I came home to an eviction notice taped to my door—technically, a Notice to Vacate, but that was just legalese for get the hell out. I, Allison Jane Avery, had 24 hours to pack up my things and leave, to dismantle the life I’d barely held together.

Well, not exactly 24 hours. The notice had been time-stamped for 6 a.m., just an hour after I’d left for work. By now, it was nearly two in the afternoon. The logical side of me knew I had a day—one more day—to figure things out. But the part of me that was already stretched too thin? Well, that part just wanted to curl up on the doorstep and call it quits.

I barely had time to shower, grab a few things, and make my afternoon appointment. The notice stayed taped to the door, mocking me as I headed for the bathroom. I peeled off my clothes and tossed them onto the washing machine before stepping into my tiny, cramped shower. The water was freezing when I stepped in, but I didn’t have time for the ancient water heater to warm up—my landlady, Ms. Patterson, would probably have it fixed in time for the next tenant. The cold water beat against my skin, and I tried to shake the tightness spreading through my chest.

Don’t panic, I told myself. You’ve got one more day. Just get through tonight. Worry about tomorrow... tomorrow.

I tried to focus on something else—like work. The morning shift at The Moxy had been its usual disaster. We were short-staffed again. Felicia—or was it Francesca—had no-showed, so I was stuck training Kayla, the high schooler. Kayla—bless her heart—had enthusiasm. What she didn’t have was a clue.

She was still struggling to ring up customers, tell coffees apart, and open egg-bite packages. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as, five minutes in, she was still wrestling with the same plastic-wrapped egg-bites. Honestly, if you couldn’t open them in 10 seconds, they weren’t meant to be opened to begin with.

I had to step in when Kayla accidentally served a caramel mocha latte instead of a caramel mocha macchiato. To be fair, they’re basically the same damn thing—but you add a little too much steamed milk and you’d think you shot their mother. I apologized for the mistake, remade the 'macchiato', and moved on—only to deal with the wave of customers demanding refunds because what they ordered on the app wasn’t available in-store.

I’d come to accept that working at The Moxy meant dealing with impatient customers. The café was part of a larger hotel—a Marriott property that tried too hard to be hip and modern but felt more like a glorified hostel. The place had a way of making people feel like they weren’t getting what they paid for. Between the fancy sixth-floor check-in and a valet that parked your car on the street out front, our coffee shop became their favorite punching bag.

I stuck with it because my apartment was only 100 yards away—just across Highway 17, which required a 15-minute detour. While driving was faster, parking took longer than walking.

By the time I had gotten home, my jeans and long-sleeved turtleneck were drenched in sweat, and clung to me. In the June heat (soon to be July), with the humidity that came with living on the coast, I felt like a roasted amphibian. Constantly sticky.

I tried to lose myself in the icy shower, but the eviction notice kept creeping back into my thoughts. Twenty-four hours—now eighteen. That’s all I had. And tomorrow? Tomorrow would be its own disaster.

I had hoped the court would hold off until after the 4th, but Ms. Patterson—ever the opportunist—must’ve pulled some strings to expedite the process. She had her eyes on flipping the place for tourist season.

Patterson, a divorced fifty-something, had it out for the old tenants—those of us lucky enough to be grandfathered into pre-pandemic leases. With rent increases capped at 2% a year for annual leases, we didn’t fit into her shiny, gentrified vision for the place. And she wasn’t shy about using every legal loophole to shove us out.

Patterson had tried to evict me for late rent before, but South Carolina law gave me a five-day grace period—just enough time to scrape together what I owed and keep the wolves at bay. Well, most of them. The car payments and student loans were a different beast.

Sure, on occasion, I had to take shifts at King Street Cabaret or Club Cheetah to meet rent, but waiting tables there paid good money. I just had to discard my shirt—and my dignity.

This time, Patterson didn’t come after me for rent. Nope—this time, it was for breaking the building’s strict no-pet policy. The irony? I didn’t even have a pet. But try explaining that in court when there’s hair everywhere, reports of howling, claw marks on the walls, and dog food cans in your trash.

What was I supposed to say? The truth? Judge Childs would’ve held me in contempt. She already had little patience for me, because we had... a bit of a history.

Patterson had been crafty. Two months ago, she slapped me with a Notice to Cease and Cure, citing the no-pet clause in my lease. I’d been careful about cleaning up the hair and fixing the scratches, so I figured someone must’ve complained. I made a mental note to be even more careful. Problem solved, right?

Nope.

Instead, Patterson snuck into my apartment to gather evidence. Legally, she had to give me 24 hours’ notice, but it wasn’t like a court summons. It didn’t need to be hand-delivered. So, of course, she left it in the one place she knew I’d never look: my mailbox.

