There was little to do after Sampson and Angela disappeared into another room.

Moira was on the floor with a toy, entertained while her parents were away, so I joined her, figuring there was no harm in playing. Her arm was red, and I felt shame that the wolf's tongue—my tongue—had made it so.

Or, I tried to reason, the rash could have been created by something else, a careless brush against the tavern's wood walls or a short tumble to the floor. 

"That's right," I said out loud for comfort, "you're just a child being clumsy."

The traps I set with Sampson were for a different animal.

The woods were full of dangerous things and people needed to protect their homes.

But not from me.

Never from me.

Moira barely noticed her companion at first, but eventually she warmed up to me. She spoke in broken sentences and mispronounced words, telling me about herself, her toy, and any other concern that struck the toddler's fancy. 

I pulled faces and sang songs. I tried, and failed, to teach her a clapping game. We counted with mixed success the number of fingers and toes she had and pointed to everything that was brown in the tavern.

She decided my company was worth having and jumped into my lap before throwing her little arms around my neck. She placed a wet kiss on my cheek, but when she pulled away to look at me her smile dropped and her brow furrowed in intense concentration.

"Doggy?"

Her stare was unsettlingly mature. It was as if she was seeing inside me, and wasn't sure she liked what she found.

Her tiny fingers grabbed my face. She leaned in and sniffed.

"Doggy."

A bubble of drool fell with the word. I shook my head.

"No, not doggy. Josiah."

"Joss."

"Josiah."

"Doggy."

"No, it's—"

"Jossy."

I smiled, content to find a middle ground, and somewhat proud to have a thing I'd secretly yearned for since I was little: A nickname.

"All right, Jossy it is. And you are Moira."

"Oi-ra!"

"Yes."

"Oi-ra. Jossy. Doggy. Doggy Jossy." She patted my head. " 'ood doggy."

I winced and held a finger to my lips.

"Shhh, it's a secret. Doggy secret. Shhh."

Of course, the child couldn't understand the dangerous ground we were treading upon. She held her finger to her mouth to mimic me.

"That's right," I said. "Shhh. Remember. Shhh."

"Shhuuuu."

"Yes."

A commotion interrupted our conversation, and I looked up to see Angela and Sampson reappear in the tavern's main room, both looking flushed and happy.

Angela's joy was short-lived, for when she saw me with her daughter she raced over and took the girl into her arms. Her hold was protective.

"What are you doing with Moira?" she asked in a sharp, accusing tone. Sampson touched his wife's arm.

"He's a child, my love. They were playing. That's what children do."

"Jossy!" Moira yelled and flung her arm in an exaggerated point in my direction.

"Yes," I answered her. "My name is Josiah—or Jossy."

I feared the next word that left her mouth would be Doggy, but Angela spoke before the child could give my secret away.

"Well...it was nice of you to keep an eye on her, but I've returned, so off with you now."

I stood and brushed the dust from my pants.

"If there's anything I could help you with," I offered the woman, "I'm happy to oblige. I like playing with Moira."

A flicker of suspicion passed Angela's eyes.

"There's wood out back. Could use some for the fire."

"I'll see to it."

"I'll join you," Sampson said.

Angela left, taking a babbling Moira with her, and Sampson shrugged at me.

"Don't judge her too harshly, she's not as sour as she seems."

"Have I done or said something to anger her?"

"You? 'Course not! She'll come around, I promise. Angela adjusts to things in her own time, and never a second before she wants to. She's protective of Moira."

"Is it all right that I was playing with her? I didn't mean any harm."

"Angela knows that. She's too much of a mother sometimes." He paused, his face falling for a second before returning to warmth. "Let's see to that firewood."

Chopping wood proved far more tiring than skinning meat. Sliding a knife under fur was different from swinging an axe, and I bemoaned the fact that although I had practiced when we were in the woods, my arm was not strong enough to wield the heavy tool Sampson had given me.

If only I had Pa's axe, I thought as I swung and missed, maybe the familiar grip would help me.

But it was gone, and now the guilt of losing it overtook me. I stopped, staring dumbly at the logs before me, and tried not to cry.

I should be strong, I scolded myself. I should know how to chop wood.

Just like I should be protecting my sister.

"What's wrong?" Sampson's voice pulled me from my gloom. 

I pointed to the wood.

"I can't do it. My arms aren't big enough."

"Not yet," Sampson agreed with a smile. "They'll only get big with practice."

With precise skill, he split a log in two. They were very alike, Pa and Sampson. Both were steadfast in their work and loved their family.

That comparison broke the final resistance against tears.

"It's all right," Sampson comforted. "You shouldn't feel ashamed."

"I'm not ashamed. I'm sad."

"Did your father chop wood for the family?"

I nodded. "I wanted to be older like everyone else. Useful. I always tried to tell them I was. But I can't set a trap. I can't chop wood."

