again, I winced on his behalf.

  Sweet old Murray, eager not to be left out, burrowed his head under JT’s arm, the injured one, his cold nose snuffling insistently at JT’s side, trying to nudge his way into the center of attention.

  And Rudy… well. Rudy helped. The way Rudy always helped.

  With his hips.

  JT was swallowed by a writhing mass of fur, thwapping tails, and wet noses. From a distance, anyone watching might've assumed he was being mauled. And honestly, he kind of was—just not in the tooth-and-claw sort of way. More like death by affection, the dogs killing him softly with puppy-love.

  All attempts at protest were smoothered beneath the loving weight of the pack.

  He tried to speak. He really did. But all that came out was a choked, "Wait—mph!"

  Yet there was one dog notably absent amongst the pile.

  The wolf turned to leave—to vanish into the trees as the rightful leader of the pack, triumphant in stripping JT of control—but found herself face to face with resistance.

  Maggie.

  The German Shepherd had resisted, or perhaps ignored, the wolf's command.

  There was no deference. No wagging tail. Just stillness. Cool, unwavering defiance.

  Maggie stood tall, ears forward, her body blocking the path to the fence. Which was likely more for show than anything practical. The wolf dwarfed Maggie, could easily outmaneuver her, or just plow straight through her.

  But insubordination was insubordination.

  The wolf bristled. She could smell the challenge on Maggie's breath. Despite the wolf’s dominance, her commanding presence, Maggie still dared to stand her ground. Still refused to bow. Even knowing she couldn’t win. And this seemed to frustrate the wolf.

  The wolf tried to sidestep.

  Maggie moved with her, just enough to block again.

  It was irritating. The wolf could outpace her. Outmuscle her. End this in a heartbeat. But Maggie’s sheer stubbornness was galling. Did she think she could stall long enough for JT to recover? As if.

  I stepped in, cutting across the wolf’s spiraling frustration.

  I said.

  The wolf hesitated, considering.

  Maggie had always been loyal. Maybe not to the wolf directly, but by proxy—through me. That still counted, didn’t it? Perhaps this situation called for something other than brute force. A leader didn’t need to bare fangs to command a pack. Not always.

  So the wolf relented. A diplomatic concession.

  I quipped.

  I took control of our body—a quiet reclaiming of limbs and posture—and stepped toward Maggie. I lowered my head, slowly, in what I hoped read as non-aggressive. Not submissive. Not dominant. Just... approachable. Diplomatic.

  Even as I moved, I could still feel the wolf's grip on the wheel. I might’ve been promoted to pilot for now, but she was still the captain, watching from just behind my shoulder, fully capable of yanking the controls away if she felt the need.

  I said, reaching my mind out to hers.

  Maggie held her ground, still and unblinking. But I could sense her resignation.

  I continued

  Behind me, JT was struggling to wrangle the other dogs. He'd gotten his feet under him, but still struggled to sit up, his arms too busy hurting, or covering his face.

  Still, Maggie didn’t look away.

  A pause. Then a flicker of something across her thoughts. Not agreement, exactly. But trust. Reluctant, weary trust.

  Maggie stepped aside.

  I wasn't sure why Maggie was doing this. What exactly she was thinking. But she’d listened to me. She’d stood down. Maybe it was her training. Maybe it was in her breed—a shepherd trying to herd us in the right direction. Trained to maintain order even when lunacy came knocking under the moonlight.

  Or maybe she wanted to make sure I was okay.

  But, with her out of the way, the wolf once again took control. She bolted, crossing the yard in just a few fluid bounds, and leapt over the fence, heading for the forest beyond.

  Her mind was already on what lay ahead—the hunt, the path forward, the instinctual next step. Freedom. From the barn, from the yard, from being compelled to yield. She was free to do what she wanted: to find Boden, to hunt the man in cologne, and, of course, find something to eat.

  She was getting hungry.

  I told her to wait.

  I wanted to make sure JT was okay.

  One last look.

  JT had managed to get himself in an upright, seating position, clutching his ribs and his arm. His face was pale, sweat beading on his brow. He looked tired. A little hurt. And very, very confused.

  The dogs, though no longer piled atop him, crowded around JT, tongues and noses in his face, tails wagging like it was all just a fun new game. He managed to speak—barely—and issued a half-hearted, "Sit." They obeyed. Sort of. They planted their butts on the ground, but their bodies still leaned into his space, crowding in. A bulwark of fur.

  Maggie approached, calm and purposeful, and JT reached out to pet her with his uninjured hand, fingers curling gently through her fur. She leaned into his hand for a moment before stepping away to stare out into the dark.

  JT followed her gaze.

  I was certain he couldn’t see me. The porch light barely reached the fence, and everything beyond it was shadow. But I could see him. I saw him turn back to Maggie. Saw the way his hand rested on her back, a reassuring pat. Heard him when he said, "Yeah, you tried to warn me. Should have listened."

  And I should have told him.

  This morning, after he’d seen the mess I made the night before, when Carl had stolen my gun, when he'd expressed concern for my own well-being. Despite my mistakes, he was still kind. Still supportive. Still willing to believe I had things under control. That should have been the moment when I'd told him the truth.

  I should’ve had a little faith. Given him the benefit of the doubt. He was Sandy’s brother after all—Sandy, who clearly knew more about what she was doing than I did. Who trusted me with her weird, magical zoo. Maybe JT too would’ve known how to help. Maybe he could’ve handled a werewolf.

  Hell, if he'd had a proper warning—any at all really—I'd have been the one of the ground, belly up, being commanded to rollover.

  And part of me wanted someone to confide in. Someone who could look out for me. I’d been shouldering everything alone—no apartment, no car, no cash, taking any job offer that kept me from considering myself unemployed. Where had that gotten me?

  But asking for help meant opening up. Trusting people. And I wasn’t good at that. The only person I found myself regular confiding in, V, being the one that roped me into this ill-fated pet-sitting gig.

  And then, there was JT himself. I wanted to impress him. It was dumb, reflexive. But I wanted him to think I was capable. Reliable. Someone he could count on.

  But, now, all he could count on was being sore as shit tomorrow morning.

  The wolf turned. It was time to go.

  We slipped into the woods. No more looking back.

  Only forward.

  Toward town. Toward Boden. Toward whatever came next.

  It was going to be a long night.

  The night air was crisp and humming insect life as we ran, paws pattering against the gravel beside the train tracks. For a brief stretch, the wolf followed the rails, her body drinking in the speed, the space. But soon she veered off, crossing over into the woods on the other side—not aimlessly, but with purpose. Following the path she'd carved the night before, when for the first time, she'd been free to roam a forest of her own. My body—no, the wolf’s body—moved with effortless grace, slipping in and out of shadow, a creature built for this. The freedom, the sheer exhilaration of motion, sent a thrill through me that was alien and intoxicating.

  Was this what it felt like to be in shape? To have a body that didn’t rebel against the slightest bit of exertion? I’d done sports before—track and field in high school, mostly at the insistence of my stepmom. It'd get me in shape, she said. Be more athletic. That I'd feel better about myself the more I did it.

  What a miserable affair that had been.

  But this? This was flying.

  And yet, beneath the rush of movement, something gnawed at her. Hunger. Deep, insistent, primal. No joy could fully conceal the hollow ache steadily growing at her core. All that speed, all that strength—it had to come from somewhere. The moon gave her the power to change, to amplify her body beyond the natural limits of her kind, but she still had to provide the basic building blocks herself.

