Page 87 of Such Sharp Teeth

If I can hold on to myself, every second of every day and through the transformation, if I can stay awake, stay “me” even as the monster, then maybe my situation isn’t so hopeless after all.

I tuck the onesie neatly inside a drawer. There’s a stack of children’s books on top of the dresser. I flip through thick cardboard pages. Bright pictures of animals, smiley faces. The book at the bottom of the stack isn’t cardboard. Its pages are thin, edges gilded. It’s a book of fairy tales. On the cover is a girl in a red hooded cloak wandering into the forest.

In all the fairy tales, the wolf is big and bad and dangerous. A predator. Devious and evil. Something to be feared. But fairy tales are bullshit. Maybe wolves just get a bad edit.

There are worse things to be. I know because I’ve faced those monsters.

“Are we there yet?” I ask Ian as soon as we pull out of the driveway. He’s taking me somewhere, but he won’t tell me where.

“Do you have your passport?”

“What?”

He grins.

I’m grateful to get out of the house. Scarlett has been put on something called “activity restriction.” Her mood has not improved since the hospital. She’s been pretty much nonverbal, so Mom decided to talk enough for the both of them. We had an insufferably awkward Thanksgiving. Scarlett silent, me gracelessly devouring turkey, Mom chattering incessantly.

I keep trying to summon the emotion I had that moment in the driveway when I didn’t want her to leave. But nah, it’s long gone now. Her flight out is tomorrow night, and I’ll be whistling my way to the airport to drop her off.

Ian’s got one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my thigh.

“We could just go back to yours,” I say.

We haven’t seen each other in a few days, not since the 7-Eleven night. I missed him. He’s sitting right next to me and I miss him.

He’s been good motivation for me to stop spiraling and get my shit together. I’ve been going for long runs. Staying hydrated. Practicing breathing exercises. I slept well the past few nights, for the first time in weeks. I feel calmer. More in control.

Well, I did. Until I got in this car. Now I just want to pull over somewhere and rip our clothes off.

But that’s probably not wolf related. That’s just me.

“You’re really not gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” I say. “Really rolling the dice here, but suit yourself.”

Twenty minutes later we arrive at a big unmarked warehouse.

“You’re murdering me, aren’t you?” I ask as he opens the passenger-side door for me.

“Yes. That’s exactly right.”

We walk up and enter a small office. There’s a front desk topped with stacks of clipboards and paperwork and a container of pens. I look around and see jumpsuits and heavy-duty goggles. I step toward the window near the desk. On the other side of the glass is a massive space filled with junk. Old cars, furniture, electronics. A huge Christmas tree with ornaments and presents underneath. Freestanding drywall.

“What is this?” I ask him.

“It’s a rage room,” he says. “We get to go in there and smash all of that shit.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You said you were mad lately. I thought . . . Was this a bad idea?”

It takes me a few seconds to speak, to untie my tongue and form the words.

“No, this is great,” I say. “This is really great.”

A tear stings the corner of my eye. Maybe it’s stupid to be so moved by this, but I told him I was angry, and he didn’t judge me for it. He wasn’t turned off by it. He accepts it, is giving me space for it.