“I’m supposed to be helping you.”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress,” she says, “coming back here.”

“Did you not see me bleed silver?” I ask her. “Did you not see it? Did you not see my skin heal?”

She takes a long time to answer.

“I saw.”

I wonder how many more times I’ll have to cut myself open for her to truly believe it.

She’s next to me. I feel her warmth, the tide of her breath. I smell her shampoo. But she’s never been further from me.

VIII

We roam around the house like the undead, communicating in grunts, making minimal eye contact. Mom is on a flight out tonight, and Scarlett offered to drop her off at the airport. I catch the two of them whispering to each other around lunch.

“We’re going to Starbucks,” Scarlett says.

“All right.”

I wait for an invitation that doesn’t come. Not that I’d want to go anyway.

As soon as they’re gone, I cook myself some ground beef and eat it with a spoon straight from the pan.

I’m starving. I’m frustrated. There’s something gnawing at me.

Literally.

I look down, and Reaper is there, once again having attached himself to my ankle.

I try to shoo him away, but he clamps down harder, growling.

I growl back.

This only makes him more aggressive. He digs his heels in and tears out a chunk of my leg. I watch him give it a few hearty chews before swallowing.

He retains his attack posture.

There’s a smear in my peripheral vision. It stirs something in me, a defensive reflex. My arm goes up. I catch him midair, hold him up by the scruff of his neck.

“You,” I tell him, “are in desperate need of an attitude adjustment.”

He huffs.

I carry him into the laundry room and attach his leash. “Think we could both use a walk.”

I’m relieved to be out of the house and away from the tension lingering inside it. I don’t know how I thought Scarlett would react, what I was hoping for. This isn’t exactly inspiring optimism for ever sharing this information with anyone else. And by “anyone else,” I mean Ian.

When we get back, Reaper continues to pester me. I give up and allow him to chomp on my arm, which he seems to appreciate. I voluntarily watch about half an hour of local news. That’s how I know I’m depressed.

Mom and Scarlett have been gone awhile. It’s clear they’re avoiding me, each for different but perhaps equally valid reasons. If I could avoid me, I would.

I can only hope that Scarlett hasn’t decided to ruin a twenty-seven-year streak of twin loyalty by betraying my werewolf secret to our mother.

I turn off the news, trudge upstairs, and take a scalding-hot shower. I don’t have the energy to stand, so I sit.

Local news and sitting in the shower. I feel like I’m playing depression bingo.

Two months ago, I was probably having cocktails with friends at the Standard, or seeing a film at the Angelika, or having dinner with coworkers at some buzzy new restaurant in the Village, or hooking up with an aspiring filmmaker in a Bushwick dive, or role-playing with a divorced Park Slope dad in his sparse studio apartment, reveling in his gratitude.