White pine needles tick-tick-ticking against the window (like time, like subpoenas, like success slipping through desperate fingers). Sean "Puffy" Combs—guidance counselor badge gleaming against midnight cashmere in defiance of July heat—watches Timothy fold and unfold a college brochure with trembling hands.

"You're scared of greatness," Diddy says, voice smooth as aged cognac. "I see it in you." (He always sees it, has seen it since '91, watching Biggie in that Brooklyn deli, greatness wrapped in oversized plaid. And, of course, he saw it in *himself* when he dodged those civil suits back in 2023.) "But let me tell you something—" The words hang crystalline in the wood-paneled office, where motivational posters crowned with EXCELLENCE and PERSEVERANCE float like fever-dream billboards through ambient dust motes.

Timothy's fingers still their anxious origami. The brochure—Dartmouth, all autumn leaves and ivory towers—lies conquered.

"Your parents want medical school." Diddy adjusts his titanium-framed glasses, a gesture unchanged since the Bad Boy days, when contracts—not college applications—filled his field of vision. "But I'm hearing music in your molecules, young king. Been hearing it since you picked up that violin at talent night."

Timothy shifts uneasily in the cracked faux-leather chair. "But my parents—"

"Let me stop you right there." Diddy raises a hand, fingers adorned with the same diamond-studded rings that once clinked ominously on court tables. "Your parents invested in possibilities. I invested in certainties. Like the certainty that I'd bounce back from adversity every time someone tried to bring me down. You think lawsuits shook me? Nah, they sharpened me. You think settlements were failures? They were *lessons*, my man."

(The office smells of pine and privilege and potential. Always potential. And maybe a hint of Diddy’s custom cologne, Success by Sean John™.)

Timothy's posture performs a minute transformation: thoracic vertebrae realigning themselves toward possibility. Diddy catalogues the shift with predatory precision. He’s built empires on smaller tells than this.

"But—" Timothy's voice emerges quantum-uncertain, simultaneously strong and fragile—"they've already mapped out my whole pre-med schedule. MCAT prep starts next summer. My father keeps saying music was fine for building discipline, but now it's time to be practical—"

"Practical?" Diddy rises, Trevor Emory suit whispering against leather. The word hangs between them like a challenge. Outside, beyond the window's membrane, children's voices carry across the lake like scattered prayers. "Let me tell you about practical. I invested everything in what they told me couldn't be. Took that investment, multiplied it through sheer—" he pauses, letting the word build like a bass drop "—audacity."

Timothy’s eyes track Diddy’s movement with the hesitant hunger of a young artist recognizing permission. The air conditioner hums in G minor.

"Your parents want you to follow their dream." Diddy taps a perfectly manicured finger on the Dartmouth brochure, smirking as if it personally offended him. "But when I started Bad Boy Records, my mother wanted me to be an accountant. ACCOUNTANT." He pauses for effect, raising his voice just loud enough to make the secretary peek nervously through the office door. "You think Forbes lists are full of accountants? Nah, young king. They’re full of *visionaries*."

Timothy blinks. "I don’t know if I—"

"You don't know if you what? Have what it takes? Let me tell you something about doubt." Diddy leans forward, elbows on mahogany, presence filling the room like smoke. "Doubt is success whispering, 'You sure, though?' And you know what I whisper back? ‘Hell yes.’"

A blue jay lands on the windowsill—watching, witnessing. Timothy straightens his spine, lets the Dartmouth brochure fall. His fingers twitch with phantom violin strings.

"I’m still not sure," Timothy starts hesitantly, but his voice is different—less a whimper, more a melody.

Diddy laughs, the sound layered with multitudes: Brooklyn streets and Manhattan penthouses, platinum records and publicists dialing damage control. "Let me tell you what I’m sure about. I’m sure that you, my young maestro, have the gift. And you know what we do with gifts?"

Timothy shakes his head, entranced.