I mean, it was 2023—everything’s supposed to be paperless. How was I supposed to know there’d be something important in the mailbox when all it ever held were credit card offers, magazine subscriptions, and Alumni Society donation requests? Everything else I cared about got delivered to my door.

The last important thing I got in the mail was my W-2 in March. Had I known Patterson was going to pop by, I would’ve had the place spotless—scrubbed, vacuumed, scratches on the floor buffed out, claw marks on the wall plastered over, and trash hauled down the street.

But of course, she knew I’d do something like that. Which is probably why she pulled that sneaky little stunt in the first place.

Was I mad at Ms. Patterson? Yeah, obviously. But it wasn’t the kind of anger that burns—it was more of a hollow frustration. She got to keep her cat, Kettle Corn—an orange and yellow furball that scratched anyone who got close, including her—while banning the rest of us from pets. Well, the old tenants, anyway. But really, who was I to judge? I was once an accountant; exploiting the rules to help clients dodge taxes was basically my job.

Patterson played by the rules, all right—malicious compliance at its finest. That’s how she built her ironclad case and won. She simply demonstrated my failure to Cease and Cure. Sure, I was screwed, but I wasn’t a sore loser. And hell, after what happened to Kettle Corn, maybe I deserved it. Missing cat posters covered the complex, and Patterson flooded Facebook with daily updates. There was even a poster taped to the telephone pole outside my entrance, so I got to look at his furry little face every morning. But hey, I guess I didn’t need to feel guilty anymore. Patterson got her revenge—whether she knew it or not.

If there was one thing I was still bitter about, it was Judge Childs letting Patterson keep my security deposit. Almost $2,500—two months’ rent. That was my money, and I needed it. Then again, maybe Patterson needed it more. I mean, how else was she going to replace the water heater for the next tenant? Not like I needed it to pay off my car or anything.

Yeah, I cried myself to sleep that night, but that had been it. Yet now, under the cold spray of the shower, those thoughts surged back to the forefront. That notice on the door had restarted the vicious cycle. One more failure to add to the pile—each one chipping away at the person I used to be.

Once, I was an accountant. A professional. Someone with a future. Now? I was barely holding it together, becoming someone I no longer recognized.

Once an accountant, now a barista. Once in control, now… fighting the moon.

Focus on the practicalities, AJ, I told myself. Life is like running a small business. You are Allison Jane LLC. Recent expenditures have exceeded the current revenue, and you are running a trade deficit. Now you are downsizing and relocating. These things happen to all young startups. Just keep costs low and boost revenue, and you’ll be out of the red soon enough.

Patterson might have won this round, but I still had a job to do and bills piling up. The eviction notice? Just another hurdle in a long line of them. I couldn’t afford to dwell on the past—better to focus on what was coming next and forget the past. Those were memories lost in time, like tears in the shower.

I stepped out of the shower, toweling off and throwing my still dripping hair into a quick bun—functional, nothing fancy. A dress shirt, skirt, and ballet flats would work for both my appointment and the storage run. I’d top it off with my black Talbot blazer—retailed for nearly $200, but I snagged it at Goodwill for $7 and got it tailored for $15.

I had an afternoon appointment with Mrs. Willerby, one of the few clients I had retained from my time at Muckenfuss. The extra cash barely kept me afloat, but these clients let me cling to the image of myself as an accountant—crumbling though it may be.

I worked at Muckenfuss for almost four years—first as an intern in college, then full-time after I graduated. I was furloughed for a year during the pandemic, then brought back part-time after the lockdown was lifted. Muckenfuss was an old-fashioned firm, catering mostly to elderly clients who still mailed in their taxes. My job involved endless manual bookkeeping and auditing—double-checking digital records against physical ones. Lots of typing, lots of spreadsheets. Mr. Muckenfuss, the firm’s owner, was a bit of a Luddite, preferring low-tech solutions. He also enjoyed playing country radio—98.5 Classic Country—over the intercom. Thanks to this, my technical skills atrophied while George Strait, Tim McGraw, and the Dixie Chicks lived rent-free in my brain.

When the pandemic hit, Muckenfuss struggled. The firm lacked the infrastructure for remote work, and with many clients either passing away from sickness or ripe old age, revenue plummeted. Mr. Muckenfuss, who was well past retirement age, decided to sell the firm to a larger, more modern company.

