Little Joe came huffing up the stairs, carrying an armful of fluffy, turquoise towels. “You can shower and get cleaned up. Get some dry clothes. You can have them off those racks over there. Take whatever you need. Probably all went out of fashion ten years ago anyway. I haven’t sold anything since the truckers stopped coming.” He slapped down a pair of scissors in front of the Greta. “Have at it, sister.”

The woman pressed her hands together and raised them over her head.

“Our mother the Earth… When you’re all done, I’ll nuke some hot dogs, and we can drink hot cocoa and tell ghost stories. Indians tell the best ghost stories. Ain’t that right, Francis?”

Francis shrugged, eyes still locked on the floor.

“I bet you have a story to tell, don’t you, kid? I bet the stories you could tell would make all our hairs turn gray.”

Little Joe sniffed the air. “Maybe you can go first,” he said to the Greta. He moved to leave but stopped. “No phones, AR glasses, anything that gets online.”

“Comstock took mine,” Alan said.

“I left mine at the department,” said Gwen.

“Haven’t used a damn phone since I went off the grid thirty years ago,” said Nash.

“Good, you can use these.” From a denim pocket, Little Joe handed a pink phone to Alan and a red one to Gwen. “Pink for the shrink, red for the red.” He laughed. “They won’t be able to track these. You can use them on my internet, but if you use them from a Wi-Fi, like at a coffee shop, and you log into your social media, they’ll be able to pinpoint you within a few minutes.” He eyed each suspiciously while adding, “Do not log into fucking social media.”

Alan turned the device over in his palm. It was much fatter than any phone he’d ever used.

“You like that, doc? Made them myself. Good old reservation craftsmanship. There’s a market for anonymity these days. Militias can’t get enough of them.”

“I should call Comstock,” Gwen said, “and explain what happened.”

Nash chuckled. “Whatcha gonna say? That you were attacked by werewolves?”

“You should call him, Deputy Wolf,” said Little Joe, “and listen to his words. If he’s part of this, you’ll know it.”

“I don’t even know what this is. How could he be part of this? He’s acting sheriff.”

She put the phone on speaker and dialed. It rang for half a minute.

“Hello, Lake County Sheriff’s Department. How can I help you?” said a woman’s voice.

“Hello, Sheriff Comstock, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

Alan nodded when she looked at him. “It’s… Deputy Gwen Wolf.”

There was a pause. “One moment, please.”

The line switched to an old Christmas song, “I’ll be home for Christmas.”

“Gwen? Where the hell are you?” There was a quiver in Comstock’s voice.

“I’m okay. I’m alright,” Gwen said. “The department was attacked.”

Another pause.

“What do you mean, attacked?”

“I mean, attacked. By people with wolves or trained attack dogs. Comstock, listen to me. This is going to sound crazy. I think they were werewolves.”

Alan could hear muffled voices in the background.

“Damn right it was attacked. Someone busted out that shrink and the boy.”

“Comstock, people died.”

“Goddamn right they did. I’ve got six dead deputies here.”

“Oh my God, all six?”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“And dead Gretas everywhere.”

The tall Greta hid her face with cloth-covered hands.

“Ambushed. Gunshot wounds to the head. Assassination style. It takes a real sick bastard—”

“No, there were no gunshot wounds. They were attacked by animals.”

“Bullshit. You need to come in right now. The FBI’s on the way.”

“I told you! We saw them. One of the deputies, I saw him attacked. Check the CCTV.”

“CCTV was offline. Come in now. We can help you. Is the boy with you?”

“No,” she said flatly. Her trembling emerald eyes locked on Alan.

“Gwen, help us get the boy back. We have reason to believe he could be in some danger. Perhaps some sort of grooming by this Dr. Smith.”

“Comstock, that’s ridiculous, and you know it. I can’t come in until I figure out what’s going on.”

“I know Dr. Smith and the kid are with you. I also know you helped them kill the deputies, my deputies.”

“No! We didn’t! It was the wolves!”

A long pause and a series of beeps and clicks.

“Where are you calling us from?”

“I have to go.”

“The only wolf is you, Wolf.” There was a sneer in Comstock’s voice. “You got nowhere to run. We’re going to find you. We’re going to find that fucking boy.”

Gwen ended the call with a shaking finger. She looked at them all and said, “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“He was lyin,” Nash stated.