  She needed protein. And lots of it.

  With a body like hers, she was basically a 2,500-calorie furnace in need of fuel.

  Boden was still her top priority, yes, and she'd get around to that soon enough. But, right now, the wolf wanted—need—one thing more than anything else: food.

  Fortunately, she’d left herself a snack for later.

  The wolf followed her nose, weaving deeper into the woods with single-minded purpose. The scent she tracked was pungent and potent, laced with something earthy and metallic. To her, it was alluring. To me, it was... itchy. Familiar in a way I couldn't quite place, like a half-remembered dream.

  Despite our shared, smell-o-graphy memory, I was being thrown off by the fact I was using her nose and not mine. Her perception of smell was so different, so much more vivid, that I struggled to match the sensations with my human experiences. But we shared a headspace. If she could rifle through my memories like an encyclopedia, then maybe I could do the same.

  I thought.

  she replied, blunt and obvious.

  Helpful.

  I focused, digging into the olfactory data like I was tuning a radio dial. Trying to figure out what she was after.

  Venison.

  Day-old, sun-warmed, half-fermented venison.

  Oh, no.

  Absolutely not.

  The wolf pushed through the last of the underbrush and stepped into a small clearing—one she and her dog entourage had trampled into existence the night before, gathering here like a pack for dinner under the stars.

  And there it was.

  The deer carcass. The mostly eaten, fly-ridden, dead deer I'd come across earlier. Right where she'd left it.

  If I had been there in person, the scent would have turned my stomach and left me wrecking—a wave of thick, overripe decay that my human instincts would have immediately recoiled from. The wolf's reaction, however, was disturbingly enthusiastic. Vultures and black-feathered scavengers scattered as we approached, dark wings beating against the night. What had been a fresh kill was now bloated and slack, hide peeling, flesh glossy with rot. The air buzzed with flies, and the soil beneath the body glistened dark with fluids that had soaked into the earth, forming a rank, squelching halo around the carcass. The trees stood still and watchful around us, as if unwilling to get involved. Even the moonlight dimmed here, as if in deference to the grotesque banquet awaiting us.

  Through the wolf’s nose, though, it wasn’t rot. It was richness. Aged, cured carrion. An aroma layered with complexity and promise.

  I said firmly.

  God forbid I woke up with some of it still in my teeth.

  She sniffed at the exposed ribs, her eyes glinting with anticipation.

  I argued.

  the wolf thought.

  I scrambled for leverage. If she ate that, I’d have to sit through every bite of it—experience every taste, every texture, every chew from the inside. And as much as I hated the idea of waking up with a shred of decomposing venison stuck between my teeth, what disturbed me more was how vividly I would feel her enjoyment. I wouldn’t just witness it. I’d it. The revulsion, the horror, the grotesque sensory overload would all be mine to process. And worse yet? A part of me might even like it. Again.

  The subjectivity of it all being a double-edged sword.

  Yet, fully closing off my mind to the wolf came with the unaffordable risk of slipping into unconsciousness. Without the sensory input from the wolf, I'd lose all track of time, cut myself off from the world, trapping myself in my own little headspace. I'd closed my eyes for what seemed like a moment, only to find it to be morning, myself naked, and in someone's yard, yet again.

  Last night, when the deer had first fallen, I’d tried to shut it all out by finding a way to distract myself with things like mental math, going over excel commands, and coming up with an updated grocery budget. But the heat of fresh blood, the electric pulse of the kill, the grim satisfaction that followed—it had seeped into me. Making it not just hers, but mine too.

  And when the others joined in, tearing into their shared meal, she had radiated pride. Like a mother feeding her pups.

  First day on the job, and we were already dog-moms.

  And then there had been the Purina.

  We’d negotiated that meal. Or more accurately, she’d strong-armed me into eating enough food for four dogs. Granted, four dogs that were half her size, but still. She didn’t care that I felt bloated or uncomfortable. Thoughts of inconveniencing me rarely crossed her mind, particularly when it came to food.

  The real trick wasn’t just bargaining—it was understanding how she thought. How any food-motivated creature thought.

  Perhaps a bit of compromise was warranted.

  I bargained,

  I paused, letting the thought sink in.

  I asked.

  Of course she would.

  The wolf loved dumpsters. Loved them the way someone with a gambling addiction loved corner store lotto tickets.

  I knew this because, before I figured out how to properly lock her away inside my apartment, she used to go out on her own. Wander the streets during full moons, chasing strays and digging through trash. I remembered fragments of those nights like dreams soaked in fog. The many treasure she uncovered rooting through peoples garbage. And her desires lingered in the daylight, bleeding into me as subconscious urges. Little things. The desire to peek into alleyway bins. To follow the scent of meat someone had tossed out unfinished.

  Dumpsters were her box of chocolates: never knew what she was going to get.

  Not only that, but the wolf loved human food. Even dog food was technically human food to her—created, packaged, and seasoned by people. It had complexity. Variety. Flavor. And we humans, in all our wasteful glory, threw out so much of it for no good reason.

  Grocery stores. Restaurants. Dumpsters packed with meals that never got eaten.

  The wolf loved to capitalize on it.

  But the worst part?

  Sometimes, I caught myself checking, too. Sometimes when the Auto-dog got the better of me. Sometimes out of sheer curiosity.

  Hell, there was a whole online community around it. Dumpster divers. Freegans, they called themselves. People who raided grocery bins and scored full hauls of fruits, vegetables, canned goods—entire boxes of perfectly good food. The wolf, naturally, was fully on board with such a movement, whereas I just abhorred the idea waste. I who'd barely two dimes to spare on expense.

  So yeah. I was willing to swap rotten meat for garbage food anyday, and call it progress. Besides, if I wanted to keep the wolf from tearing into a bloated carcass like it was fine cuisine, I was going to have to make some concessions.

  The wolf weighed my offer with a flicker of consideration. And, just as I suspected, she was all for it. Dumpsters? Human food? A moving buffet of smells and surprises? Yes, please.

  The wolf stepped back from the carcass, suddenly eager to try her luck with the unknown treasures waiting in the many fragrant metal boxes scattered across the city.

  Relief washed over me.

  Now I just had to figure out how I was going to talk her out of eating actual trash when the time came.

  But then the wolf's stomach rumbled again—that second brain of hers already daydreaming about another rotisserie chicken haul. I felt her mind pivot.

  She stopped.

  Turned.

  Because of course she did.

  She needed a snack for the road.

  Before I could stop her, she shoved her head into the deer's chest cavity and tore into the remaining flesh. I screamed in protest, tried to reign her back, but was overwhelmed by the sensory input. I would say that I was in agony, but the wolf was enjoying herself. Thoroughly. So objectively, the input itself wasn't bad at all. In fact, I could easily enjoy it too.

  You know, if I could overlook that fact we were eating a rotten corpse.

  The rich, fatty taste burst across our shared senses, like some awful ASMR mukbang I couldn’t mute. I tried to recoil, to mentally turn my chair around and face the wall, but I couldn’t fully sever the connection.

  To abandon awareness was to let go of the wheel. There was too much at risk. And I wasn't really to meet Childs face-to-face in court so soon.

  So I endured.

