He blacked out. He doesn’t remember any of it. I’d been angry before, but never could I even begin to imagine what emotions he was feeling. He didn’t either. He had blacked out.


I’d been angry before. I’d pulled my hair, squawled. I’d cried tears of frustration. I’d even talked back to my stepmother once. But that was it. I’d never done any of the things he’s done.


Werewolf. I thought. He’s like a werewolf.


He looked ashamed, still shaking and exhausted, sitting on the concrete steps in front of my townhouse.


“Would you like a drink?”


“No.” The werewolf watched the cigarette burn between his fingertips.


He had walked- seven miles to my house- because he had done something terrible. Something awful- and his own conscious told him leave.

Shortly after the cops arrived. He was cuffed and he ducked his head into the backseat of the cruiser. He kept his eyes downcast as they drove away, taking him to the station. I sat on the steps where he had been, wondering what he had done.