“Shouldn’t have done that,” Mike yelled, eyes wild as he prepared for another swing, holding his stick high over his beet red face. But the look on Mike’s faced changed from one of victorious rage to bewilderment. And then his face contorted into a scream a Hollywood starlet would be proud of.

From the ground, ripping flesh and frenetic growling, rising in intensity. The coyote, now free of the lacrosse netting, tore into Mike’s ankle, nipping his tendon in half like a pair of scissors to string. As the coyote took its revenge on the downed lacrosse player, Matt noticed its eyes, brimming with rage but also containing a certain wisdom that he would never have expected. The coyote’s muzzle and coat was slathered with blood, although whether the blood was Mike Armstrong’s or the coyote’s, he could not tell.

Mike swung around to smash the coyote, but collapsed when he placed his weight on the severed tendon. His ankle lay limp and bloody as he screamed on the ground. As Mike reached for his injured ankle the coyote slashed at his hand. When Mike pulled his hand away, only three fingers came back.

Cursing and mumbling, Ben Jacobsen crawled over to the coyote and swung his stick one-handed onto its head. The coyote yipped and retreated, then shook its bloody head, spraying crimson droplets onto the faces of the onlookers. The coyote gazed at Matt, lifted its snout into the air, and sneezed twice. Then the coyote limped to tree line at the edge of the athletic field.

The students behind Matt grew quiet. The only sounds left were the self-pity cries of Mike Armstrong and Ben Jacobsen’s watery sobbing.

Matt dropped the lacrosse stick and it hit the ground like a bone cut loose from a whale.

Mike scowled up at him, his lips blubbery and slick. “Asshole!”

Then Betsy Armstrong got in his face, wagging a finger at him. She smelled of starch and makeup. “I’m calling the police,” she said. “You’re not allowed to hurt athletes.” She ran over to Mike, examined his severed fingers and cried. “You’ll pay for this! LOOK at his hand! He won’t be able to play! LOOK at his hand!”

Matt tuned Betsy out and checked the southern end of the field. The coyote sat at the wood’s edge, eyeing Matt as its tongue lolled. Then the coyote slunk into the vegetation, bushy tail suspended above the weeds until it was no more.

He figured the coyote would be alright, give or take a few bumps on the head. Matt limped away from the stunned crowd and the world slowly segued from black and white to color. The sound of car engines washed into the audio spectrum like cool waves.