Sampson's face suggested he didn't know what to say. After a long moment, he set his axe aside and sat on the stump he used to chop wood upon.

"You're young," he began, "but that's not a hindrance. It only comes once, you know, and after you grow up, it never comes back. It feels like a flaw to you now, but I promise, one day you'll look back and want to trade everything to be a child again."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because growing up comes with a different set of problems. Weak arms can't compare."

"I could choose not to grow up."

"You'll lose that battle."

"Children are useless," I spat.

"That's the biggest lie you could tell."

Sampson opened his arms and I fell into them. I imagined it was Pa holding me, and cried harder for it. 

At dinner, Sampson told me about his life as a young man. He'd built the tavern after marrying Angela, laboring for months to get it just right. When Moira was born they chose to spend the rest of their lives in the woods, and as far as Sampson was concerned it was a perfect existence.

"What about you, Josiah? What's the story of the boy in the woods?"

I was reluctant to share, feeling no answer would satisfy him. Would any part of what I had to say sound believable, even to the most trusting ears?

A witch mother. Bog women and ghosts.

The death of Hansel and Gretel.

I'd only spent a short time with him, but I understood Sampson to be a man who didn't believe in magic and monsters. I had hoped he might have seen something fantastical while living in the woods, but the story of his life included nothing of the sort. No event or miracle that could be placed beyond ordinary.

I was almost jealous.

If he couldn't imagine things outside of chopping wood and raising his child, how could our worlds meet when mine was riddled with demons and fairies?

I'd have to keep things simple.

"It's like you guessed," I answered at last. "We didn't have food so home couldn't be home anymore. I had to make a life for myself."

"Yet your father never taught you how to skin animals."

"He got sick."

Cursed, but I couldn't tell Sampson.

"Was this the same sickness you had when I found you?" His voice dipped into a soft, fearful tone.

"No, his was worse. It made him...someone different."

To my surprise, Sampson nodded.

"I know sickness like that. Not really the kind one recovers from."

"He didn't."

"What about your mother? Did she catch it, too?"

"She went to the towns in search of a cure."

"Decent place to find one, if you know the right people."

"She didn't want us following her there—"

"Us?"

"Oh! My older sister, Credence."

"What happened to her?"

There was silence before I whispered, "I don't know."

Sampson put his hand on mine.

"I'm sorry," he said. "The woods are dangerous, though I doubt you need to be told. Stay in them long enough, and we all learn that lesson in one way or another."

He didn't press further, and for that I was relieved.

Instead, he raised his cup into the air.

"To your sister," he toasted, "may her journey be safe, wherever she is."

I touched my cup against his.

"To Credence."

We drank deeply to your memory.

It became apparent that I had arrived at the tavern during its busy season. There were no empty rooms for me to occupy, so I spent my nights with the horses. Sampson professed his guilt over that fact several times, but I assured him, honestly speaking, that it was a comfortable place and I preferred it to the forest floor. Still, he fussed about the arrangement, promising to bring me inside the second guests began to leave, and he forced Angela to relinquish a pillow and extra blanket for me. The truth was that I liked being alone, though my mind did not always drift toward pleasant thoughts. Sometimes I imagined I was in the barn with you and Ma, like we had been the night before everything went wrong, when she told us the story of the blue-skinned giants. But then I would remember that it was also the night the demon took Pa.

If only I hadn't been so gullible, so dim-witted.

I should have listened to Ma.

But I didn't and Pa died. Ma was probably dead too, and so were you, Credence. All the terrible things that happened to our family were because of my carelessness. That guilt grew until I was tossing and turning and blaming myself for every single misfortune that had ever visited our family.

I had no one to say 'goodnight' to. No one to tell me that they loved me.

As a child, these things were important.

It was during one of these lonely nights that my hand unconsciously dove into my pocket, seeking a comfort I had forgotten.

My talisman, the wooden hero you carved, was not there.

Was it stolen from me? Did Angela have it?

Did...

Did the wolf...eat it with the rest of me?

The one item I swore never to part with was gone, and losing it was like losing my last connection to love and safety.

That night I cried hardest of all.

Sleep was often plagued with nightmares of Pa's demonic face or the awful twins who wanted to eat us. Sometimes it was the bog woman or the sprites that used to attack our chickens. Fiends paraded through my mind, and I felt their claws scratching at my soul.

But none were as frightening as the hound that jumped into the middle of their revelry. An enormous beast, gray-furred and snarling, who seemed the leader of the chaos.

This is what you are, it told me. A cursed monster. 

I often woke with a dreadful feeling that the wolf was right. I could make no sense of what really happened to me, but I understood with growing trepidation that it was not a dream.

A wolf had visited the tavern. A wolf had frightened Angela and put a rash on Moira's arm.

In my nightmares the beast promised one thing:

You will not remain a boy forever, and when you shed your human skin, no one will be safe.