I was one of the first to be laid off in the downsizing. My manual bookkeeping skills had become obsolete, replaced by AI tools. I didn’t qualify for senior positions, and entry-level jobs went to recent grads with better technical skills. As for internships? My misdemeanors were still being expunged, so I wasn’t exactly a strong candidate there either—but the court hadn’t seen fit to expedite those now, had they?

I kept a few old clients who insisted on paper billing and checks, but it wasn’t enough to live on. So, I called up Candice, my old boss from high school. She didn’t need an accountant, but she did need baristas. Almost ten years later, there I was—back behind the counter, basically her assistant manager in all but name—and salary.

I liked Candice. She was fair and even taught a women’s self-defense class in West Ashley, which she let me take for free. I would’ve loved an official promotion and salary to match my responsibilities, but hey, it was something. And living alone on the edge of downtown and North Charleston, learning to defend myself felt like a solid life choice.

I didn’t love working at The Moxy—honestly, I hated it—but I stuck around for Candice. She gave me a job when I needed it, no questions asked, and let me work whatever weird hours I needed as long as I gave her a week’s notice. My availability could be scheduled months in advance, since it was literally written in the stars. Or, well, technically the moon.

My finances, however, remained precarious thanks to a series of legal battles that had eaten through my savings. Waking up in random parks or gardens—naked and confused—tended to incur fines. The first few times, I managed to talk my way out of it, just another college student who partied too hardy.

But the morning poor Ms. Ursly found me in her garden? Not so much. Her screams brought the neighbors, and the neighbors brought the cops, which is how I ended up standing in front of Judge Childs for trespassing and indecent exposure. The first of many.

Judge Childs was a fixture in Charleston’s courts—strict but fair, with a stare that could wither even the toughest defendant. Tough as she was, though, I always sensed something else—disappointment, maybe? Like she was tired of seeing people like me, wasting potential.

The first time I stood in front of her, I was on the verge of tears, babbling excuses. I wasn’t a criminal—I didn’t even understand what was happening. I was as bewildered as Ms. Ursly, who had fainted after finding a woman, naked, under her rosemary bushes.

Misdemeanors like trespassing and indecent exposure went straight to magistrate court, where Judge Childs was judge, jury, and prosecutor. It was no exaggeration that she put the fear of God in me. I stammered through my defense, trying to explain the inexplicable without sounding completely insane. I’m sure I just came off like another troublemaker or drug addict trying to wriggle out of the consequences of their actions. It wasn’t like she could understand my condition—how could she? How could any reasonable person understand? Hell, even I still didn’t fully understand it.

In her strict way, though, I think she knew there was more to me and my story than met the eye. Over time, as I kept showing up in her courtroom, a strange dynamic formed.

“Get your act together, Miss Avery,” she’d say after each hearing. “We wouldn’t want this to reach circuit court.”

Sure, repeat misdemeanors could be bumped up to a felony, but this didn’t feel like a threat—at least, I didn’t think it was. It was more like a command, maybe even a weird form of encouragement. Like she actually hoped I’d get my act together. She didn’t like me, but at least I didn’t think she was out to get me.

Not that it made the ruling on my security deposit sting any less—tough love is the best love, I guess.

I eventually got the first set of charges expunged after a neurologist diagnosed me with somnambulism—sleepwalking. That helped prove I wasn’t doing this on purpose. But after a few more episodes of waking up naked in random yards and gardens, usually around Hampton Park or poor Ms. Ursly’s, I nearly pushed Judge Childs into ruling I was negligent in managing my condition. Luckily, that one got tossed out.

On top of the sleepwalking, I started growing hair—fast. Every month, I looked like I hadn’t shaved in weeks after only days. The doctors called it hirsutism, maybe caused by an endocrine disorder. Blood tests showed abnormal hormone levels, so they suspected PCOS—polycystic ovary syndrome. They said PCOS could mess with my mood and sleep, maybe even explain my sleepwalking. They put me on hormonal birth control, and, when given the choice, I went with the rod implant over daily pills. Good ol’ set-and-forget.

That ended up saving me—when I landed in front of Judge Childs again, I could at least prove I was following my treatment.

It just hadn’t worked.

That’s why Judge Childs ordered me to attend state-mandated psychiatric counseling. Just because the treatment hadn’t worked didn’t mean I was absolved from continuing to manage my condition (if only you could use a return receipt to refund a medical treatment). It was a tough ruling, but fair—I guess. Tough because now that I was 27, the costs came out of my pocket—no more relying on my parents’ health insurance. Hooray for more expenses.

Not to demean Dr. Anderson. She was great at helping me manage my anxiety. But anxiety wasn’t the real problem; it just made everything worse. The real problem was paying $230 for two 45-minute sessions. That was more than a week’s pay, all for a twice-a-month appointment. But I digress.

