I flashed my eyes.
They flickered orange.
I told myself it was enough.
THEY STOPPED TALKING when I opened the bathroom door.
They all looked at me, but no one spoke.
I looked down at my feet, scratching the back of my neck.
And then I was surrounded by the scent of an old forest: organic decay, moss on trees, so bright and green. A hand gripped my jaw, forcing my head up.
Gavin stood there, turning my face side to side, his gaze roaming over every inch of my face. I let him have his fill.
Eventually he said, “There you are.”
I wondered how he could say so much in so little.
HE MOSTLY SLEPT on the way home. We couldn’t take the chance of him being seen as a wolf, so he stayed human. As we crossed into Idaho, he lay with his head on the window, using Gordo’s coat as a pillow. His leg pressed against mine, and I didn’t move it.
Gordo said, “Do you remember what it was like?”
“When?”
There was a song on th
e radio, something old and soft. He tapped his finger on the steering wheel. “When it was the four of us.”
“I don’t like to think about it.”
He nodded as if he expected the answer. “Look at us now. All that we have.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “Everything.”
Gavin whimpered in his sleep, and I took his hand in mine without thinking, brushing my thumb against his palm. He quieted.
Gordo said, “I hated your father. For the longest time.”
“I know.”
“I wish I hadn’t.”
“You weren’t wrong.” Gavin’s hand twitched in mine.
“I thought I knew him. But I didn’t. He was more than he appeared.”
“Why do you think he went to find Gavin?”
Gordo hesitated. “I don’t know. Guilt? Or maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. He always tried, even when he was wrong.”
“Your father thinks the same way. That what he’s doing is right.”
Gordo scowled. “My father is nothing like Thomas Bennett. And don’t ever say anything like that again.”
I was quiet for a while, the miles melting away. The moon hung in the blue sky, growing fatter every day. Whether by accident or design, we would arrive back in Green Creek the following day.