“I need to talk to someone? What about you?”

“I have a therapist,” she says.

“Oh.”

“Actually, can I have the gummies?”

I give her the candy back. I move her legs so I can sit beside her on the couch.

She flips around for fifty years before selecting Beetlejuice on some obscure streaming service.

We fall asleep watching it.

Mom’s absence simplifies our dynamic. The next day, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, we spend 99 percent of our time on the couch, reading and working and watching TV, getting up only for food and bathroom breaks.

I’m not sure if this is what the doctors meant when they restricted Scarlett’s activity, but I’m too afraid to ask and rock the boat. I let days pass like this before suggesting we leave the house and go for a walk.

There’s a chill in the air. It’s going to snow soon. I can taste it.

“A year ago,” Scarlett says, pausing to zip up her jacket. “A year ago, everything was so simple. How did things get so fucked so fast?”

“I’m guessing a lack or failure of birth control.”

She grumbles.

“For me it was really just the werewolf attack,” I say. “That’s when things started to get weird.”

Another grumble.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” she says.

“Doubt, disbelief. Tomato, to-mah-to.”

“What do you want from me? How would you react if I came to you and said I was a unicorn?”

“You are a unicorn,” I say, petting her head.

We cross the street and pass a house with rotting pumpkins on the doorstop, pass another with a giant turkey inflatable, another with Christmas lights.

It’s a confusing time for everyone.

“There is such a thing as clinical lycanthropy,” she says.

“All in my head,” I say. “I’m imagining it.”

“It’s possible,” she says. “The physical symptoms could be manifestations of a strong mental belief.”

“If I could will things of my body, I would have much bigger tits and never get my period.”

“Did you know Mom’s going through menopause?” she asks. It’s an unexpected shift in subject.

“No, that’s not information I received or cared to receive, but thanks.”

“I never see her as getting older,” she says. “She kept referring to herself as a grandma and it made me—”

She shudders.

I watch her walk down this street where she’s lived for the past five years, in the town where she’s lived her whole life, and I realize maybe it’s not that she’s content to be where she’s always been. Maybe she’s just terrified of change.

“Matty told me he bought a ring,” I say, tripping over some uneven sidewalk.

“Mm,” she says.

“No comment on that?”

“No comment.” She’s suddenly out of breath. “Let’s turn around here.”

The sky has gone gray and gloomy, the wind bitter.

“I’m dealing with it, you know?” I tell her. “The werewolf stuff, I’m handling it. I don’t need your help. I just want to be able to talk about it with you. I want you to believe me.”