I stepped out of my apartment, lugging the first box to my car. Most of the packing was done—I’d started the day I got the court summons. All that was left were the essentials: some clothes, toiletries, a few appliances. The fridge was down to half a six-pack and some canned dog food. One or two more trips to the storage unit, and I’d be done. But first, I had an appointment—and I was running short on time.

I slid into my black Nissan Altima, and fifteen minutes later, I was pulling into Mrs. Willerby’s driveway. I parked behind her car, a silver Camry, threw on my blazer, grabbed my bag, and hustled up the brick steps. I knocked with the wrought-iron knocker—2:30 on the dot. Sure, I had to commit a few traffic violations en route, but, as for any true-blooded South Carolinian, red lights were more of a suggestion, and I prided myself on punctuality.

Mrs. Willerby, who was old enough to be my grandmother, opened the door with a warm smile. She lived in the Old Village, Mount Pleasant’s historic district, in an English-style house from the 1800s. Her late husband, an Air Force Colonel who served as a dentist, had a passion for collecting old tools—dental, medical, automotive. They were mounted on the walls of the main hall and study, giving the house a museum-like feel. Mrs. Willerby, meanwhile, had a collection of dolls displayed upstairs throughout the bedrooms and guest rooms.

Such an old house like hers needed constant upkeep, and Mrs. Willerby had plenty of hired help to keep it spotless. I guessed she paid them under the table—no bills for housekeeping services ever showed up. Not that I blamed her. She wasn’t exactly broke, thanks to savings and her husband’s military benefits, but after eight decades on this planet, she juggled more bills than she could handle (the inevitability of Ol’ Benjamin’s death by taxes). Cash was just easier—less hassle, fewer bills—no taxes.

She paid me under the table too. Technically, you’re supposed to report any cash wages over $20 a month, but that only applies to actual jobs—not hobbies, like a street musician getting tips. So when clients paid me cash, I listed the work as pro bono, and the cash? Tips for my hobby services. With Mrs. Willerby, and most of my elderly clients, my ‘hobby’ was playing surrogate granddaughter.

Hey, it saved me from paying 10% in federal income tax and 7% in state. Don’t knock it till you try it.

Mrs. Willerby had kept me on since my Muckenfuss days, hiring me once a week to help track expenses and pay bills. Once a month would’ve been enough, but I figured she was more interested in company than financial consulting. From what I knew, her kids all lived out of state and only showed up around the holidays. She had five grandkids, most of them around my age. She often talked about them fondly.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Mrs. Willerby greeted me with a warm hug, mentioning how hot I must be in my work clothes, and invited me in. A neat stack of receipts and bills waited on the dining room table. Thankfully, we didn’t need to go upstairs—those beady-eyed dolls always gave me the creeps, made me feel like I was being watched.

I pulled out my old MacBook, the same one I’d had since freshman year. Plugged it in, opened the lid, and waited for the dinosaur to boot up before diving into the stack of bills, entering everything into an Excel spreadsheet. To hell with TurboTax and QuickBooks—I was convinced there wasn’t anything a software developer could do that I couldn’t pull off in Excel. Hell, I could program it to play Tetris, were I so inclined. Besides, I wasn’t going to pay for a subscription. Not on my budget.

As I entered numbers into the spreadsheet, Mrs. Willerby brought out coffee, teacakes, and her famous pimento cheese sandwiches. I loved those sandwiches, and I was starving, but I paced myself—white bread always gave me hiccups if I ate it too fast. Genetics, I suppose. I took my coffee with cream and sugar, stirring it with my finger when Mrs. Willerby wasn’t looking. No way I was touching the sterling silver teaspoon—wouldn’t want to tarnish it. Not that it felt like scalding hot iron against my skin or anything.

It didn’t take long to finish logging her expenses and helping her write out checks. I’d offered—insisted, really—to set her up with online payments, but she still preferred physical checks she could hold and touch. We worked together sealing the checks into their respective return envelopes. Once we were done, she struck up a conversation. Her family was coming down this weekend for the 4th of July, and they’d be having a cookout.

“My grandson’s coming down this evening,” Mrs. Willerby said, her eyes twinkling. “He’s starting his residency at the medical university this fall. You should stop by the cookout—I’d love to introduce you two.”

“I’ve got plans,” I lied quickly. “I’m… moving to a new place.”

I almost said I’d be spending it with family, but they lived just down the road in The Grove—and I remembered that Mrs. Willerby would see them this Sunday at St. Andrews Presbyterian. Such a bold-faced lie would have had a short shelf life. And technically, I wasn’t lying about moving. It was, at worst, a half-truth. But now the conversation had shifted to me—how work was going, how I was doing, why I was moving.