"We unwrap them. And then we drop them on *everybody's heads*." Diddy pulls a gilt-edged Rolodex from his desk drawer, its pages heavy with the weight of connections. "I know a little conservatory in New York. They owe me a favor. Well, several favors. Let me make a call."

The guidance office holds its breath. Somewhere outside, beyond the pines, beyond the whispers of old lawsuits and newer scandals, the future rearranges itself like notes finding their perfect chord.

Take my hand

We’ll be alright

The moon looks pretty tonight

For a while you and I can simply share this moment

It’s a way to bide time

Until the sunrise

Shimmers fade,

Colors gray;

Summers shade,

Yet I stay.

Flowers wilt,

Cinders chill;

Winters melt,

Yet I will.

With time, each phase

of 'ppointed fate

all nature plays,

and yet I wait.

My love still keeps

its course, my sweet.

My heart still leaps

for yours, complete.

Forests flame,

Oceans drain;

Deserts rain,

I remain.

I had my last sip of coffee today. The fresh taste of the bitter beans coated in ungodly amounts of syrup pumps and spoonfuls of sugar tasted like ash in my mouth. It was surprising really. I had started everything just like normal, getting up and getting ready for work, letting my dog out of the bedroom to get some water before the morning walk, and then making myself a cup of coffee with my tiny little single-cup coffee machine that pumped out burnt coffee like nobody's business.

It was... like usual, or- almost so, until the fucking drink hit my lips.

I blinked, my nose burning from the taste of it going up it because I couldn't choke it back down. My eyes burned, sugar in my nose didn't help, and the raw heat from throwing up the rest of it crumbled my hopes of a good morning along with the spill of the drink all across my tiled kitchen floor and into my shitty spent carpet, which was now a deeper shade of tan in some places.

"Fuck!"

I gave myself a little rouse to try to jostle back to my senses, smearing my lips with the open palm of my hand before shoving my mouth against arm as I began licking it as if it would rub off the taste. "Fuck!" I screamed again, running my hand over my tongue. "Fuck!" It was awful! The acidic burn of the coffee lingered in ways that I'd never experienced before and I started to panic, trying to get rid of it.

I didn't know what was wrong, but the moment my head swiveled around, I met my father's eyes and he leaned against the cabinet casually.

"What are you doing?"

"I-" I started, trying to give out an excuse. "I was just doing my usual morning!" I stammered out.

"Julian, relax. It's not an interrogation," Dean remarked smoothly. He bent down to pick up the cup, inspecting the situation. "You're just making a lot of noise, and I came out to investigate."

"I wasn't trying to wake you up! I just was drinking and suddenly my coffee tasted like shit! I didn't mean to fucking throw it. It was-"

Dean's shoulders fell as he relaxed. "That's because you can't do that anymore."

"What?" I asked in disbelief. "What? No. It- That fast?" When my dad didn't answer, my hands fell to my sides in defeat. "Well- Well, what am I supposed to do now?"

"Call in for work," Dean said calmly.

"No."

"Julian," Dean said, looking up at him steadily.

He stared at me with that calmness he had that mom and I did not. It unnerved me because I knew he was saying so out of some rationale beyond me.

My gaze flicked away briefly from him, but when I looked back at him, he rose up to his feet. "Don't argue, just call in for work." he said firmly, though his tone held little to no aggression to it. My dad wasn't the aggressive type. "We can figure something out, but you're not going to do it today. You're just going to end up getting in an accident or worse."

I could see the decisiveness in my father's eyes. The kind that I didn't have enough gusto to muscle up against. I wished I did, but he always won out on being more stubborn than me in ways that baffled me. "Dammit, this sucks," I grumbled under my breath.

"It just means we have to talk a little. Go back over how this works," Dean said. He put the cup in the sink before grabbing a few paper towels. "Why don't you go grab the mop, and after we clean this up you can sit down. Maybe give your dog some attention."

