But he had known before, had realized when he stumbled across the pact the old monk had made with the demon in the book, that if he were to transform himself, irrevocably, unconditionally, he would choose a red-tailed hawk. He opened the book to the hawk family—pausing at the eagle, but knowing that was too corny, too noticeable, not indigenous to North Carolina—and flipped to the picture of his future self. He could not help but smile. The creature sat perched on a fence post, its wings brought up about its neck, its eyes murderous. Many times he had admired the strong flight of the bird, the way it would circle the field like a buzzard, but not like a buzzard, since the rat or the rabbit or the coon it was after was not dead—yet. Talons would clutch the thrashing critter tighter than a vise, its little heart would beat in sixteenth-notes, excited even more by the flapping wings that beat the air like hammers and blocked the sun like Armageddon. Then the piercing of the neck, the rush of hot, sticky blood. The taste of red flesh. He felt a touch of empathy for the small mammal, its tail caught in the violent twitching of death thralls, but he was still thrilled.

He turned and looked to the woods and sighed, the sigh of an old man, of resigned resolve and inevitable conclusion. A sigh too old for a sixteen-year-old boy. He rose and replaced the book. The bell rang, signaling the end of third period. He thought of never walking down this aisle and past that shelf again; he would read none of these volumes again. He allowed himself to swell up. Not with sadness, but with pride. He had found the escape route, of which they were all ignorant. Mrs. Stokes once again gave her knowing nod. He winked at her and did not look back.

He sat through the rest of his classes, taking no notes, not listening, more as a matter of form, a fare-thee-well. No one bothered him. He had noticed that for the last few weeks people had been staying away from him, whispering behind his back that he was acting strange. But it was no matter. Soon it would all be over.

He rode the bus home in peace. Track practice was over. There were only two weeks left before summer vacation, but he would have skipped practice anyway. He sat back and watched the other students in their horseplay and shenanigans, the girls lost in their gossip, the boys bragging and arm-wrestling, playing cards. From the window he watched the land, the land over which he would soon rise. Soon and very soon.