As much as I wanted to open up to someone, I couldn’t tell one of my clients—someone I was supposed to represent financially—that my own finances were a mess. A cobbler whose kids had no shoes doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, and I cared about my reputation. And, as much as I was just a stand-in for her real grandkids, the last thing I wanted was for her to find out about my arrests for public nudity. In her eyes, I was an angel, and I cherished the thought.

Better to steer the conversation somewhere neutral—or maybe something exciting, like the chokehold Candice taught me to do with just my legs.

I’d scheduled the appointment for an hour, but our chat stretched much longer. Not that I minded, and I wasn’t going to nickel-and-dime Mrs. Willerby for it either—especially when she made such nice snacks. But, there was something about tea time with my grandma-by-proxy that made the hours slip away a little too quickly.

My phone alarm startled me, reminding me how late it was. I still had to hit the storage unit, so I hurriedly packed up. But when Mrs. Willerby offered to send me off with a doggy bag of leftover tea cakes and sandwiches, I lingered a second longer. I tried to decline—didn’t want to feel like a little girl getting a packed lunch—but her insistence, and the pimento cheese, won me over. Besides, who was I to deny a sweet Southern lady her generosity?

“St. Andrews this Sunday?” Mrs. Willerby asked as she walked me to the door. Her voice was warm, but there was a hint of loneliness under the Southern drawl. “Haven’t seen you there in a while.”

“No, I’ll be busy moving this weekend.” Hopefully, I didn’t add.

“Then I suppose I’ll see you next Friday,” she said, patting my arm.

“About that... Can we, uh, push it to the 14th? In case your family’s still in town? I wouldn’t want to intrude.” And because I might be in jail again—I didn’t add that part either.

“Oh, nonsense, you’re always welcome. They’d love to meet you. Though, I think most of them will be gone by then.” Mrs. Willerby smiled as she handed me the doggy bag and an envelope with my payment.

I charged $50 an hour—$25 if you factored in the hour we spent chatting. That was less than half of what most personal accountants in Charleston charged. But I still honored the old Muckenfuss rates for my clients (the company was long gone, but its ghost lingered). The envelope had ‘Allison’ written on it, and it reminded me of how my own grandparents used to give me money for Christmas or birthdays. What was it about grandmas that always made you feel like a kid?

“Next Friday then?” she asked, a hint of hope in her voice, as she hugged me goodbye.

I sighed. “Yeah, I’ll add it to my schedule.” I slipped the envelope into my bag and hugged her back. I waved as I got into my car, started it up, and pulled out of the driveway.

Something gnawed at my stomach—and it wasn’t just hunger. I shouldn’t have felt guilty. She paid me weekly for what was really a monthly service, but it’s not like I was overcharging her. She clearly enjoyed my company. Still, it just didn’t feel right, getting paid for what was basically a social visit. Hell, I’d show up just for the snacks and conversation. Maybe I should spend more time with her.

Or maybe I should just go to that cookout—free food and a chance to network. And Mrs. Willerby would be happy to see me.

I cranked the AC as I drove to the storage unit—my car had been baking in the sun while I was at Mrs. Willerby’s. My blazer was safe in its travel bag, but the rest of my clothes? Sweat-soaked and in desperate need of dry-cleaning. The AC could only do so much to combat a Carolina summer.

By 5:15 p.m., I pulled into the storage facility and punched in the code. The place sat next to a truck service station, the air thick with diesel fumes and the constant rumble of engines. Rows of sheet metal storage units lined the black asphalt, shimmering in the heat. Just looking at them made my whole body break out in itchy beads of perspiration.

My storage unit—more of a storage closet, really—was a 5'x5' space that cost me $17.50 a month. It held all of my worldly possessions that weren’t tucked away in my parents’ attic. It had become an oven under the afternoon sun, and rearranging the boxes in the sweltering heat left me dripping and gasping for air. To top it off, I had the hiccups from scarfing down too many of Mrs. Willerby’s sandwiches on the drive over. Too much hunger, too little self-control, and not a drop to drink.

In a fit of discomfort, I stripped down to just a sports bra and leggings. No one was around, and from a distance, I could’ve passed for a jogger. Up close, though, it was a different story. The hair on my body was turning more fur-like by the minute—6 p.m. was approaching fast.

I stacked the boxes haphazardly, reminding myself to be careful next time I opened the door, then headed home.