I begrudgingly complied, shifting my gaze away from him. This wasn't where I wanted to be, but it was where I was. My hands grappled for the dispenser, ripping the roll until it spat out probably more than my mom would have thought was necessary to throw it down on the floor. "I still think it's stupid," I breathed. When my dad didn't answer, I sighed. Tonight, I was going to be going over the ground rules that I wasn't sure I wanted to take on.

One, no more day-walking.

Two, no more regular foods. The idea that it would take time to build a tolerance into blood-infused foods sucked, but I was adamant to have my way. Even if my mom said that the blood packs were going to taste a lot shittier than than the real deal.

I was going to get my coffee one way or the other. Or, at least, I hoped I would. It was the closest thing to the energy drinks I was allowed anymore since I had binged those until I got cut off.

My head turned the side, my eyes closing as I shook my head slowly. Man, today was going to really suck.

Chapter 1: Transformation

Ethan Bradshaw blinked slowly, the world around him slipping in and out of focus like a bad dream. He was in the bullpen, his own desk a mess of papers and coffee stains. Strangely enough, blood stains. He felt a nagging emptiness inside—a heavy, unnatural ache that pulsed in his chest. He tried to remember why he was there, why he felt so… wrong. The familiar clutter of the Raccoon City Police Department was around him, yet it all felt foreign, like a place he was only half-allowed to understand now. The office was dull, and dim. And why was that? He thought.

A sudden, sharp memory cut through the fog: Leon. Today was supposed to be his first day on the force. The rookie, eager and green, full of the kind of wide-eyed optimism that didn’t belong in a place like Raccoon City. Ethan felt a tug in his mind, something fragile and flickering. He’d promised himself he’d look out for the kid, show him around, get him settled in. Teach him the theoretical ropes.

As he tried to hold onto the thought, the hunger surged again, sharper this time, clawing its way up from the depths of his body. He staggered, gripping the edge of a desk, his fingers clamping down with unnatural force, nails scraping against the polished wood. Noticing once again the pool of blood on his desk. Again, where had it come from. He opened his mouth to speak, to call out for help, but only a low, guttural moan escaped his lips. His neck was in horrible pain, he hand unsteadily reached up to navigate the source of the ache. His fingers touched ripped flesh and a gaping hole.

Stumbling back he crashed into a desk and turned, the crisp new name plate sitting front and center. Leon S. Kennedy.

Leon, he thought, struggling to remember why it mattered. His head throbbed, and he felt his own name slipping away, his sense of self blurring. But then, as if in response to his silent plea, he heard the faint creak of a door down the hall.

Chapter 2: Loss of Voice

Ethan’s head snapped up, his vision settling on the armory door across the room. He heard footsteps—quick, purposeful. A shadow moved, and then Leon himself came into view, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. The rookie’s face was set, focused, unaware of Ethan watching him from across the bullpen.

The sight of Leon sparked something within Ethan, a surge of recognition, a shred of who he used to be. He stumbled forward, his arm lifting instinctively, his mouth struggling to form words. Leon, he wanted to say. It’s me, Ethan. Help me. But his throat only managed a low, raspy sound, barely more than a growl.

Leon’s head jerked up, his eyes locking onto Ethan’s. For a moment, Ethan saw confusion flash across Leon’s face, maybe even a faint glimmer of hope. But then he saw Leon’s expression shift, hardening into a mask of grim realization. Leon took a step back, his hand instinctively going to the handgun on his belt. Ethan saw him hesitate, the rookie’s face tense with an unspoken question: Is there anything left of him?

Ethan tried to raise a hand, to reach out and show Leon that he was still here, still himself. But his arm jerked forward in a lurching, unnatural motion, his fingers curling into claws. His mind screamed in protest, but his body had become something else, driven by an urge he couldn’t control. The hunger twisted inside him, filling him with a need he barely understood. He could feel his humanity slipping, drowned beneath that primal drive.

He took another step toward Leon, his feet dragging, his mouth stretching open in a grotesque attempt at speech. “Le-on,” he rasped, the sound mangled, as if someone else had spoken it for him.