  The wolf’s delight was unfiltered and deeply inconvenient. The warmth, the yielding texture, of what was probably the deer's spleen. Or maybe the kidney? I didn’t know—JT was the vet, not me. All I knew was that she was having a great time, and I was having to suffer through it like I was stuck at the table with someone chewing with their mouth open.

  Bloated black flies buzzed lazily around our head, landing on our ears with the casual entitlement of creatures that knew they were unwelcome and didn’t care.

  Then I felt it—something creeping along the back of my neck. Slow at first. Then quickly.

  A flicker of movement. The faint squish of a dying fly as two inch-long fangs sank into it.

  Oh great. He was still here too.

  Elmo. Who'd managed to cling to the nape of our neck throughout the entirety of the prison break, had come to join us for dinner.

  Just the company I was looking for.

  The wolf had returned to the train tracks, her paws once again pounding over the gravel. We passed beneath a corridor of high-voltage power lines, the air thick with static, the wires humming like invisible wasps. The charge in the air made her fur bristle—thrilling, uncomfortable, alive. The tracks led us through a narrow ribbon of trees, threading a border between the sleepy neighborhoods of Shadow Ferry and Garden Creek, the rails serving as a border between these two lesser kingdoms of suburbia.

  We skimmed past Springfield Elementary, its dark windows like bland, empty eyes. Then we dipped under the yawning span of the Ashley River Road overpass, the underside of the concrete bridge decorated with graffiti and Virginia Creepers, before veering toward the same-named river.

  The wolf exited the corridor of trees as she crossed the Ashley River, leaving behind West Ashley—now just a smear of dark woods and scattered porch lights. Ahead, North Charleston glowed in the night, countless lights twinkling through the haze, the scent of the city riding the wind. The drawbridge was down and its control booth unmanned.

  . Here, I'd been hoping that the wolf's night would've come to an abrupt end. But there was no boat traffic at this hour to warrant raising the tracks.

  I could only be so lucky.

  The wolf stole across the bridge, paws whispering over the asphalt, the wind combing through our fur. Even at this pace—a casual lope, by her standards—we were easily breaking a four-minute mile. Who needed a car when you could outrun Forrest Gump? The wolf exulted in it—the speed, the power, the effortless rhythm of muscle and momentum.

  She could easily outrun any Olympic sprinters with what was basically a warm-up jog for her.

  I, on the other hand—or paw—was understandably fixated on the sinew still caught between our teeth. It wasn't the taste that bothered me—the wolf’s palate didn’t register it as foul—but I knew it would be there come morning. She’d had her snack, and now she was enjoying a nice jog. Me? I was obsessing over how foul my breath was going to be in the morning. I’d need to scrub my mouth with actual detergent, maybe gargle bleach. And whatever had ended up in my hair? I'd have to deal with that too, and the thought made me shudder.

  And then there would the inevitable crash. Returning to my own body after this—after feeling so light, so strong—was going to be hell. I hadn't properly slept in days, nor I hadn't eaten any reall food that didn’t come in a can with a dog on the label—aside for a sole bag of mixed salad. Tomorrow I was going to wake up sore, moody, and feeling like I had a hangover, but without the fun of partying. The wolf wouldn’t have to deal with any of that. She’d be long gone, curled up somewhere in the back of my mind, leaving me to pick up the pieces—with sluggish limbs, the itchy skin, the sour sweat, the aching joints.

  How was I supposed to go back to normal? To live in this meat suit of mine and pretend everything was fine? I definitely needed to hit the gym, maybe do some cardio that didn’t involve being chased by my own life choices. But if I could barely afford rent, who was I kidding thinking I could swing a gym membership?

  But then again, gym memberships were actually kind of practical when you were homeless. A locker to stash your things, showers to stay clean, equipment to keep yourself in shape. Working out helped with stress, too. But mostly, it kept you from looking and smelling homeless—which, let’s be honest, made a big difference when trying to hold onto a job.

  Hard to get a job, or keep a job, when you smelled like you never bathed.

  The marsh stretched out around us as we reached the eastern bank of the Ashley—a mile or so of black mud and reeds sprawling in every direction. The air was thick with salt and pluff mud, the night alive with the chirp of crickets and the click-bubble chatter of a thousand fiddler crabs. The night was quiet—no engines, no horns—just the kind of stillness that made every small noise seem louder by contrast.

  The wolf slowed as we reached the mainland, her gait relaxing. She listened, she sniffed—curious, alert. Taking in the night.

  And then she stopped.

  Her head turned. Ears flicked forward. Nose quivered.

  She’d smelled something that caught her attention.

  And it didn't require a lot of brain cells to figure out what it might be.

  It was food. Obviously.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The aroma of seared meat, grilled vegetables, and charcoal smoke.

  It was the smell of a cookout.

  I had hoped the wolf would be too fixated on running, sufficiently satiated from her snack to notice something like this. I was already dreading how I’d keep her out of trash cans once we hit downtown—I hadn’t even considered that something else might tempt her before she even got there. Which, in hindsight, was shortsighted. It was a holiday weekend. People were apt to celebrate early. A little backyard cookout here or there. Some families jumping the gun by a day or two in advance. Hell, some folks were already setting off fireworks—sporadic pops echoing in the distance, some blooming into bursts of color, others just making a racket.

  So yeah. She had smelled food. A lot of it.

  A curious scent she hadn't smelled before.

  The wolf rifled through the , pulling up old summer memories of backyards and ball games, folding chairs, paper plates, and meat that hissed when it hit the grill. I hadn’t always been a vegetarian—I’d grown up Southern, after all. I’d attended more church potlucks, park cookouts, and family barbecues than I could count. So yeah, I had a comprehensive mental catalog of everything edible you might find at a gathering like this.

  At first, the wolf was confused by the burnt smell, but once she accessed my memories of burgers and hotdogs and charred corn on the cob, her interest sharpened. Her mouth watered.

  I cursed myself. Me and my life experiences. I was only making her hungrier.

  She followed the scent into a neighborhood, slinking low as she left the tracks and passed through a shallow patch of marshy grass. The ground was damp and soft beneath our paws, reeds brushing our sides. She slipped into the brush that bordered the yard, the house a modest brick one perched along the water. It wasn’t much for size, but the lawn was generous—an open sprawl of grass edged by shrubs and patchy brush, with a few narrow footpaths snaking toward the marsh, likely for fishing or launching a kayak.

  Looked like half the neighborhood had shown up for the occasion.

  Tiki torches sputtered against the dark, casting golden halos over a circle of people standing around a fire pit. On the deck, someone manned a grill, flipping burgers with casual ease. Folding tables held trays covered in foil, plates stacked high, red Solo cups scattered across surfaces like petals.

  The wolf crept forward through the brush, drawn by the smell but wary of the crowd. She moved like a shadow—slow, fluid, calculating. Her mind was already working out the logistics: wait near the edge, snatch a burger from an unsuspecting guest who wandered too close, and disappear back into the thickets.

  A hit-and-run snack attack.

  To be fair, she wasn't the only one considering it. A handful of dogs already roamed the party, eyes locked on their owners' plates, waiting for that one distracted moment. Didn't matter if it was meat, coleslaw, or potato salad. Food was food.

  One of those dogs—maybe less hungry or more vigilant than the rest—lifted his head as we moved. His head turned, focusing in on our location.

  And then—a bark.

  The dog—muscular, maybe part Staffordshire, maybe part Doberman, definitely part high-strung—locked eyes with us. His hackles shot up, and he launched into a barking frenzy, yanking his leash free from his owner’s grip. Then he charged, crashing through the underbrush—

  And stopped dead.