I pulled into my apartment complex at five to six—traffic had, once again, stolen precious minutes. Out of necessity, I parked in Ms. Patterson’s carport instead of on the street. She wouldn’t be back until tomorrow to check if I’d moved out. Sure, I had other reasons for parking there, like petty spite, which would make sure my tires left grooves in her gravel when next I pulled out.

I left everything in the car except my bag, fumbling with it as I sprinted for the back entrance. By the time I hit the stairs, the clock hit 5:57—moonrise had begun.

The transformation had already started by the time I stumbled to my door, fumbling for the code. Thank God for keyless entry—there was no way I’d manage to get my keys out before my hands stopped being hands. I collapsed inside, kicking the door shut behind me.

The moon wasn’t even visible to me, but I could already feel its pull—like a deep, gnawing itch beneath my skin, too deep to scratch. After enough transformations, I probably wouldn’t need my lunar apps or alarms anymore. My body was becoming wired with its own clock, counting down the seconds until I stopped being me and became... this.

As the moon climbed higher, my body began its familiar betrayal. Life had twisted out of control, shoving me out of my apartment and into a paycheck-to-paycheck grind—but this? This was worse. My bones warped, reshaping into something unrecognizable. Hair thickened into a wild mane, my face elongated into a muzzle, and fur crept over my skin like an invading army. I wasn’t just losing my apartment. I was losing bits of me. One full moon at a time.

The change was like an electric shock, radiating from my spine and lighting up every nerve in my body. Not quite pain—more like a burning and tingling pressure that made my skin crawl and my muscles ache. If my bones weren’t busy reshaping themselves like clay, I’d be scratching at myself like a meth addict. I braced against the floor, claws digging in where fingernails had once been.

A few minutes later, the changes were complete, and I looked more like a wolf with some human remnants. Think less Werewolf of London and more Nina Tucker. I wasn’t anything like the werewolves in the movies. No half-man, half-wolf monstrosities prowling the streets of Charleston. I became a wolf—just a regular, albeit oversized, wolf—whenever the full moon was up. When the moon wasn’t quite full, I’d get stuck halfway, like a bad Halloween costume, and wake up the next morning covered in more hair than Gillette could handle.

Hollywood probably skipped that little quirk—it wasn’t exactly sexy enough for the big screen.

Three days until the full moon meant I was mostly a wolf, though my mane stayed long in the back, a bit like my regular hair. I could walk on hind legs—albeit hunched over—and, thank God, I still had opposable thumbs. Not quite human, but functional.

All the better to crack open a cold one with, my dear.

I wrestled out of my leggings and sports bra, both tangled around my legs. My ballet flats had fallen off somewhere in the stairwell, but retrieving them could wait until morning. After freeing myself from the bra and scratching at my side with a hind leg, I padded on all fours to the fridge. Inside: cans of beer and dog food.

I cracked open the last three Blue Moons (which I liked for reasons totally unrelated to being a werewolf) and half-chugged, half-poured them into my mouth—my dignity was still too human for lapping.

I acknowledge that it isn’t wise to give alcohol to canines, but I hadn’t gone full dog just yet, and I needed the intoxication if I was going to wolf down the dog food.

Hah. Wolf down.

Eating dog food gnawed at what was left of my self-esteem, but it was one of the few things that actually satisfied the wolf’s appetite. A canine diet needed way more protein than a human one—especially for someone who used to be a vegetarian. Costco’s Turkey and Pea Stew for Dogs ran me 11¢ per ounce. For comparison: canned chicken was 20¢, tuna was 21¢, and ground chicken? 62¢. Canned dog food was just too cost-effective to pass up. Plus, the pop-tabs were a win-win.

Besides, the wolf seemed to like the taste, and the alcohol helped me not think too hard about it.

After drinking and eating, I checked the time—7:05 p.m. Sunset wasn’t until 8:31, so I had an hour and a half to myself. I clumsily gathered my scattered clothes. I still had opposable thumbs, but they were more paw than hand now, and I needed them for walking, which left me using my mouth to carry things.

After starting a load of laundry, I packed up the last odds and ends by dropping them into a box—again, with my mouth. Don’t judge me. It was just easier this way.

I didn’t have much left to do anyway, no TV to watch or remove, and I was leaving the furniture behind. Ms. Patterson could either keep it or return it to Goodwill, thus completing the thrifting circle of life.

My lycanthropy had a knack for showing up at the worst times. Sometimes, while doing Mrs. Willerby’s taxes, I’d get the sudden urge to bark at squirrels or gnaw on the wooden handles of Mr. Willerby’s tools. Another time, I was training a new barista and had to fight the instinct to growl at the smell of freshly ground coffee.