Chapter 3: Unhappy Trigger Finger

Leon’s face tightened, his jaw set. Ethan saw the rookie’s hand steady as he raised his weapon, the barrel pointed directly at him. Kid’s got guts, Ethan thought, feeling a pang of something like pride—or maybe it was a memory of that pride, fading fast. He wanted to tell Leon to run, to get as far from this cursed place as he could, but his body betrayed him, moving forward in jerking, halting steps.

Ethan tried to pull back, to stop himself, but the hunger surged forward, seizing control of his limbs. His own hands reached out toward Leon, his mouth open, teeth bared in a snarl that wasn’t his own. He fought against it, struggling to pull back the shadows that now filled his mind, but his body ignored him. He was no longer in command, his instincts twisted, redirected, making him something he had once sworn to fight.

Leon hesitated for only a heartbeat, his face resolute but tinged with sorrow. Ethan could see the conflict in his eyes, the recognition of a man he had barely known but respected. And then, with a steadying breath, Leon squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the bullpen, sharp and final. Ethan felt a burst of pain in his chest, and for an instant, everything was clear. The fog lifted, and he felt a sliver of himself return, just enough to feel the weight of what he’d become. He stumbled back, a strange sense of relief washing over him even as the darkness began to close in.

Leon’s face blurred, but Ethan’s mind clung to the memory of that young, determined expression. He wanted to thank Leon, to tell him he’d done the right thing, but his voice was lost, buried beneath the shadows. The pain faded, the hunger receded, and for the first time since he’d started to lose himself, Ethan felt at peace.

Chapter 4: So Many More ...

Leon lowered the gun, his face a mask of steely resolve, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of pain. He held his weapon steady, waiting to see if Ethan would rise again. When Ethan’s body remained still, Leon took a shaky breath, his grip loosening.

He had barely known Officer Ethan Bradshaw, had only met him briefly, but he’d seen enough to know the man had been kind, a seasoned cop with a protective instinct. Leon swallowed, his gaze lingering on Ethan’s motionless form for just a moment longer before he turned away, his duty pulling him forward. He had to convince himself over and over that these people were no longer human. It was becoming easier and easier with each pull of the trigger.

With a final look back, Leon stepped into the armory, his hands moving quickly and efficiently as he gathered weapons and ammunition. His first day had turned into a nightmare, but he had a job to do, and he wasn’t about to let Ethan’s sacrifice be in vain. There would be many more 'Ethan's' out there, so many more ...

“There’s a wolf!” Mr. Marshal yelled. He shone his flashlight in a direction, different to the one Foster pointed.

Schuster gingerly let go of Foster, who swayed for a moment. Drawing his gun, Schuster slowed Foster’s topple into the mud. “Sorry, buddy. Take it easy.”

The wolf hunt for two wolves continued a couple of blocks away; the police and wolf hunters expected to kill or capture at least one soon. Wayne thought the wolf that attacked Foster would die or become incapacitated, leading Schuster to believe somebody would catch up to the wolf Mr. Marshal sighted. He worried about shooting a person.

“Anyone there?” Schuster yelled. “If there are people back there, holler.”

“It went to your left,” Mr. Marshal said.

“Okay,” Schuster said.

“Do you want me to get Officer Foster indoors?”

“No, stay put. Okay, Zach, this is going to be unsafe gun handling.” Schuster took his finger off the trigger and put the safety on and wrapped his arms around Foster’s chest to drag him towards the Marshal’s house. “Well…I’d say yes if a person was attacking us.”

“I can call the ambulance again,” Mr. Marshal said.

“The situation is under control,” Schuster said.

“Why isn’t anybody coming for you?”

“They’re doing their jobs.”

“They have to catch the wolf,” Foster mumbled.

“There’s a wolf! On your right side! It’s going to get you!” Mr. Marshal yelled as the wolf collided with Schuster and bit his upper arm.

Schuster’s head clanged off the Marshal’s swing set, and he caught himself on it. He felt that if the wolf pulled him to the ground, he would never stand up again; Wayne had advised officers to make themselves look bigger. The wolf dodged the kick, and the kick unsteadied Schuster.

