Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-55-

It gets harder to pretend I'm asleep all the time. All I'm getting is bread and jerky to eat and you can't look convincingly asleep when your stomach is growling in a painful way. Also, I need stuff, like more gauze and soap.

I'm starting to get jealous of the goats and cows and pigs and all the attention Mr. Whittemore and Zeke pay them.

Some mornings when Zeke and Mr. Whittemore come in to do the milking and the morning feed, I watch them. They ignore me and don't even look in my direction except when they come in to leave food, so it's easy to pretend they don't know I'm here. I'm separate from them, a voyeur.

They each know their tasks. Not many words are needed. Mr. Whittemore likes to whistle sometimes. Zeke talks to the pigs when he dumps their feed into the trough. "Eh, Maggie May, give Tiny some room. Bonnie, whatsa matter with you?" His voice is low when he speaks to them, like he knows his father wouldn't approve of naming their food.

I lie on my back, staring up at the roof. I imagine what might have happened if I hadn't left Kayla. I'd probably be home by now, no stitches. Maybe I'd be in the middle of some war. It is beyond my comprehension, the werewolf war she described. So there are different packs, and they each have their own territory. What's the problem? Have they ever tried to sit down and discuss it? I mean, our pack seems to be down to Kayla and me, so really, if they waited like 80 years, we'd both be dead, no need for a war.

At night, I try to change into a wolf. I take off the remains of my pants and my shirt and crouch in the hay. My leg throbs in this position, and I can barely breathe. I just know that if I can become the wolf I can get out of here. I'll heal faster or maybe my injuries will disappear once I'm in another form.

The wolf doesn't save me.

A few days after I found myself locked in a stall, I sit up and wait for Zeke to come with my dinner. He's so used to me being asleep that he doesn't even look at me until after he's opened the door. He jumps back when he sees my eyes open and watching him.

"H-hi," he says.

The gun is tucked under his arm. He has to hold it awkwardly as he puts the plate down on the ground.

"I could use some new bandages," I say.

His eyes flicker to my leg, where he shot me. He nods.

"Um, and maybe you could give me a shovel or something to clean up – " I gesture to the corner I've been using as a bathroom. "You know."

"Okay. Sure." His head bobs up and down. He backs out of the stall and slides the door shut.

His footsteps hurry out of the barn.

I chew the bread and jerky waiting for him to return, which isn't for a long while. The bread is hard and crumbly, and the jerky is chewy, and my jaw starts to hurt. What I wouldn't give for a vegetable or something hot and soft. Mr. Whittemore must have told Zeke that my needs aren't all that important. Maybe he told Zeke to do his lessons first, or check the traps, or whatever. Maybe he slapped Zeke upside the head and told him he didn't give a shit what I wanted. "That kid is lucky to be alive," Mr. Whittemore might have said in his growly voice. "He's lucky I don't believe in murder."

Who knows.

When Zeke finally returns I'm through with eating. I'm lying on my back staring at the roof again. I turn my head toward him.

"I got you some clean bandages and stuff." He puts everything down on the dirty hay and looks at me expectantly.

I don't get up. I don't want to scare him.

"Thanks," I say, staring at the ceiling again.

"Um, do you need help? Or anything?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

He stands, his shadow darkening the air.

"I'm sorry," I say when it doesn't look like he's going to leave. "I don't know why I do stuff sometimes. I didn't want to hurt your dad."

I can hear him chewing on the inside of his cheek. "I wish I'd never given you that axe."

"It's not your fault."

"I shot you."

"That's not your fault either." I swallow. "Sometimes I think I'm a monster." And sometimes I know I am.

"You're not a monster. Dad says there's good in everyone, just in some people it's harder to find."

I laugh, a little bit, through my nose. "Did he tell you everything? Did he tell you I murdered my father?"

"He said you must have had a good reason."

Well. My father's face looms in my mind, all those times he choked me or smacked me, and that last time when he watched me, watched me without helping me or explaining what was happening to me, his eyes gleaming with the intent to dominate or kill if necessary.

"Thank you," I say.