WOLFVILLE

4.2: Domestic Name For A Wild Animal

Timmory stared. how did u get my number?

A few minutes later, the phone buzzed again. Checked while you were out. Need to keep tabs on you now that you're one of us.

She scoffed. im not one of u.

Hate to break it to you, but you are.

That was irritating. says who?

Then she typed out another one. lets just pretend it nevr happened. no one needs to know.

Can't let you just disappear off my radar like that, Timmory. You're my responsibility.

um. how so.

Can I just call you?

fine.

Within seconds, her ringtone shattered the silence. She was grateful no one else was home and threw it on speaker phone. "Explain," Timmory said groggily.

Nate's voice crackled on the other end. "Hey Timmory."

"Explain," Timmory said again.

She heard him sigh. "Remember when I said cases like yours don't usually happen? We don't have a proper protocol for it. I'm the one that—hey, am I on speaker?"

"It's fine, no one's around."

"Take me off," he said.

Timmory begrudged the pain in her arm to hold the phone up to her face. "Okay."

"I'm the one that took over when we found you. I brought you back and looked after you, so now they expect me to make sure you don't blow our cover. I'm supposed to integrate you into our pack."

"But what if I don't want to be part of it? I have a choice too," she argued, which was a lot easier to do, she realized, when she wasn't a fucking dog.

"No you don't. This is going to stay with you your whole life. Everything is going to change; what you eat, what you think, how you perceive everything. You can't ignore this. Besides, I'm trying to make it easier for you. I'm trying to help."

"I never asked for this!" Timmory snipped.

Nate got annoyed. "Would you rather have died?"

She simmered, dwelling.

"There was nothing we could do to stop it. Sorry. All we can do is try to make it work. I want to make it work, Timmory, but you need to trust me," he insisted.

"I don't even know you."

"Then let's get to know each other," he suggested.

Timmory wrinkled her nose. "Fine."

"When are you free?"

"Wednesday evening," Timmory said, glancing at the calendar on her wall.

"I'll pick you up," Nate offered. "Text you then. And I feel it shouldn't have to be said, but Timmory, don't tell anyone. Nobody can know what happened."

"Yes Dad," she sniffed.

Nate hung up. Timmory put her phone down and closed her eyes, thinking she'd sleep again—she felt so worn and ragged—but something was off. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she still hadn't eaten. The last time she tried to, she'd thrown it all up. Maybe if she ate, she'd feel better.

She laboriously emerged from bed, steadying against the bedframe and her table. Her legs quivered like jelly and her muscles screamed. Everything hurt. Was it always like this? Was it going to be like this forever? Timmory shuffled into the middle of the room, catching sight of herself in the mirror. She stood hunched, her usually shiny, wavy hair now ratty and tangled up. Her arms were covered in bruises of every size and colour, her bandaged arm swollen. She lifted her shirt and saw the same bruises spotting her stomach and sides; her thigh, where she'd been bitten, was bandaged and tender to the touch. "I look like I died," she mused out loud.