  The wolf did not move. Did not bare her teeth. Did not even raise her hackles. She didn’t need to.

  She growled. Low. Deep. The kind of sound that made your spine tingle and your teeth rattle. She didn’t lunge or snap—just wanted to see how sure of himself this little tough guy thought was. A test of nerves, nothing more. How he handled a taunt from a creature that knew she could end him in a single move, but chose not to.

  The dog’s bravado crumbled. He shrank, ears flattening, tail tucking between his legs. He let out a small, panicked yip and bolted back to the safety of his people.

  The wolf held her head high, gloating, proud of having put the little tough guy in his place.

  But the victory was short-lived.

  Chairs scraped back. People stood, turning toward the dog that had just burst from the brush. A few backed away from that edge of the lawn, uncertain. Others crept forward, peering into the dark hedges.

  They didn’t know what had spooked the dog—but they all knew something was there.

  Saltwater crocodile perhaps. Or perhaps a bear—but let's not get ridiculous here. A bear, this far down the peninsula? That would be as unheard of as... well, a werewolf.

  The wolf began to retreat, slipping backward into the shadows before any eyes could find her.

  Alone, humans were weak, slow. But together, they could be dangerous. She would not test them tonight. She didn't fear a lone human. But a pack? That was different.

  Packs were always stronger.

  I chimed in.

  The wolf considered this.

  I pressed on.

  I wasn’t totally sure where I was going with this. Ad-lib philosophy at best. But the moment felt right—like I had a chance to make a point to her about something. Something about thinking beyond her single-mindedness. Something about the bigger picture.

  A thought flickered through the wolf's mind.

  Ah. So she was getting it.

  I said. Not just the dogs.

  I let that hang for a moment, then pushed further.

  It was a little "do as I say, not as I do," considering how much help I’d let JT offer me.

  Still. I wasn’t wrong.

  She absorbed this, thinking—circling around the idea as it began to take root. Not just Sandy’s animals. Not just the dogs. She was reassessing the way she categorized others. A quiet relabeling. People could be part of her pack. People like JT.

  But she kept sorting through my memories, evaluating more faces. Judge Childs surfaced.

  I said, not sure how to explain.

  I'd have scratched my head if I could.

  The next thought came with a voice. Vanessa, V, from the phone call earlier.

  I replied.

  The wolf decided friend was just another flavor of pack.

  Then came Patty, the woman from the church who helped with Phin and Ferb.

  I said.

  The wolf added that one to the pile, too. Another subcategory of pack.

  I continued,

  She didn’t resist the idea. Just turned it over, thoughtful.

  A memory surfaced—one we both shared. JT, seated in the grass, clutching his arm and chest, reaching over to pet Maggie. The wolf lingered on the image longer than I expected. I felt her thoughts catching on a snag, puzzling out a contradiction: if JT was supposed to be part of the pack... why had we hurt him?

  I stiffened.

  She disagreed.

  The wolf paused again, chewing over what I’d said. I could sense the gears turning, her frame of mind shifting—subtle, but familiar. The same shift I’d felt before, that moment she outmaneuvered me by thinking more like a human. When she’d tapped into her own Auto-Jane.

  Then came the question. Or more of an idea, but formed and directed at me with surprising clarity.

  This made me pause.

  The wolf had never acknowledged me directly like this. Not really. I’d always felt like her shoulder-angel, the nagging voice of reason perched behind her ear. Meanwhile, she’d been my shoulder-devil—my Auto-dog, barking for chaos and indulgence.

  And now here she was, actually addressing me.

  With a heavy question to boot.

  I hesitated, thinking carefully.

  I said slowly.

  If anything, it felt like we were more of a than a .

  Again with the heavy questions from left field.

  , I said.

  Silence stretched.

  Then, she spoke again.

  I thought, trying to parse this question.

  The wolf tried to clarify. She dug through our shared history, tracing backward. She recalled last night, when I called to her, woken her early, so we could stand up to Carl together. The night before that, when I lulled her to sleep, and several other nights like that. The memory blurred as it stretched further back, dissolving into something abstract. A dream half-remembered.

  To something before. Before, when...

  She couldn't remember.

  Her stomach growled, and just like that, the introspective, borderline philosophical wolf vanished. The moment snapping like a twig. Whatever complex thoughts had been unfurling in her mind were replaced with a single, insistent craving.

  She nudged me—less a request, more a reminder. I'd promised her food, and she hadn't forgotten.

  Of course she hadn't.

  So much for a constructive conversation.

  I sighed.

  The wolf cut through a narrow subdivision, winding through a patchwork of cracked sidewalks and sagging privacy fences, closing in on the point where Dorchester took a knee: a bend in the avenue where local grit met commercial chaos. An economic battlefield where local culture went toe-to-toe with corporate chains. It was a patchwork of beauty salons, mom-and-pop shops, tax prep offices, used car lots, fast food joints, bail bondsmen, and payday loan storefronts, all vying for survival.

  You could get your hair cut or weaved, eyebrows waxed, face powdered, outfit upgraded, nails glossed, and shoes replaced—all in a block-long makeover assembly line. You could buy a car, spend the same amount fixing it, refinance the title to cover the cost, and then drink away your buyer's remorse—all from the same parking lot.

  It wasn’t elegant, but it had backbone. The kind of place that took a beating during the COVID lockdown and still managed to drag itself back into the ring.

  But the wolf didn’t care about financing or her personal appearance. She cared about the smells wafting from the line of restaurants just before the road met the tracks. A mishmash of old and new—Pollo Loko, Churches Texas Chicken, The China Place, Nick's Gyros and Phillys, a fish taco shack that had somehow survived three decades of hurricanes, a bar that doubled as a billiards hall, and a mom-and-pop soul food joint run by three sons. These weren’t the kind of establishments that catered to tourists. These were neighborhood staples, still standing after every major economic downturn since the turn of the millennia, still feeding the same locals who remembered when the street didn’t have so many cracks.

  Where there were restaurants, there was restaurant trash.

  And where there was trash, there was opportunity.

  The wolf followed her nose, locking onto her target: a chicken wings joint nestled in a strip of aging storefronts. She vaulted the cinderblock wall separating the shops from the subdivision and landed lightly in the narrow alley behind the building.

  The corridor was barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through, packed with crates, humming AC units, a rusted-out bike chained to a pipe, and the miscellaneous detritus of a half dozen businesses. Just beyond the alley’s mouth sat a row of dumpster—dented, stained, and dripping... something onto pavement. The wolf eased forward, ears twitching as she scanned the back lot for movement. Satisfied it was clear, she crept forward.

  I exclaimed.

  The wolf paused, wondering if she had missed something. A threat, perhaps?

  The wolf paused, mildly irritated that I’d stopped her—for the spider, no less. I reminded her Elmo was part of her pack, and looking after your pack meant keeping them safe.

  Besides, I didn't want a grimy spider crawling on my face later.

  With a reluctant grunt, the wolf turned back toward the alley and leaned up to a stack of red plastic drink crates near the back door.

  I told Elmo.

  The spider scuttled from the back of our neck and perched atop the crates, his fuzzy red body blending in well with the color of the crates. If nothing else, his presence might spook anyone who came out, buying us a little extra time to slip away.

