Patty: Physically, yes. He may, however, never recover emotionally from the trimming required.
A picture of Trevor’s wolf appeared with one uneven patch near its tail. The animal looked deeply offended.
I laughed again.
That was the strangest part. The proof changed everything, yet nothing inside the conversations had changed. Patty was still hilarious. Trevor was still Trevor. Grandma Ruth scolded everyone for participating after watching every video and judging the winner.
They were just a close-knit family. They simply did it while capable of turning into wolves. Maybe that should’ve mattered more to me. And it did matter, an enormous amount, but it didn’t make me want to stop knowing them.
That felt suspiciously irrational.
I spent the rest of the evening only inserting myself into the conversation when I saw an opportunity to gain a better understanding.
When someone mentioned a first shift, I asked whether theirs had happened early.
When Grandma Ruth mentioned council-approved doctors, I asked how difficult it was to find one nearby.
My questions were casual enough that nobody became suspicious. They answered freely because they believed I knew the basics already and that I’d been away from the pack long enough that I might need some reminders or updates.
I learned that most first shifts happened around puberty. Younger shifts had become more common, and nobody understood why beyond the general consensus that puberty was generally happening earlier than it used to. Children were called littles until they developed their wolves. The transformation itself could be uncomfortable, especially at first, but it wasn’t usually dangerous unless someone panicked or shifted in a confined space.
The council enforced secrecy and mediated disputes between packs.
There were bear shifters. That discovery required twenty minutes away from the chat.
I stared at the wall, then searched are bear shifters real despite already knowing the internet wouldn’t produce anything useful.
The following morning, Hudson sent his usual morning message before I had finished brushing my teeth.
Hudson: Hydration monitor, are you awake?
I studied my reflection. My hair stood unevenly around the knot on top of my head. Toothpaste clung to one corner of my mouth. My eyes looked too wide, which seemed reasonable since I’d learned werewolves and bear people existed less than twelve hours earlier.
Sloane: Unfortunately.
Hudson: That’s the spirit.
Sloane: I’m still deciding whether consciousness has benefits.
Hudson: Water first. Existential review afterward.
I rinsed my mouth and drank a glass from the bathroom tap.
He was a werewolf. An unknown man who texted me reminders about lunch had a second body with fur and teeth.
I wanted to see it.
God, what was wrong with me?
Sloane: Hydrated.
Hudson: I’m proud of you.
The words warmed me even now that I knew what he was.
Somewhere along the way, the arrangement had stopped being one-sided. I still reminded Hudson to drink water before coffee, eat meals involving more than three bites of a protein bar, to get fresh air and occasionally step away from whatever problem had drafted him into service that day. In return, he’d begun checking on me with irritating consistency.
Had I eaten breakfast?
What did I mean by “basically lunch”?
Did a handful of crackers qualify as dinner where I came from?
At first, I’d deflected. Then he started asking for specifics, which was deeply inconvenient when the specifics were coffee, half a granola bar, and the vague intention to cook something later. More than once, I’d found myself making eggs or toast simply because I didn’t want to admit to Hudson that I had forgotten to eat again.
Because of that, I had been getting noticeably more calories every day. Nothing dramatic. It wasn’t like I’d suddenly started meal-prepping color-coded containers on Sundays or bought vegetables with a realistic plan for consuming them. Still, I was eating breakfast regularly now, and lunch was slowly becoming an actual meal instead of an event I postponed until dinner.
It gave me a strange sense of accomplishment. Apparently, basic nutritional maintenance was the final threshold between struggling freelancer and responsible member of society, and all I had needed to cross it was a wolf shifter asking whether I’d eaten anything with protein.
Over the next several days, I continued my research. I learned almost nothing online. Every reliable-looking source dismissed shapeshifters as folklore. Every source claiming they existed also believed satellites controlled household pets. The secrecy system worked because the truth had surrounded itself with so much nonsense that anyone approaching it became embarrassed before getting close.
The invitation to the pack reunion was pinned at the top of the chat. Every day, someone else updated their RSVP, dish, arrival time, or available sleeping arrangements.
Grandma Ruth: WE HAVE 28 CONFIRMED.
Karen: Several people have failed to list dietary restrictions.
Trevor: mine is food that sucks
Julie: That is not a dietary restriction.
Trevor: debatable
Grandma Ruth: @SLOANE, YOU STILL HAVEN’T RSVP’D.
Patty: Come.
Julie: We’d love to have you.
Mason sent a thumbs-up. Byron wrote that my attendance would improve the accuracy of the historical record, which I suspected was his version of affection.
Hudson didn’t say anything in the main chat, but he sent me a message on our private thread.
Hudson: No pressure. But I’d like to meet you.
My stomach clenched, but before I could begin formulating an answer, my phone started ringing. Mom. I considered letting it roll to voicemail, but guilt had me moving my thumb toward accept.
“Hi,” I said.
“Sloane, are you busy?” The question was ceremonial. She continued before I answered. “We’re in Prague now. Your father says Budapest, but he’s confused because we took the overnight train.”
“I’m not confused,” Dad said in the background. “We were in Budapest yesterday.”
“See?” Mom said. “He agrees.”
I stared at the reunion invitation while she described their hotel, breakfast buffet, the view of the river, and how difficult it was to find an acceptable hairdryer in Europe.
“Did that lovely man call?” she asked.
“He texted.”
He had sent one message: Your parents say you’re a talented young lady. Would love to pick your brain over drinks.
His profile picture showed him standing beside a boat he probably referred to by name.
“What did you say?” Mom asked.
“I didn’t answer.”
“Sloane.”
“He’s married, Mom.”
“He’s separated.”
I sighed. “For his profile picture, he used a photo with his wife cropped out. Her hand is still on his shoulder.”
My father laughed.
Mom ignored him. “You’re too judgmental. You could at least hear what he has to say.”
“He wants to pick my brain over drinks.”
“See? He respects your intelligence.” I could hear her smiling.
“It means he’s memorized one buzz phrase.”
“Why do you always find a reason not to try, Sloane?”
Even from halfway across the world, my mother found a way to make my reluctance around speaking to a married stranger evidence of personal failure.
“I’m working,” I said.
“On a Sunday?”
“Clients don’t care what day it is.”
“Well, perhaps you need better clients.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
She began explaining how successful people attracted successful people. I listened until the words lost meaning, then ended the call by claiming another client was trying to reach me. That became true eleven minutes later. A customer emailed to say the revised design had moved too far from the first version, despite having requested the exact changes in writing.
I closed my laptop.
My cousin, Missy, had texted me twice that week. I hadn’t read the messages, but I’d seen enough of each preview to know she was asking whether I wanted to come over for a visit.
Her name made guilt gather behind my ribs.
I didn’t open her messages. Instead, I opened
THE PACK. More people had responded to the reunion invitation.
Grandma Ruth: IF ANYONE IS WAITING FOR A PERSONAL INVITATION, THIS IS IT. COME HOME.
The words caught somewhere inside me.
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