17

Like Black Tarn. The thought intrudes before you can dismiss it. At least you don't have her mad eyes.

But it's folly to stand here, waiting for someone to walk past and notice the pony-sized black wolf with the car keys in its teeth. You slink back into the shadows, then force yourself to regain your homid form. The Change to your natural form is easier than the others; the most painful part is when the freezing cold hits your naked body. You scramble into the van and get dressed, grabbing some spare sneakers from under the seat to replaced your obliterated boots. Then you just sit there.

What are you supposed to do? Cry? Scream and rage? Accept your fate as a permanent cub in a three-Garou pack, where the youngest member is fifty-three and they all think the world already ended?

Fuck this. I've got a van and the keys. I'm gone. It doesn't matter where. Let's get back to human civilization; this "werewolf" thing isn't working out.

Time to grieve in a constructive manner: by stealing five bucks from Clay's spare jacket and getting something to eat.

Nothing wrong with a good cry. Gonna do that for a few minutes.

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