  Feeling she'd done her part to appease me, the wolf turned her focus back to the task at hand. She trotted toward the dumpster and began nosing at the lid.

  But apparently, one appeasement was all I was getting. The wolf shoved her nose under the lid, lifting it up, and dove in headfirst like an over enthusiastic trash panda.

  Smells were different for the wolf. I recognized rancid grease, rotting food, and wet cardboard, but to her, they weren’t bad—just scents, each distinct, layered, and intriguing. The heavy musk of spoiled meat didn’t deter her. It excited her. She pawed through the mess, snout pushing past crumpled wax paper, foam containers, and plastic bags.

  She tore at the bags with her teeth, ripping one open and shoving her snout inside to inspect the contents. I cringed as she nearly chomped down on a plastic wrapper soaked in honey barbecue sauce.

  Legends say werewolves were vulnerable to silver, but legends were created before microplastics were a thing.

  She dug deeper and sniffed out a promising trash bag wedged beneath a pile of foam containers. She popped the lid open with her snout and attempted to drag the bag out, but it snagged. The lid flopped shut on her head. She popped it again, tried again—and once more, it fell back down. To anyone watching, it probably looked like a game of whack-a-mole.

  Whack-a-wolf, I suppose.

  Eventually, with a disgruntled huff, a good heave-ho, creating more than a decent bit of noise, she managed to extricate the bag from its bin. She hoped out after it and dragged the bag back into the alley where she proceeded to shake it violently like it was a dead animal. Garbage flew in every direction. Food wrappers, bones, sauce-covered napkins, and half-eaten chicken wings—all flung across the concrete like confetti.

  The wolf let the bag drop and immediately snapped up a handful of chicken wings, chomping down without hesitation. Bones crunched between her teeth, the greasy and tangy flavors of barbecue ranch coating her tongue as she devoured her prize.

  I flinched at the sensation—the sharp fragments grinding between our teeth, the grit of shattered bone, the feeling of it sliding down her throat. It made my skin crawl.

  When I was a kid, I learned the hard way that chicken bones weren’t always safe for dogs. Zack, one of the first dog's I remember my family ever owning, had swallowed a splintered drumstick and died from the internal damage before we even knew he was sick. But Bubby, another mutt my family had owned—a pit-spaniel mix with jaws like bolt cutters—could crunch through chicken bones like they were popcorn.

  Some dogs could handle it. Others couldn’t. But the moral of the story was basically: Chew your food.

  The wolf, with a mouth built for crushing, was clearly a lot more Bubby than Zack. The bones might as well have been chewing gum for her.

  Behind the wolf, the back door to the restaurant creaked open.

  The wolf's ears flicked toward the sound as a young man backed out through the door, dragging a trash bag behind him. He was stocky, with some upper body strength, but with the kind of waistline that suggested he enjoyed a few too many free employee meals. The scent of teriyaki chicken drifted from the fresh bag in his grip.

  The wolf stood her ground, her muscles coiled but still. I urged her to hide, but she didn't see the need. This was just one human—she didn’t fear him. In fact, she was fairly certain she could take him down if she wanted.

  , I berated, but my words fell on deaf ears.

  But the friendship of a stranger meant nothing when food was involved.

  The worker tied off the bag, hoisted it up, and turned, coming face-to-face with the wolf.

  He froze. Color drained from his cheeks. His fingers tightened on the trash bag like it was suddenly a shield. The only defense between him and a very large canine. One that was showing him quite a lot of teeth.

  I groaned internally. So much for keeping a low profile.

  Behind the worker, the door, without anything to keep it propped open, slid shut with a click, and I couldn't help but notice the lack of an exterior doorknob. Seemed the worker had made a rookie mistake. Gotten himself locked out. Now he was stuck in the narrow alley, with only his lonesome self.

  And a wolf.

  The poor bastard.

  The wolf wanted the bag. The worker just wanted something—anything—between him and the wolf. His eyes flicked every which way, the terror dawning across his face that he was now a fish in a barrel, the only way out not blocked off by the wolf being the long, narrow, and congested alleyway behind him.

  , I mentally projected. But of course, he couldn’t hear me. He wasn't a dog.

  The wolf inched forward, eyes locked onto her new quarry—the trash bag. The worker took a shaky step back and didn’t drop the bag.

  A stalemate.

  He seemed to be thinking, his eyes darting in sorts of directions, calculating a plan of escape. Perhaps he planned to throw the bag at the wolf, in hopes of confusing her long enough to make an escape. That would actually be a win-win for the both of us.

  But the bloke was hesitating, suffering from either choice paralysis, or just scared shitless by the hungry wolf staring him down. Probably believed the wolf was after him and not the teriyaki chicken he was carrying.

  Classic mistake.

  But he had better do something soon because the wolf was prepared to make this ugly.

  But then something did happen. Something red and fuzzy that came scuttling up the worker’s pant leg.

  Elmo.

  The wolf’s gaze snapped to him. The worker, following her eyes, looked down just in time to see the spider climbing up over the waistline of his pants. Then up his chest, going for his face.

  The rest happened so fast.

  The worker let out a noise like the whistling of a boiling tea kettle: a high pitched scream. He flailed backward, trying to shake off the clingy little nightmare. His foot slipped on the scattered trash—wet cardboard the modern banana peel—sending him sprawling onto all fours. In his scramble to escape, he slipped again, face-planting into a puddle of something I didn’t dare try to identify.

  He gasped, got up, staggered—

  Right into an AC unit.

  The impact rang the aluminum sheeting like a gong and bouncing him off into a stack of pallets leaning against the wall, which toppled over him with a crash, half-sandwiching him with the ground. His limbs flailed wildly as he fought to escape the wreckage, the sounds coming out of him now a garbled mix of panic and prayer.

  Something along the lines of: "Christ, Jesus, Christ, help, ah fuck oh god oh god oh—"

  Some people just really didn't know how to control their panic.

  I spotted Elmo on the ground where the worker had been standing. Curled into a ball. The guy had managed to fling the spider without even realizing it. I had the wolf check on the spider, and she prodded him with her nose. Elmo, seemingly unfazed, sprung open and scuttled up and onto the nape of our neck.

  All aboard the Werewolf Express.

  The wolf tried to lift the abandoned trash bag but found it too large to carry.

  , I said.

  Frustration prickled at her, deciding that if she couldn't carry it, she'd make it move another way. She bunched her muscles, shifted her weight, and with a burst of impulsive strength, flung the bag over the wall. It landed with a splitting, splattering noise in the yard on the other side, and the wolf leapt over the wall after the bag.

  The wolf was back on track—quite literally—her paws striking the steel and gravel as she tore east through the CSX-Bennett Yard. The train yard stretched for more than a mile and a half, from the Mark Clark Expressway near my storage unit to the I-26 overpass. Here, the main rail line splintered into over a dozen side tracks, a long sprawl of steel veins allowing full trains lengths to pull off the main line to wait for their turn at the ports. At least a third of those tracks were occupied, giving the wolf an endless corridor of shadows between idle freights. Boxcars and shipping containers loomed on either side, graffitied giants painted in the tags and color of cities they’d passed through. Despite being surrounded by industry and concrete, the wolf was in her element—free, fast, flying through the dark.

  Shafts of light slipped between parked train cars, strobing across her as she passed—giving the illusion of supernatural speed, like she was a projectile in a werewolf railgun. But she barely noticed.

  Despite the speed, the freedom, she was still sullen.

