“Collin?”

“Yeah, that’s my name.”

“Collin. I’ve known a few Collins.”

I shrugged, letting the water lap at my feet. In my hand was a smooth-edged stone; I practiced winding up a skip across the rippling reflection of the moon.

“Well, this Collin is me,” I stated.

“That makes it different, then.”

“Different, how?”

“Collin,” he repeated instead. “Collin... I could get used to that. What’s it like, being you?”

“I don’t know.” I hesitated. Maybe not this stone. Even though it was flat, I was becoming more and more unsure of its shape.

“Collin.” A breeze picked up, toying with my hair. “Are you a lone wolf?”

“I don’t know,” I repeated. “I don’t think I am.”

“Do you know what a lone wolf is?”

“Somebody who… is alone?” I vaguely answered.

“Somebody who’s searching,” he responded. “What are you searching for, Collin?”

I froze. The stone slipped from my hand.

🌕 | 🌗 | 🌑

Sam started sending me to the therapist a few weeks after I moved in. Her name was Amber, she specialized in child psychology (I wasn’t a child), and was one of the very few providers that met Sam’s rigorous vetting process. Unlike stereotypical therapists on TV, Amber didn’t keep a notepad on her knee to scribble away at as we talked. She treated our conversations as if they were, well, just normal, casual conversations.

The casual approach didn’t mean she lacked professionalism. Every word I said seemed to matter to her, in an uncanny, not-bad-but-kind-of-uncomfortable way? She rarely talked much about herself, staying on task every session, giving each of our conversations some sort of theme or focus. On the surface, yeah, talking about yourself for an hour to someone who had to listen is great. But as the sessions came on and on, I found myself running out of stuff to say while still pressured to say something, anything, to make our time together worth her competence.

Amber’s office was in one of those multi-use buildings a few decades past its glory, above a shipping store and next to a child dental practice. Like today, Sam usually dropped me off before going to the Target down the road to get her retail therapy done at the same time. It gave her something to look forward to considering the drive was nearly half an hour through biker-cluttered, rush hour traffic.

“Thank you for coming again,” Amber said as she lead me to her office. I smiled at the nicety—even though it was her time I was taking up, not the other way around. When we arrived, I settled down into the chair across from her. A clear glass coffee table separated us, bare except for a wireless clock perched on its far end.

5:00 PM.

Amber’s office carried a distinct personality. She loved plants; this passion was displayed by an overpopulation of cuttings huddled together under every inch of space of window sill and spare lamp light. In addition, she'd taken it upon herself to hang huge botanical prints to cover up as much of the grey walls of the room that weren't already covered by bookshelves and, well, actual plants. A monstera proliferated by the couches despite its exposure to low light conditions. I’m not sure how, maybe she brought it home with her on weekends to fill the gap where other adults would be busy taking care of a child or a dog or something.

5:01

“So, Sam mentioned you and Amy transformed last Friday,” Amber started us off. “How was it?”

“Fine,” I answered.

“I’m glad. Did you have a good time?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Anything out of the blue happen?”

“No, just… normal, y’know?”

She continued to ask, “Would you mind describing your transformation to me?”

Uncomfortably, I resettled into my seat. My first instinct was to politely say no, but I wasn’t doing this for myself. I was doing this for Sam.

“We drove down to the park by the University,” I began. “Moon was up before we started. Shifted at the tail end of dusk, and ran around until after midnight.”

“How long did the shift take?”

“I don’t know, like… ten minutes? I’m typically faster, but I didn’t want to rush Amy.”

“I ask because sometimes, our speed of transformation can shed some light on our emotional state.” Amber folded her hands over a knee, her legs crossed in a way that pulled up her pant leg to reveal ribbed, retro socks. “In a calm environment, between ten and fifteen minutes is normal. Nervousness, fear, or strong emotions can cause outliers on both ends of the spectrum—threats can cause near-instantaneous shifts, while anxiety and discomfort can extend shifts by up to an hour, if not make it impossible.”

I nodded. Made sense. Amber waited for a second to see if I had anything to add, then continued.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

“Well, Collin, what I wanted to propose to you today is keeping a journal of your transformations. I’ve had several other patients keep their own and reported some success. Perhaps you can find some enlightenment in tracking your shifts. If something changes, you can have a record to refer to. Like a sleep journal.”

“I’m not a journal sort of person,” I admitted.

Amber pleasantly smiled. “That’s alright. If a habit doesn’t work for you, it doesn’t work for you. Give it a try and let me know.”

The only response I could think of in return was a shrug. Again, I glanced at the clock.

5:10

“You’re in your second week of school, right?” she asked. “How have you been coping?”

“Fine. A little disorienting, but it’s been alright.”

“Have you been making friends?”

“A couple.”

“Good. How about your thoughts on school? I’m sure it’s a lot different than Sulphur Springs.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “There’s more people than I’d imagine in East Garden. I’ve been hanging out with some new friends during lunch. They're nice, talk a lot and stuff.”

“That’s also good,” Amber responded. “I know it can be hard to make friends and join a new group, especially when we’re still overcoming our own, negative experiences from our previous packs and home lives. But it’s important to make an effort, and I applaud you for that.”

“Yeah, I know.” There was an unexpected curtness in my tone. She didn’t recoil, only returning my reaction with a thoughtful look. Her next words were spoken more carefully.

“Have you put any thought into joining a particular, new pack?” she continued. “I hope, with the larger social environment, you’ll have better luck than your last school in finding people you fit in with.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just… hard to choose.”