A pall passed over the group, quiet as the Greta herself. From downstairs, there was a loud DING. Alan’s heart jumped.

“Hot dogs are ready!”

Little Joe brought them each a large hot dog in a fluffy bun smothered in mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, and relish, along with a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

Alan chewed carefully with his swollen lip. It was the best hot dog he’d ever eaten. The meat was hot and juicy, and the bun was soft and warm.

Francis scraped off the fixings before devouring his.

“I gotta say, Lil’ Joe, you do make a gourmet dawg,” the hippie complimented.

“Papa Joe’s secret recipe. Remove from package, microwave for three minutes.”

When they’d finished eating, they all sat in the soft booth, drinking their hot chocolates. Francis leaned his head against Alan’s shoulder. He wanted to pull the child into his arms, rock him, and say that he would protect him from the world. But he could merely sit there with his heart beating. The father who had never been. He was no defender. He was not wise.

The Greta sat cross-legged on the floor across the room, her back against the wall, a neon BEER sign shining down on her as she cut up a black t-shirt.

The hippie leaned against the cardboard, and Little Joe had pulled in one of the comfortable chairs from the TV room and was reading something on his phone.

“The National Weather Service just declared emergency travel only for all of Lake and Flathead counties. Seven to twelve inches by morning, and it looks like the temperature is going to drop tonight. Minus forty.”

“Sweeeeet Lord,” exclaimed Nash. As if on cue, a gust of wind shook the side of the building. “I say we stay cozy as peas in a pod here.”

Gwen laid her head on the table. “I’m so tired, but I doubt I could sleep.”

“We’re all going to need sleep. But not all at once. We’ll need to keep watch,” Little Joe said.

“Keep watch?” Alan questioned. He realized that he was probably in a state of shock. The events at the jail, the accident on Main Street, they felt like scenes from a movie and not something that had actually happened. Yet Gwen’s call to Comstock had confirmed the authorities, including the FBI—if Comstock could be believed—were looking for them as suspects in the murders of the deputies and the Gretas.

Francis pulled his hoodie tight around his head. Poor kid. He had warned them, hadn’t he? He tried to tell Alan about the scars on his body, about the hunters.

“Doc,” said Carter Nash, “I think we need to seriously consider our situation here and start cookin up a plan.”

“Fuck, Nash, I don’t know what the hell happened,” Alan said.

“Well, you did go up to see White Owl, didn’t you?” asked Little Joe.

“I did,” said Alan.

“No offense against White Owl, but there’s a reason she lives up there in a rock and no one ever visits her.”

“Who’s White Owl?” asked Gwen.

“She’s the woman Francis has been living with.”

“She’s a damn witch,” Little Joe interjected, “and trouble finds her wherever she goes. And trouble finds you too, boy.” He pointed a fat finger at Francis.

“Sorry,” mumbled Francis, looking down at the tabletop.

“It’s not your fault,” said Alan.

“It is my fault,” the boy persisted. “If I hadn’t given the concert, nobody would have died. They always come when I sing.”

“The hunters?” asked Gwen.

Francis nodded.

“Those things,” said Alan, “Do you know why they come?”

“Werewolves, call em what they are,” said Nash.

“They want to kill me. They want to kill the Maji.” His voice was soft and lost. “White Owl told me never to sing unless I have a plan to escape. I’m sorry. I didn’t have a plan in the jail.”

“Who are the Maji?” Gwen asked.

“We are,” said Francis, weak of voice.

Nash took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was one of the posters. “Builds A Fire Brings the Rain,” he read. “You sure did make it rain. I guess when it rains, it pours. Gotta say though, little guy, your music, it’s… I don’t know how to talk about it. It’s magic, sure as Heaven.”

“Here is where you are,” Little Joe declared. “Hippie, I don’t know anything about you, but Dr. Smith and Deputy Wolf, you two are professional people, logical people, yet here you are holed up in my gas station while the cops are out there looking for you because of some bloody tragedy tonight. And how those poor people died, well, you’re just going to have to believe your eyes. And you’re just going to have to accept that the shit has hit the fan, and things as they are now, are not as they were.”

“Cheers,” said Nash. He lifted his cup aloft, and so did they all, and touched them one to another in solemn recognition of their new reality. The Greta, shrouded in dry black fabric cut from the expired fashions of the Jiffy Stop, curled in a ball on the floor.