  Still stewing.

  Still hungry.

  Her meal had been cut short. She was still dissecting the bag she’d flung into someone's yard, when that yard's someone flipped on their floodlights, bathing the backyard in harsh, sterile light. A porch door had creaked open, and footsteps followed.

  The wolf flinched and dropped into the underbrush, hidden by shadow. She'd debated staying put, hovering over the scattered scraps like they were prey worth protecting. But she hesitated, unsure. There could be more people inside. She couldn’t assess the threat. People could be armed, could hurt her if she wasn't careful.

  Sensing that the wolf was on the fence, I'd taken the opportunity to push her in the right direction.

  She didn’t move at first. Her eyes lingered on the yard, narrowing in on a piece of teriyaki chicken that had landed near the edge of the bushes. She'd weighed her odds, trying to decide if it was worth the risk.

  The backyard was flooded in light, a figure on the deck silhouetted by glare. The person turned to shout something back into the house—something about drunk-ass raccoons trashing the place.

  But she ignored me—because, well, food was involved.

  I was starting to see a trend.

  The wolf burst from the underbrush, snatched the chicken in one clean snap of her jaws, and darted back into the shadows. A heartbeat later, she cleared the fence in a single leap.

  Behind us, a voice rang out from inside the house—someone we hadn’t seen. “What the shit, that ain’t a raccoon!”

  Frustration still simmered beneath the wolf’s skin as she ran. Yet again, she’d been denied a proper meal—reduced to a paltry scrap of poultry. A wonderfully tangy, greasy, perfectly-seasoned scrap of poultry, sure, but it had only sharpened her appetite. She’d paused just long enough to devour it, savoring the brief burst of flavor, but it had only made her hungrier.

  This hadn’t been a victory. This had been an appetizer.

  She fixated on how unnecessarily complicated finding food had become. In the forest, the hunt had been simple: she found the deer by scent, tracked it, stalked it. Then, a burst of speed, resulting in a short chase the deer never had a chance of winning. She'd caught it by the leg, tearing at the muscle, dropping it, then going for the neck. A straightforward, efficient kill, followed by a meal she had time to enjoy with her pack.

  City food, by comparison, was easier to find and infinitely more flavorful—but she was never allowed to enjoy it. Always interrupted. Always denied. She felt she was being taunted.

  What was the point of having cake if you couldn't eat it too?

  But, despite this detour, the wolf was making fast time through the city. We followed the main line past the CSX Intermodal terminal, the yard empty at this hour except for a few distant container cranes standing like steel skeletons against the skyline. Then we veered right, following a loop of track that curved around the edge of Park Circle.

  I kept tabs on our progress, marking the route by the roads we crossed and the occasional half-lit street sign. First was Rivers Avenue, a six-lane artery buzzing with late-night traffic, the crossing just past the Maxway parking lot. Then came a quieter stretch: a corridor of trees and aging fences, the backs of neighborhoods blurring by in the dark. We crossed South Rhett next, then veered eastward rather than curving north with the main line along Spruill. I’d spotted the abandoned spur on Google Maps days ago—outdated it may be, but not completely useless—and it ran parallel to Bexley Street.

  The wolf followed my instructions instinctively. The tracks here were gone, the steel and pillings salvaged and repurposed long ago, but the track’s foundation was still intact, and eventually led us to a length of existing track that ran along Virginia Avenue: the stretch of road that would take us up the east side of North Charleston, along the bank of the Cooper River, straight to the depot where I’d abandoned my search for Boden earlier that day.

  Less than a mile to go. The full trek was about seven and a half miles, front to back, and the wolf was making surprisingly good time—even with the frequent detours for food. Running had been far better than driving. No red lights. No traffic. No need to navigate behind someone riding their brakes or signaling wrong turns. Just steel, gravel, and forward momentum.

  Wolves could hold twenty miles per hour for at least twenty minutes without a break. Even factoring our pit-stops, it had taken less than an hour to reach this point, more than half that time being wasted on scavenging for food.

  But now that everything was back on track, we'd be at our destination in two to three minutes.

  So long as the wolf didn't get distracted again.

  Which, of course, she did.

  We'd just reached where the tracks split, one length continuing forward, the other veering right towards the Buckeye Terminal, when the wolf stopped.

  No hesitating. No uncertainty. Her ears pricked forward. Nostrils flared.

  She lifted her head. Sniffed again.

  She'd detected food again, that was a no-brainer. I just had to puzzle out where we were. Figure out what I was up against.

  I knew I'd been here before, earlier today, as well as during my short Doordashing career. But I'd usually been here during the day, and we'd come via a different route, so the recognition wasn't immediate.

  But, soon enough, I realized where we were, and what the wolf had smelled.

  I'd fucked up.

  The wolf veered off the tracks and crossed Virginia Avenue without hesitation. She ducked into a thicket of trees for cover, creeping closer to the scent that had seized her focus. The depot was already forgotten.

  She drifted down Cougar Way, a quiet back street with trees and fences on one side, and the backs of buildings on the other. Each step took her closer to the smell, her hunger tightening like a vice around her thoughts.

  It roared back into her mind, drowning everything else.

  She was no longer thinking. Just feeling. Just following that entrancing smell.

  Not rot. Not scraps. Not old grease thickening in a dumpster. This was different.

  This was real food.

  I knew the scent well. The rich, smoky perfume of barbecue. The peppery tang of Cajun spice. Buttery, flaking biscuits, sweet caramelized onions, sizzling fat, warm bread, seared cheese. The kind of food that curled into your sinuses and stayed there, haunting you with the promise of indulgence.

  This was the North Charleston Culinary District.

  I groaned.

  She was still moving, locked onto the scent like it had hooked its claws into her ribs and was reeling her in.

  I told her.

  She ignored me.

  I tried again.

  The wolf barely acknowledged the thought. There was no Boden, no train yard, no mission, only hunger and the unbearable knowledge that, somewhere ahead, it could be sated.

  God, even I was feeling it. That deep, twisting ache. A yearning I couldn’t suppress any more than she could.

  The Culinary District had been my stomping grounds once. I’d spent countless hours here running Doordash orders, haunting lobbies lit by heat lamps and buzzing fluorescents while waiting on plastic bags brimming with takeout. Even before that, I came here for the food itself.

  It was a four-block gauntlet of temptation. The Tattooed Moose with its duck-fat fries and porkstrami reubens. Jackrabbit Filly, peddling pork dumplings and Korean barbecue. The Italian Tavern, mellow in ambiance but dead serious about its pasta—making Olive Garden look like fast food. Lola’s, serving everything the sea had to offer, fried or boiled, seasoned to perfection.

  There were the pizzerias, their stone ovens perfuming the block with molten cheese and charred crust. Alehouses offered local brews, obscure imports, and fries buried under enough toppings to qualify as dinner. Street carts served cuisine from every corner of the globe, their menus flipping languages as often as spices.

  It didn’t matter what time of day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served at all times of day. Someone always cooking. No craving going unmet.

  And I couldn’t come here anymore. Not since I turned. Even in daylight, the smells wrapped around my brain like a leash. My auto-dog instincts would go off like a fire alarm. And tonight, under the full moon?

  It was worse. Much worse.

  The wolf was salivating uncontrollably, her thoughts shifting wildly, flipping through my memories like a highlight reel. She wanted all of it. She wanted to taste, to tear, to gorge herself until she finally knew what it felt like to be full.