The wolf didn’t care if I was on shift or filing tax returns—it had its own schedule, and I was just along for the ride. Daylight kept it mostly in check, but as soon as the moon rose, I’d feel it stirring, like a dog pulling against its leash. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be howling during happy hour.

It probably won’t surprise you to hear that my social life tanked after becoming a werewolf.

Simple housekeeping was surprisingly easy for wolf-me, since I was still mostly the same AJ as in human form. The transformations followed the moon, but the wolf’s instincts were purely nocturnal—it didn’t fully stir until sunset. Or, maybe it was suppressed by the sun. Who knows? It’s not like I had a handbook on the subject.

But when it did wake, my hunger twisted into a primal urge to hunt, and those dull aches turned into a restless need to run—through streets, across fields, anywhere with trees.

As the full moon approached, the urges grew stronger. By the time the moon was full, I’d lose control completely. It wasn’t about giving in to the wolf—it was like slipping into a lucid dream. I’d catch glimpses of myself, brief flashes of awareness, but then I’d lose focus, and the wolf would take over—prowling, hunting, doing whatever wolves do.

Calling it instinct gave it too much credit. It wasn’t some grand, mystical force—it was more like an autopilot. Wolf-mode, or maybe auto-dog. Imagine an itch (easy for me, since I’m always itchy)—one you know better than to scratch. It’s easy to resist when you’re focused, but the moment your mind drifts, you’re scratching yourself raw before you even realize it. That’s what auto-dog felt like—a reflex, kicking in the second I stopped paying attention.

A siren, a scent, a flash of light—any tiny distraction could trigger it. And once I lost control, it could be minutes or hours before I remembered who I was.

The real problem with auto-dog mode? Once it kicked in, I had zero control over where I’d end up. One minute, I’d be chasing stray cats through Hampton Park, and the next, I’d be under Ms. Ursly’s rosemary bushes again. If I didn’t get a handle on it soon, I was one awkward encounter away from another run-in with the cops—and Judge Childs.

The wolf didn’t need much—just food, darkness, and enough quiet to forget the human world. My trick was to gorge myself on food, then lock myself in the bathroom with the shower blasting. It worked most nights, drowning out the city’s noise and soothing whatever primal urge stirred inside. But I was fighting a losing battle—always one full moon away from slipping further.

The wolf craved simplicity: hunt, eat, sleep. Meanwhile, I was juggling rent payments, court dates, and tax-deductible spreadsheets. Two instincts at war, and no amount of white noise could fix that.

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but at least the wolf wasn’t some bloodthirsty movie monster. It behaved more like, well, an actual wolf—skittish around humans, seeing them as threats to be avoided. It stuck to dark streets and alleys, skulking around, hunting small animals, digging through trash, and occasionally going after strays or lost pets.

Rest in peace, Kettle Corn.

Once it had eaten its fill, the wolf would search for a safe spot to sleep, which explained my string of misdemeanors. It had its favorite hideouts—mostly Hampton Park and, for reasons I still don’t understand, under Ms. Ursly’s rosemary bushes. But if I fed the wolf and gave it a cozy spot indoors, I could usually keep it inside for the night—at the cost of violating my lease agreement.

And that’s how I went from being a respected accountant with CPA ambitions to a soon-to-be homeless barista, fooling herself into thinking she still had an accounting career. Oh, and working the occasional shift at a strip club—on nights when the moon didn’t make me look like a Sasquatch.

Lycanthropy wasn’t glamorous. It was a bitch—pun intended. Itchy, awkward, and about as graceful as tumbling down a flight of stairs.

I shuffled to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and curled up on the comforter I’d stashed there—another Goodwill find. This had been my sleeping spot for days, ever since the moon started waxing and I began shifting. The shedding hair was easier to clean up here, and with my new spine curvature, a soft mattress was hell on my back.

At first, the changes were only during the full moon—classic werewolf lore, right? But over time, I realized Hollywood had lied to me. The changes weren’t limited to one night of furry chaos. They bled into the days before and after. Some nights, I’d wake up with fuzzy ears and a heightened sense of smell. Other nights, I’d be stuck halfway between human and wolf—just enough of both to wonder if I was becoming the world’s least sexy cryptid.

I started keeping a journal on my computer—someone had to document this absurdity. Full moon? Total wolf. Three-quarters moon? Mostly human, just hairier than a Yeti. New moon? Thank God—normal AJ. Lycanthropy felt like it was on a sliding scale—ASD (Animorphic Spectrum Disorder)—except with no WebMD, just me fumbling through some sort of supernatural puberty. And regular puberty had been bad enough.

