He turned his head.
And he smiled when he saw us.
Ox said, “There you are. My loves. My pack. I was looking for you. I was lost. But see what I’ve found.”
He laughed when Joe crashed into him, knocking him over. The laughter faded when he saw that Joe was sobbing. “Hey. Hey, Joe. It’s okay. I promise.” He held him close, running his hands over his back. “I’m here.”
We crowded around him, each of us reaching out to touch some part of him, as if we couldn’t believe he was real. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
He said, “Listen.”
He said, “Listen well.”
He said, “Our pack is howling us home.”
The door before us was blue. The paint was chipped, the frame cracked, but it looked strong, the wood old.
The infinite blackness inside melted away.
And there, just inside, was a boy.
A big boy.
A quiet boy.
A lonely boy, and he thought he was going to get shit all his life.
This boy said, “What’s that for?”
A man appeared. He looked like Ox. He said, “When did you get home?”
“A while ago.”
“Later than I thought. Look, Ox….” He shook his head. “I know you’re not the smartest boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dumb as an Ox,” and I hated him, hated this man I’d never met, hated him for all that he was, but I loved him too, a little bit. Because he’d played a part in giving us the man who sat before the door. Without him, there’d be no Ox.
He said, “You’re gonna get shit. For most of your life.”
“I’m bigger than most,” the boy said, and the wolves in the trees sang louder.
“Moments,” our Ox said. “These little things that shaped us. Watch.”
“People won’t understand you,” the man said.
“Oh.”
“They won’t get you.”
“I don’t need them to,” but ah, god, how he lied. He wanted it more than anything.
“I have to go.”
“Where?” the boy asked.
“Away. Look—”