“I’m excited to see what she looks like,” I say. “When she’s born.”

There’s a long pause. Then Scarlett says, “Me, too.”

Later that night, after a shower and a power nap, I open my laptop and there it is. I thought I cleared my browser, my search history, but somehow one of the forums is up. Once again, I’m reminded that I’m running out of time to figure this werewolf shit out.

The full moon is on Friday.

VI

I find a crate in the basement that once belonged to Cloud, Scarlett’s dog before Reaper, a sweet but smelly German shepherd mix with a penchant for crotch sniffing.

I stare at it.

I decided it’s best to prepare for the worst, as ridiculous as it feels. The alternative is to do nothing but cross my fingers, and that seems pretty high-risk.

Luckily, I was able to pick up my car from the shop yesterday, so now the plan is to tell Scarlett that I’m going to Ian’s, then drive somewhere and lock myself inside this crate in case I turn into a werewolf.

Yeah. Fine. Cool. Totally normal.

If nothing happens, then I’m just a relieved idiot in a dog crate somewhere. If it does, well, fuck me, I guess.

I crawl inside the crate. No smaller than your average NYC apartment.

It’s easy enough to open the latch from the inside with my human fingers. From what I remember, the werewolf’s claws were long, dexterous. But they looked broken. They bent weird.

They looked painful.

I remember ripped skin, glimpses of bone.

I get out of the crate.

I start disassembling it the best I can with trembling hands. When I’m done, I carry it piece by piece out to the trunk of my car. I get my handcuffs, too, for good measure. The only reason I brought them here is because I didn’t want Laura happening upon my sex accessories. It’s truly unfortunate that I’m repurposing them for this.

After I’m done packing the car, I make stir-fry and wait for Scarlett to get home.

When she does, she’s quiet.

“How was your day?” I ask her.

“Oh, fine,” she says.

I fix her a plate and she accepts it but doesn’t eat, just prods at it with her fork. I make my own plate, mostly beef, avoiding the rice and vegetables.

“I’m going to Ian’s tomorrow night,” I lie.

“Okay. Just remember you’re picking Mom up from the airport Saturday.”

“Yep. Got it.”

“And remember I’m working tomorrow,” she says.

“The shop or studio?”

When she’s not tattooing, Scarlett works as a freelance illustrator and has a studio space she shares with a few other local artists.

“Studio,” she says. “I’ve got a headache. I’m gonna go lie down.”

“Okay,” I say. “You need anything?”

“No. Thanks, though.”

She goes upstairs, leaving me alone with Reaper, who grunts in my general direction. I finish the beef on Scarlett’s plate, and whatever’s left in the wok. After, I go out back and hit my vape. The sky is clear, and the moon gleams above me, resurrecting the pain in my side. My bones undulate, and when I exhale, the thick cloud of my breath unfurls from my nostrils down across the lawn, rolling like a fog.