I wake up with a start, my breath frosting into the air. It only takes me a moment to remember that Zeke and I pulled into a WalMart parking lot late last night and fell asleep. Zeke's still conked out, his seat reclined and his fist curled under his chin.

Of course, then I also have to recall that Zeke is now an orphan no thanks to me, and that I'm driving a stolen car that by now has probably been reported to the police.

With that in mind, I start up the car and get the hell out of there. Zeke mumbles something and falls back to sleep. What a stupid idea. We thought it'd be for the best parking at a 24-hour WalMart, where people wouldn't wonder why a car was parked there all night. But now the sun is up and everyone in the world must have seen us sleeping. And WalMart parking lots have security cameras. We should've found some deserted road and parked there, where no police cruiser would happen to drive by and see two teenagers crashed out in a car and run the plates.

We were damn lucky not to get caught.

I find myself on a highway, Route 2 East. Of course, the opposite direction I want to go. I don't dare try to figure out how to change direction and continue driving at exactly the speed limit while cars zoom by. Don't want to attract any attention to ourselves.

"I'm hungry," Zeke says a short time later.

"Got any money?" I ask.

"No."

"Me neither."

We're quiet for a time, until Zeke's stomach's rumbling gets too loud. He switches on the radio, and punches through the radio's preset buttons. Classic rock, heavy metal, pop rock, commercial jingle, more classic rock. "Dad always liked listening to the news." It's impossible to mistake the sadness in his voice. Finally he stops on a station playing Led Zeppelin.

"Leave it," I say. I always liked Led Zeppelin, those few times whoever I hitched a ride with liked classic rock. The songs all felt like they were about travelling, roaming, wandering... sort of like me, I guess.

About twenty minutes later a yellow light appears on the dashboard. "What does that mean?" I figure it out as I say the words. "Crap."

"What?" Zeke leans over to look. "Oh."

The gas gauge's needle points right at the red letter E, and the yellow light is in the shape of a gas pump.

"So, uh, we've got no money," I reiterate from our previous conversation. "Any other suggestions?"

"I guess we could steal some gas." Zeke shrugs. "I know how to siphon gas, if we can get a hose and maybe a funnel."

Where on earth would we get a hose? "Or we could steal another car."

"We could rob a gas station, like hold someone at gunpoint and make them fill our tank."

"How about we call a tow truck, then steal that?"

Zeke and I trade a few more suggestions before we can't think of anything more ridiculous and our immediate dilemma sinks in. We drive in silence.

"How long after the low fuel light comes on before the tank is actually empty?" I ask.

"No clue."

When the car runs out of gas a few miles later, we have no choice but to get out and start walking.

"It was a good idea, while it lasted," Zeke says.

"Thanks."

For a time I wonder if it would be better if we turned wolf and crossed the miles that way, the way Kayla always wanted to do, the way Kayla and I did during those dark days I barely remember until I woke to find I'd eaten a child. For the first time I wonder what the point of leaving that injured, helpless creature there was. Kayla said the other pack left the little girl there as some kind of bait, and clearly it worked – I showed up, didn't I? – yet the other pack didn't attack us. Were they watching, just trying to get a good look at their competition?

If so, what did they see? A monster, or a pathetic starving piece of shit with no respect for human life?

Maybe Kayla was lying. To make me not feel like a monster.

It's better for us to be human, Zeke and I. Maybe I can control Zeke and maybe it was just a fluke, but if Zeke got out of control what would I do, when I can barely control myself?

Just as I think this, Zeke growls, "I'm hungry."

Shit.

I look around at the desolate whiteness surrounding us. Even if there was a rabbit prancing along right at that moment, no way I could hunt it down, not with all the traffic on this road and no trees. "Look." I point to a sign up ahead. "Truck stop, four miles. Think you can wait that long?"

Zeke mumbles what I hope is an okay.

I'm hoping for a diner where we can chew and screw, or maybe do some dishes to pay for our meals if they're feeling generous and Zeke hasn't killed anyone yet. What I get, as I go on almost 24 hours without food, is a rest stop with a couple of vending machines.

We break into a run and assault the machines with little regard for the two truckers whose big rigs are idling in the parking lot and the family belonging to the beige minivan. The rest stop is basically two restrooms with a roof bridging the space between and protecting the vending machines. Zeke's muttering gibberish and growls and I hold back, alert to see how human he appears, ready to grab him if he begins to look too wolfish. He smashes the glass front of one of the machines and grabs bags of chips, cookies, I can barely see what he's taking because it seems like he's grown bigger, taking up the space that was once the glass front of the machine.

"Okay, Zeke, I think you've got enough," I say.

His head whips around and all I see are teeth bared at me.

Just then, a mother and her school-age daughter walk out of the women's restroom. I see the way the mother pushes her daughter behind her, how they cower against the wall, fearfully taking in the two teen boys who have destroyed a vending machine. Maybe she doesn't see Zeke's wolfish face pushing out, but she knows something's wrong and once she runs to her car with her daughter in tow, she'll dial the police on her cell phone and then we'll be caught.

"Zeke, let's go."

I head out the other side of the rest stop building, toward the back of the parking lot. My brain feels a pull when I turn away, but I pull back and then I hear Zeke's footsteps echoing mine.

Hunkered down behind some thorny bushes, I try to eat some of the packaged food. It's too salty – my throat is dry, and I end up coughing. I wait, listening for the sound of sirens after the minivan peels off, but there's nothing.

"Wait here," I tell Zeke. Not that it matters. He's in a feeding frenzy and I can see wrappers going down along with the chips.

Back at the rest stop I listen for anyone else in the bathrooms, but the two truckers from before must have gone. I head into the bathroom.

When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, it really surprises me that the woman didn't call the police. I've got blood on my temple – not my blood, either – and myriad bruises and cuts on my face. I shove my face into the sink and gulp water until my mouth gets too cold, then try to scrub the blood off. Ears alert for approaching footsteps, I untuck my shirt and lift it to look at my ribs.

The bandage is dark red and stiff. I pick at the tape and slowly peel it away to check out the real damage. With everything going on, my injuries have been the last thing on my mind. The stitches held up pretty well, considering the changes my body went through. The thread broke in the middle and unraveled, leaving about an inch of half-healed skin. I touch the white scar tissue lightly. Still sore, but healed. I just hope the inside has healed as well as the outside.

I don't want it to get infected, so I wash it carefully and stick some of the tape I salvaged from the soiled bandage to a folded up square of toilet paper that will serve as a clean dressing. Better than nothing.

Next, my leg.

With my foot on the sink and my jeans rolled up, I can see that my leg's looking even better than my ribs. Completely healed, and only the faintest of white lines where the teeth of the bear trap bit. I yank out these stitches as well and wash my leg. Good as new.

I gulp some more water and start to wash my hair in the sink before remembering Zeke out there in the woods eating snack packs of Lays and Doritos and Chips Ahoy. He's never been hungry like I've been. I imagine he's ravenous. And who knows if he might black out and start killing people like I might have at his age.

Drying off my hair with a fistful of paper towels, I rush back out to where Zeke was.

He's gone.