  I clenched my jaw.

  She wasn’t listening. And maybe, deep down, I didn’t want her to.

  I knew how to restrain myself. Deprive myself of joy—I'd been raised Protestant afterall. And Self-denial had always made financial sense. Luxuries were expensive. Indulgence costs money. And temptation? Just an endless hole you threw money into. I’d trained myself to eat just enough to keep the wolf quiet: cheap dog food, sad protein bars, and the occasional clearance-bin granola. If I could survive off whatever was on sale, then hey, that was efficient. Suffering had a lower price point.

  But the wolf had no such convictions. She didn’t understand restraint. Or even how money worked. She only knew that she had never—never—felt what it was like to be full. To be truly satiated.

  And the more I thought about it, the more ashamed I felt.

  She deserved to eat. Not just scraps, not just survival rations, but real food. Food that made you close your eyes and savor the taste. Food that made you feel alive.

  Then again, maybe I was just self-projecting.

  I could take that feeling of hunger from her. I’d done it before, hadn’t I? Curled up on the bathroom floor, lights off, shadow running wild, coaxing her into stillness like a rowdy pup too wound up to sleep. I held her in my mind and imagined her small, something I could rock to sleep with enough patience.

  I’d been raised to treat restraint as a virtue. Temper your anger. Ignore your desires. Bury your wants until they fossilize. Maybe I could do the same for her. Take her craving as my own, and smother it under the same blanket of denial I’d wrapped around myself for years.

  But God, I hated it. I hated it so goddamn much.

  Now I found myself in a position where, if I was careful, I could act upon not only the wolf's impulses, but my own.

  And get away with it.

  The wolf was already slipping deeper into the city, her focus narrowing, hunger taking the reins entirely. I could let her go, let her fall headfirst into impulse. But I knew how that would end. Reckless. Sloppy. A disaster waiting to happen.

  I took a breath. If she was going to do this, if we were going to do this, then we were going to do it right.

  I told her.

  She slowed. Listened. Help was good. It meant more food.

  I warned.

  The wolf’s excitement rippled through me, a thrum of energy buzzing beneath our skin.

  She was being taken to dinner by a friend.

  I lay flat against the gravelly surface of a flat-roofed optometrist’s office, the gray asphalt-like coating rough beneath my forearms. The roof had one of those rimmed lips, perfect for hiding behind while spying on the scene below. Just beyond the edge was the courtyard of a southern-style smokehouse, carved out of what used to be a small parking lot nestled between the eye clinic, an interior design boutique, and the smokehouse itself.

  From my vantage point, I had a clear view of the setup: chest-high picnic-styled tables with tall bar stools, each one crowded with patrons elbow-deep in ribs, brisket, or bowls of loaded mac and cheese. Wooden holders sat in the middle of every table, packed with napkins, salt and pepper shakers, and an array of barbecue sauces ranging from pale yellow to dark molasses-red.

  Music from the bar's speakers mixed with the chatter of conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. Standing fans panned lazily back and forth, barely moving the thick summer air. Waiters hustled between tables, balancing trays stacked with meats and sides, their aprons stained with sauce and sweat. The outdoor bar was packed—locals and tourists shoulder-to-shoulder, passing beers, cocktails, and various finger foods.

  And in the middle of it all, my eyes locked on our target.

  The wolf and I were in our in-between form—a stereotypical werewolf, and the proper attire for a late-night food heist. Claws ready, ears perked, eyes sharp. We were crouched and waiting for our order.

  And by order, I meant the family of six’s dinner—the one they'd placed nearly half an hour ago. It was just about time for it to come out. We could smell it now: the ribs had just come off the grill, still hissing with heat, the final rub of spices dusted over the caramelized glaze. Smoked meat, tangy sauce, the rich scent of fat crisping at the edges—the aroma triggered a visceral reaction, a sharp pang of hunger.

  Which was saying something considering how much we'd already eaten.

  We'd already struck multiple times this night, with the wolf picking the targets and me doing the dirty work. Sometimes it was easy—darting in and out of shadows to snag to-go boxes from slightly inebriated patrons, or slipping between parked cars to snatch leftovers left on hoods as people fumbled with their keys. I'd been spotted a few times, sure, but only as a flicker of dark fur, a vanishing tail. Nothing worth a second thought. We were in full wolf form for those heists, four paws and all—quicker, quieter, harder to recognize as anything more than a dog off her leash. Just a blur in the dark and gone again.

  But the more we ate, the more we wanted. Hunger gave way to desire. We weren’t just satisfying an empty stomach anymore. We were chasing flavor, thrill, the buzz of a clean steal and a greasy bite. Each snatch fed the wolf’s cravings—and mine.

  Eventually, scraps stopped being enough. We wanted entrees. Whole meals. Still steaming, fresh off the plate.

  That kind of job took more than claws and shadows.

  It took creativity.

  It took teamwork.

  Below, a waiter emerged from the smokehouse, balancing a tray heavy with a glistening rack of ribs, lacquered sauce catching the light like varnish. Just behind him, a waitress followed, arms full of sides—cornbread, baked beans, slaw, maybe even some smoked gouda mac and cheese.

  The family of six—our unwitting benefactors—perked up immediately, scooting aside their emptied appetizer plates with anticipation. The first waiter set the ribs down in the middle of the table while the second began distributing the sides, asking who had ordered what.

  That was when I saw my opening.

  And I took it.

  I reached behind me, wrapping my clawed fingers around Elmo, who curled obligingly into a tight ball like we'd rehearsed. With a flick of my wrist, I pitched him toward the waitress handing out the sides.

  He flew true.

  Elmo unfurled midair, landing squarely on her arm just as she reached to set down the bowl of mac and cheese.

  For one glorious second, there was silence—brains lagging, trying to parse what fresh hell had come into their midst.

  Then the screaming started.

  The waitress flailed, the bowl flew—smacking one of the patrons directly in the face. Elmo tumbled onto the table, legs splayed.

  I ordered.

  The spider scuttled across the plates, vanishing between cups and saucers as chaos exploded around him.

  Patrons leapt back from the table, stools clattering to the pavement—some toppling, some of their humans joining them, falling in graceless tandem. The waiter, startled, dropped the remaining plates, ceramic shattering against concrete, and stumbled back with enough force to tip over the table behind him, sending its contents cascading to the ground in a spray of drinks, baskets, and fries. And other patron, perched upon those tall, top-heavy stools.

  The waitress, shrieking, bolted as soon as Elmo was off her arm—only to crash directly into another server who had been clearing a nearby table. They both went down in a tangle of limbs, the snagged tablecloth depositing a slow cascade of cutlery and glassware down upon them.

  One of the patrons snatched up a basket of potato wedge—the wedges flying off into the night—and took a mighty swing at Elmo, who effortlessly sidestepped the attempt, the living embodiment of a Spiderman logo possessing his own spidey-sense.

  And then, just to rub it in, he scuttled up the man’s arm.

  More panic set in.

  The man spun and flailed, trying to swat the intruder while effectively smacking himself in a furious, flailing mess of limbs. Elmo zipped from wrist to shoulder, under one arm and around the back, the man wildly slapping himself in a proper why-are-you-hitting-yourself routine.

  But Elmo wasn’t done having fun.

