At a gas station I stop in to pick up something to eat: a sandwich if this is one of those deluxe gas stations, or a Power Bar at least. Before I even reach the refrigerator cases at the back of the store, the latest newspaper grabs my attention.

Pack of Wild Dogs Attack Local Boy

Those howls last night – my irrational anxiety – were these the same dogs?

Quickly, and under the scrutiny of the acne-covered clerk (she doesn't really care what I'm doing, but teenage boys don't usually read the paper and who knows what my hair looks like or how strongly I smell), I scan the article.

The body of a tenth grade student at the local high school was found in bushes in a new development. Apparently he had been out late, over a friend's house, drinking on Halloween, and had taken a short cut home. His body was torn apart, and the numerous paw prints around the body indicated at least five different animals. The authorities weren't sure if these were wild coyotes, wolves, or feral dogs, but the paw prints were smaller than a wolf's and larger than a coyote's. There had also been reports of a pack of wild dogs in the area.

The article went on with tips about what to do if approached by a wild animal, and information about rabies, even though the possibility of the wild dogs having rabies had not even been mentioned by the animal control officers who were interviewed. I suppose it makes sense that the reporter would assume something like that – what other reason would make a pack of wild animals attack a human?

As I select a sandwich from the deli case, I wonder if that new development was Mist Valley Estates.

Days pass by in monotony, ever headed north. In the nights I dream. In dreams I run alongside Lila on all fours, baying at the moon, driven on by the scent of blood.