“It is a big choice, Collin. Whatever you choose, I want you to be conscious about your reasons for or against a decision.” This wasn’t the first time I was hearing the same talk. I restrained from rolling my eyes and pretended to listen, hoping desperately she wouldn't suggest making a t-chart of 'good' and 'bad' tradeoffs before making a decision. "Being in a pack is part of healthy behavior, but toxic packs have more negative than positive affects on our lives. Sometimes, even a pack that seems great on the outside isn’t a good fit in the long term. Often, I see people struggle with their packs, or with forming their own packs, because they think in terms of tropes and stereotypes we often assign to wild wolves. That our positions in our packs are set, or that rank equates to identity, or that if we won't feel like we now belong, then we'll never belong at all. Do you have any ideas why those statements are flawed?”

“Because we’re people, not animals,” I dully answered.

“Because we’re complex creatures,” Amber clarified. “Who we are to ourselves, and each other, is fluid and constantly evolving.”

“I get it. Find a pack ASAP.”

5:15

Amber reached out and turned the clock over, hiding the time from me.

“This is important,” she sternly iterated. “I’m bringing this up because I want to segway into your aunt’s concerns about whether or not you’ll find a pack to begin with this semester.”

I flinched—of course, Sam talked privately with Amber about me before we met today.

“There’s a common condition called Packless Syndrome," she continued to explain. "It can cause unusual shifts, strange dreams, feelings of isolation, and a buildup of destructive anxiety. Most people go through some version of it at one point or another in our modern lives; our society is mobile and fast-paced, our territories are smaller and restricted, and compared to our ancestors, we spend significantly less time as wolves than humans. Sam believes that you may be feeling some pressure that may be manifesting some of these symptoms.

"Even when our human social lives are cared for, there will always be the wolf inside of us whose needs are satisfied differently. When we don’t take care of those needs, that wolf will try and find its own way out. Does that make sense to you, Collin?”

I nodded, swallowing.

“Alright.” Amber sighed, probably frustrated with our mostly one-sided conversation. “Well, we still have more time together. Is there anything else you want to talk about, Collin?”

The answer was, like at the start, no. But I couldn’t simply get up and leave, so I had to at least try. Which I did.

I touched on some of my teachers. Talked about Cheryl and her pack. Then I mentioned Pierson. Amber gave me advice on avoiding conflict with him and his groupies. Most of it I forgot within minutes of discussion. Before I got to Simon, however, our time ran out.

Probably a good thing. I hadn’t yet organized my thoughts about Simon, and while I was (begrudgingly) willing to share the rest of my budding social life with her, I wanted to keep our sparse interactions to myself. For now.

“Well then, Collin,” Amber finished with a friendly smile. “I think that was a productive session. If something pops up, you can always call, or ask Sam to contact me. I’ll lead you out.”

As we got up to leave, I noticed a new plant on Amber’s desk. It wasn't big; personally, I would have thought it was just a flower clipping left in a glass vase, if it wasn't for the translucent roots that spread out into delicate webs. The plant was mostly composed of a slender stalk with a couple of leaves, then a tightly closed, soft, white-petaled flower head. After all the near-fruitless talking about myself, it seemed a polite opportunity to say something nice on the way out.

"Is that a new one?" I asked, pointing at it. "It's very pretty."

“Yes,” she enthusiastically answered. “It’s called a lunam osculum. More commonly, a moonflower. Most people take them for an oriental-bred variety, but it grows in the wild just the same in freshwater wetlands. The blossom only opens during full moons. Would you like to see it?”

Before I could say no, she grabbed the vase and held it out to me. I wanted to say no, in case I dropped it or something. I carefully took it anyways, realizing that the glass vase was actually just a bottle that Amber had stripped the label off of. Delicately, I ran a thumb along the flower's petals, soft and smooth. They were... irresistible not to touch. It wasn’t until Amber spoke that I broke out of my stupor.

“Why don’t you keep it, Collin?” she offered.

“I can’t—“ I tried to politely decline.

“Trust me." She smiled, her teeth perfectly straight and white. "It could use a good home. Every week, my partner likes to take home a plant that couldn't sell at his job, or a snapped cutting that he wants to reroot instead of throw away. I'm running out of office space--I think it would do well with you if you were to take care of it.”

“Alright,” I conceded. “Thanks, Amber.”

“Take care. See you next week.”

“Yeah, see you next week.”

Outside, Sam was parked on the curb in her red buggy. When I crawled into the passenger seat, I noticed the back was loaded with an above-average amount of Target bags. Mostly clothes, with one new lamp shade in the pile. She'd been talking about updating the living room to match the “cottage core” style she’d apparently introduced to the kitchen.

“You have a good session?” Sam asked me as I buckled in.

“Yeah. You?”

“Too good. For the sake of my wallet, I think Amy will have to drop you off next time.” She giggled, and I giggled along with her. “What’s that you got there?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just some flower Amber said I could have. Apparently, her partner keeps bringing them home and she's trying to give them away.”

“For just some flower, it’s beautiful." She leaned closer and took a sniff of its tight bud. "I don’t think I’ve seen something like it before, to be honest. Is it a dahlia or a zinnia or some sort? I like its perfume. Does it need a lot of sunlight?”

“Amber said it was a moon-something flower. And I don’t know, it’s so fragile it might burn.” I gently ran a finger up a stem and gingerly touched the petals again. “I think I’ll just keep it in my room for now.”

“You've got an east-facing window, which I've heard is good for plants." It took a few turns of the engine before Sam's Volkswagon turned on. "Treat it special. I don’t know how hard it’ll be to replace.”

“I will,” I promised. Hopefully, unlike a lot of things in my short-so-far life, it would last.