The heating vent blows directly on my head. It's a welcome respite from the cold outside and I can only hope the waitress turns a blind eye long enough for the crust of snow and ice to melt from my gloves, and for the shivering to stop. I only had enough change for a cup of coffee, which I try to drink fast enough for the waitress to offer me a warm-up.

The diner, some nameless joint with the neon "R" burnt out on the sign, has the sense of passing through. Not quite a truck stop. The other customers look road-weary, not like townies or regulars – there's no town near enough for townies. The waitresses are harried, worn down, like they just want to earn enough money to get out of this place. I'm not even sure where this place is. Some town in South Dakota. All the town names blur together.

It's been a month since I returned home. A month since I abandoned any hope that I might be a hero to somebody. For a while I thought I'd live as a wolf, and spent weeks in some other consciousness, letting the wolf take care of me. It got to be very lonely. Not that I'm less lonely as a human, but I thought it might be nice to be around other people and feel warm. Especially after I had to wander around in the cold night air scavenging clothes out of a big metal donation bin in a strip mall parking lot, and raiding a number of drive-through windows for lost change. It took me almost all night to come up with enough for this cup of coffee.

You can't imagine how nice it is to be surrounded by the sounds people make, the rambling conversations and the clink of silverware and the frying of food, and the flickering light of the TV bolted up near the ceiling. No sound but there are closed captions and I read the transcript of whatever's on, even when I try to look away. During the early afternoon there were soap operas the waitresses stopped to watch, then some afterschool cartoons. Now it's the evening news. A steady stream of babble to keep my mind off of other things.

The smell from the grill back in the kitchen makes my stomach growl, and I know I won't be able to sit here much longer.

"Hey, turn that up," calls a waitress who's sitting in a booth right behind me on her break. Her voice jolts me out of staring at my coffee.

My waitress, for now behind the counter, finds the remote control and suddenly sound blares into the diner. As soon as I hear the topic of the news story I freeze.

"...received more reports of wild dogs attacking people. Jack and Charlotte Early, an elderly couple from Frazer, were out walking Monday evening when they spotted a large pack of wild dogs." A tremble enters the hand wrapped around my lukewarm coffee mug – Frazer is the next town over from Wolf Point. The camera focuses on a woman labeled as Charlotte Early. "They looked almost like wolves," she says before the shot returns to a young woman with straight blond hair sleekly cut above the shoulders of her black trench coat. She is labeled as Justine Willis, Field Reporter. "The couple called the police department, but by the time animal control officers arrived, the dogs had left the area, leaving behind one victim – an unidentified man in his early twenties, who was presumably out running." Cut to a shot of a hospital. "The man was brought to Trinity Hospital in Wolf Creek in critical condition. At some point during the night, however, the man disappeared from the hospital."

"Spooky," said one of the waitresses.

The waitress behind me shushes her as Justine Willis, Field Reporter reappears on the screen.

"This is the fifth victim of a wild dog attack in the past month..." The fifth? I'm sure they're not including the "wild dogs" that followed me and Lila through Nebraska, either. My mind races to conclusions about what the wild dogs really are and what they're doing out by Wolf Point.

"...Brian Boysen of the Montana Animal Care Association offered some precautions." A middle-aged man with thick brown hair squinted at the camera. "First, never approach a wild animal. These animals might look like dogs, but domesticated dogs will not be traveling in packs. Usually wild animals will be scared off by loud noises. If this does not work, and the animals approach you, back away slowly, avoiding eye contact. By all reports, the victims have all been runners who most likely attempted to run away. Running will only trigger the animal to chase you. Above all, remember there is safety in numbers." Justine continues over a blue screen showing a phone number, "Please contact animal control if you spot these wild dogs."

The diner buzzes with an interest I can't figure out. I'm pretty far away from Wolf Point, at least 50 miles. What are these people worried about? I, on the other hand, have reason to worry. The werewolf war is going to come to everyone's attention if these enemy packs keep attacking humans. Then I remember how Zeke got bit, and I begin to think that maybe the other werewolves are trying to up their numbers by making new wolves.

I have to go. Like, right now, I need to run and find Kayla because I'm sure they still have her. Who knows what they're doing to her.

I'm getting up to leave when the waitress behind me says, "My neighbors got attacked, and I called the police, and it never even made the news. I bet the news people don't even know about it."

"The Baileys, right?"

"No, their last name was Oliver, this younger couple. No kids. They went out for a walk like they do every night, and I heard the dogs barking and all, I saw them out my front window just attack them and that's when I called the police."

"Well, I heard some woman with the last name of Bailey got attacked out your way. Laura Bailey. She lived on Wells Road, that little dirt road off yours?"

"When was this?"

"Last night."

"Shit."

I sit back down. My ears are on overdrive. More people attacked, more werewolves, a whole army of them. How many of these people survived the attacks? How many of these victims know what they are now?

More voices join the conversation. Everyone seems to know someone who knows someone who got attacked. The numbers pile up in my head. Someone asks why the police haven't done anything, and suddenly I'm wondering if there aren't werewolves among the police, if this army of new werewolves isn't now linked to the police and the military, and what the hell is a lone wolf like me supposed to do about it?

"Are you okay?"

The voice cuts in and I snap back to the reality of the diner and the spilled coffee in front of me. I yank a fistful of napkins from the dispenser and mop up the mess.

"I'm fine," I tell the waitress.

I throw the soggy napkins into the trash on my way out.

___

Author's Note: Whoa, only one chapter left!