#Chapter 104: Scars

Ardal Panting, I come to a slow near the dry creek bed in the cypress grove a few blocks behind the house. I shift out of my wolf form and pause to kick a few dirt clods where the water should be. Sunlight flickers through the emerald canopy of trees. A light breeze blows just enough to make the Texas September heat tolerable. I run my finger over the mark inscribed on my hand. This and the one on my ankle are the visible reminders of my narrow escape a few months ago. Oh, and the fang marks on my neck, too, of course. I keep those covered with makeup. I made the mistake one day, of dashing into the grocery store for bread without bothering to conceal the scar - ran into one busybody werewolf, and now I'm the talk of the Were community. There are invisible remnants, too. A swell of cicadas sing me a song, an afternoon lullaby that does little to soothe my angsty soul. I've spent more time as a wolf this summer than I have in years, roaming and racing through pasture