  The arboreal tarantula, who could snatch a bird out of the air, sprang from the man’s back like a furry little missile and landed on another diner’s shoulder, sending them into their own spiral of screeching and panic. What followed was a daisy chain of shrieking patrons, flailing limbs, and overturned tables as Elmo made his way across the courtyard like an eight-legged plague that craved attention.

  And in the midst of all that noise and all those poorly managed startle responses, no one noticed the dark shape drop down from the rooftop, snatch the rack of ribs, and vault back up again in one smooth, impossible motion. Had anyone been paying attention, it would’ve looked like we'd rebounded from a trampoline.

  That was the beauty of our werewolf form. It was as fast and agile as the wolf, as cunny and dexterous as a human, and stronger than both combined.

  And boy, could we jump.

  That had been the trick to Operation Wolf-Spider. Elmo ran the distraction, and I snatched the prize. In and out. Quick and clean.

  Clean, except for all the barbecue that was getting all over my fur.

  The rooftops made an ideal staging ground. Just like in hide-and-seek, the best hiding spots were always above or below a person’s natural line of sight. And with all the streetlights aiming down, casting everything in a golden wash, no one seeing what lurked in the shadows beyond. The rooftops were cloaked in darkness, a perfect curtain to vanish behind.

  And vanish I did—ribs in hand, the chaos below already fading behind me.

  From the eye clinic building, I leapt up to the higher roof of the boutique—quieter, further above the noise, and with a much better view of the city sprawl beyond, and the night sky.

  A proper place to enjoy a meal.

  I loosened my grip, letting the wolf edge forward just enough to take the lead. She didn't hesitate. The first bite was immediate, intense—a tearing, chewing frenzy that sent grease and sauce flying. I tried to slow her down, to moderate the pace, but she was too eager.

  Hiccups followed by the third rib.

  Damned genetics.

  It was nearly impossible to hold her back. Not when our shared form fused all our strengths—and all our senses. Every scent hit sharper. Every flavor registered deeper. The wolf picked up every savory nuance of the meat—the sear, the fat, the marrow-deep richness—while I caught the high notes: the tangy sweetness of the barbecue, the dusting of cinnamon-spice rub that lingered just at the edges. Texture, heat, contrast—each bite unfolded in tandem, a full-body experience neither of us could've fully appreciated alone.

  The wolf radiated joy, an intense, pulsing contentment that buzzed beneath our skin. Her satisfaction bled into me, warm and bright. To her, this was more than food. It was celebration.

  For me? Food had always been just food. Calories. Nutrition. Fuel. But now, sharing it with the wolf, feeling her delight sync with mine, I started to understand the appeal. When we ate together, it became something more.

  And yet, somewhere between gnawing at the bones and licking sauce from my fingers, a cold weight settled in my gut.

  I had given in to something I shouldn't have. Not just to the wolf's hunger—but to her hedonism. And not reluctantly, but gleefully. I’d followed her lead without hesitation, letting her cravings become mine.

  And the worst part? I’d known better. I’d always told myself I was stronger than this, but the truth was, I never had that kind of willpower. I just liked pretending I did.

  Take my vegetarianism. I had my reasons: it was healthier, better for the planet, more cost-effective. But under all that? For me. It was about self-esteem. About image. I wanted to feel like I was doing the right thing, being the right kind of person.

  Eating bland food, choking down protein bars, and spooning cheap canned dog food into my mouth—that was how I proved my so-called discipline. If I hated it, it didn’t count as indulgence. Didn't count as breaking my conviction. That was the logic. I convinced myself that suffering meant I was doing it right.

  But I didn’t just force that logic on myself—I forced it on the wolf. I made her choke down the same garbage, expected her to live by my rules. No choice. No consideration. Just my own warped sense of control projected onto both of us.

  And now, tasting something real, I could feel her joy—simple, stunned, and overwhelming. I was happy. So goddamn happy—and that was the part that made me feel awful.

  Even as the wolf kept licking barbecue sauce from our fingers—I found myself savoring the fleeting traces of flavor.

  So much for ascetics.

  All that austerity? It wasn’t virtue. It was performance. The habits of a self-loathing penny-pincher. And the second I was tested—really tested—I failed.

  I'd let the wolf pull me along because, deep down, I wanted her to. I wanted to taste what I’d spent years pretending I didn’t need. Or didn't want.

  Now the idea of going back to tofu or lentils or anything less than this made my stomach turn.

  But, damn it, it was all I could afford.

  The wolf, having finished lapping up the remainder of the sauce, searched for one of the ribs to gnaw on. I’d lost track of everything we'd eaten. Somewhere between the second gyro and third set of fries, and lost the tally. But, given a rough estimating, and factoring in the 9% sales tax with a modest 15% tip, I figured we’d racked up a dinner bill just shy of three hundred dollars.

  The wolf, still savoring the last bit of bone, gnawed contentedly while my mind reeled in silence. Not just because of what we’d done, the food we'd stolen, the people we'd terrorize—with Elmo's help of course—but what it meant going forward. This night would be burned into the wolf's memory, something visceral and unforgettable.

  A core memory.

  And now that she’d tasted real food—good food—she would want more.

  So would I.

  And neither of us could afford it.

  Three hundred dollars for a single night of eating out. Three hundred dollars I didn’t have. Worse, this wasn’t going to be a one-off. A once in a blue moon spending spree. This was going to be every full moon. At least three to five times a month. And I'd already maxed out my credit cards. I couldn't go into more debt even if I wanted to.

  Still, the wolf wasn’t going to settle for canned dog food again. Not Kirkland. Not Purina.

  She had new standards now.

  Even if I tried to play it smart—cooking at home, buying in bulk—I didn’t have the skills to replicate what we’d eaten tonight. I was going to have to figure out how to feed a ravenous beast that had developed a gourmet's appetite.

  But continuing to conduct more food heists wasn’t sustainable either. Eventually, people would start to notice. Grow suspicious. And start checking the security cameras. Cameras which were everywhere. In every venue, on every corner, at every store front.

  Our saving grace was that most security footage was grainy, low-res, only reviewed after the fact, when a crime was suspected. And even then, what would they see? A big dog? Maybe. A blur with claws and a tail that appeared in only a frame or two? Also maybe. But enough to take seriously? Probably not.

  Not at the moment, anyway.

  But if the wolf decided she was a foodie now? If she insisted on repeating this?

  I'd be screwed. Every night was already like a game of Russian Roulette to see if I ended up in jail again, and that had been when the wolf had actually tried to avoid people.

  But now I'd created a monster with a refined palate. A hunger that only fine dining could satisfy.

  The wolf hiccuped, and the bone she'd been chewing on fell from her mouth. She pondered whether she work on another bone, of should find something to drink. There were many interesting beverages to be found across the streets below. Some sweet, some sour. Some that made you feel strange in interesting ways. She'd never had much of a sweet tooth, or a sour tooth, but she was learning to appreciate all sorts of new flavors. And it seemed the one in her head, the one with all the colorful thoughts and memories, had a penchant for the fizzy drinks that smelled like bread.

  Perhaps they were worth trying.

  Movement flickered at the edge of our vision. Elmo appeared, scuttling up from the roof’s ledge, making his way over to us. He climbed up our leg and onto our back. He settled into his usual spot at the nape of our neck, where the wolf's mane was thickest, legs braced against the fur, seemingly pleased with all the attention he'd received.

  He didn’t answer, just drummed his legs on my head.

  Well, at least he was in good spirits too.