It all started the night of my younger sister’s bachelorette party—at least, that’s the first incident I remember. The party was in early March, and I got blackout drunk. I mean, my sister, three years younger than me, was getting married, while I was still single and lived alone. So, naturally, my family and friends of the family felt the need to 'help' me, and, for months, I’d be subject to unsolicited relationship advice. That may have had something to do with why I helped myself to one too many drinks—AJ and open bars shouldn’t mix. Then again, my initials were AA, so perhaps it was destiny. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the middle of Francis Marion State Forest—no phone, no purse, no clothes, and no memory of the last three days.

Four hours of barefoot hiking while getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, and one awkward conversation with a park ranger later, I made it home. My family had been worried sick—I’d left without a word. But my mom, Katherine, skipped straight to berating me about the new lower-back tattoo I’d somehow picked up during my three-day disappearance.

Along with a case of lycanthropy, I’d acquired a tramp stamp that looked like a heavy metal band’s logo—thick black and red ink, pentagram, illegible font, the works.

No bite marks of any kind, though—another difference from the movies. It’s why it took me so long to realize I was a werewolf. I didn’t figure it out until summer, when the moon started rising before sunset. Turning into a wolf in the middle of my apartment, fully aware of myself, was a pretty reliable indication—and goddamn traumatic.

After that first night in March, I managed to shove the memory aside—until three weeks later, when the hair started. A lot of it. Every night. Then, a week after that, I woke up in Hampton Park, no memory of how I got there, and no sign of the pajamas I’d gone to bed in. Or any clothing, for that matter. You know the rest.

Never did find those pajamas. Shame—they were my favorite.

I was curled up on the comforter when 8:31 p.m. hit, and I felt the wolf stir. Tonight, I stayed aware, partly thanks to the shower. The sound of rain was soothing, muffling the city noise that usually set off the wolf in me.

The alcohol helped too—most sedatives did. After my second month of unmanaged ‘sleepwalking,’ Dr. Anderson had prescribed a sedative to keep me from waking up at night (Estazolam, I think it was). It worked as expected and kept the wolf manageable for a few nights, suppressing the urge to run and hunt, or do much of anything. But the wolf built up a tolerance fast, so it was a temporary fix at best—or one I had to use sparingly.

Alcohol always worked—maybe because canines can’t metabolize ethanol. The wolf’s weakness to booze balanced out my human ability to drink copious amounts of it. A few beers, and I’d be buzzed enough to slip into wolf-mode without much trouble. Wine, though? Guaranteed hangover.

I could feel wolf-me beginning to boot out human-me, and I had inebriated myself sufficiently that I felt I could let it do as it pleased. It wouldn’t do much more than lounge around the bathroom—maybe drink from the toilet.

Bleah. Better not.

I used a mental exercise my psychiatrist taught me to control anxiety—imagining the feelings inside me as something separate from myself. Like an object I could hold. It wasn’t hard to picture. I imagined holding a rowdy puppy, something small, like a chihuahua or corgi—definitely not a wolf (One must not dignify the auto-dog). I tried coaxing it to sleep, covering it with my own exhaustion, my desire to curl up and hide from the world.

As long as I stayed aware, I could soothe the little pup and keep her from causing trouble. That was the thing—I felt that I could control this force inside me. I just needed more time. Needed everything around me to stop falling apart.

Still, something was missing. Something driving its behavior beyond food and shelter. There was always this sense of longing I couldn’t figure out. It wasn’t the desire for a boyfriend or mate—I knew that much. The progesterone from the implant I'd received had torpedoed both my and the wolf’s libido. Oh well, I had bigger problems than an already non-existent sex life.

The wolf was searching for something, always restless, always sniffing for something more. But what?

It wasn’t food—dog chow did the trick. It wasn’t shelter—the bed and bath I built worked just fine. But the wolf was compelled by some sense of discontent that made it howl into the night. Maybe it was searching for peace, a way to escape the city. Or trying to find its way back to some long-lost forest that didn’t exist in Charleston anymore. Whatever it was, it had a sense of direction I didn’t share.

If I could understand the wolf, maybe I could control it. And if I could control it, maybe I could control the transformations too. Maybe even suppress them—or at least make them follow my schedule for once.

People lived with impairments and disabilities all the time and still led happy, normal lives. How was turning into a wolf any worse than needing dialysis three times a week? Compared to that, or being in a wheelchair, lycanthropy wasn’t so bad—and definitely not the most expensive. In the end, they all came down to the same thing: costs.

How could I afford to live as a werewolf and still keep my way of life together? That question circled through my mind until, eventually, the little wolf fell asleep. And soon, so did I.