Foster told Schuster to hide in the Marshal’s house, but Schuster thought separating was impossible.

The wolf wrenched Schuster’s arm behind him, and he let him. If resisting a K-9 dog’s bite-and-hold technique caused further injury, resisting a wolf would cause greater damage. His clenched Beretta 92 pointed away from the wolf. He fired the tranquilizer gun at the wolf, intending to pry the wolf’s mouth open after it dozed off. Although the wolf bit shallowly, and whimpered like his mouth hurt, he seemed unwilling to release Schuster soon.

Sloppily, Foster stabbed the wolf’s hindquarters.

The wolf released Schuster’s arm to snap at Foster, so Schuster shot the wolf’s torso. Yelping, the wolf jumped and lunged to his left side. He jerked his left arm over his head, tearing his sleeve. Schuster fired again. Then the wolf latched onto his right forearm, and bounded backward, pulling Schuster face-down into the mud.

The wolf drew Schuster’s arm out from his side, a position that prevented transferring the handgun to his other hand. Schuster knelt on his knees and other hand, but the wolf jumped on top of him. Schuster groped for his flashlight. The wolf was scrabbling his arms and leaning its weight on Schuster’s lower back. When a paw slid off, the wolf regained his footing. His nails dug into Schuster’s skin. Hoping to scare the wolf, Schuster fired twice. He worried about harming somebody behind him or inside a house.

Mr. Marshal said during the attack: “I’m calling the police.”

“Okey-dokey, just stay inside,” Schuster called. “The situation will be controllable sometime, so don’t worry.”

When Schuster told John about the attack, he expected officers to swarm the Marshal’s backyard. Schuster refused to explain why he and Foster fought the wolf alone. During the attacks, Schuster heard the police and other wolf responders attempting to capture the other two wolves.

Then Foster did something to the wolf, but neither Schuster nor Mr. Marshal saw what. Again, the wolf attacked Foster.

With Schuster’s left arm, he blocked its attempt to bite his head or neck, and he shot the wolf between its chest and neck.

Whimpering, the wolf darted behind the Parkers’ garbage; Schuster was still shooting. Doubting he would hit the wolf, he fired through the plastic cans.

Schuster worried about low ammunition because he had left his other magazine in the police car’s trunk. One magazine seemed sufficient at the time, but since the attack on Foster and Schuster, the Wolftown Police Department required all patrol officers to carry at least two magazines on their persons. He considered borrowing Mr. Marshal’s shotgun despite the impracticality; Wisconsin law allowed it.

Earlier, Foster had suggested somebody watched them; Schuster thought he noticed ordinary civilians peeking through the windows and the like. Now, as Schuster told John, he “felt like a subject was hiding and watching us. Maybe he wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t just watching like people do at crime scenes. I’m not 100% positive there was somebody there and maybe I was just worried Mr. Lyons would take one more potshot at the wolf.”

He tried to drag Foster one-armed to Mr. Marshal’s house and point his gun simultaneously.

Seeing Schuster struggle to drag Foster one-armed to Mr. Marshal’s house and aim his gun, Mr. Marshal asked, “Are the things you accused the police chief of true?”

“You’re asking now? I mean, yeah, we have a lot of evidence, but why ask now?”

“I can get Officer Foster indoors,” Mr. Marshal said.

“Okay, but if the wolf comes back, drop him and go inside,” Schuster said.

“I’ll keep an eye out for the wolf.”

A savage wolf mauling a civilian whom Foster intended to protect but was instead protected by would disturb him forever.

“Why ask about Chief Laufenberg?” Schuster asked.

“Maybe my wife won’t yell as loudly if I tell her you two need to give evidence or something. Where’s your backup?” Mr. Marshal dragged Foster to the back porch steps.

“The police are doing their jobs,” Schuster said. “They have to catch the wolves.”

“What about the ambulance?”

“EMTs can’t put themselves in danger because if they were bitten, they couldn’t treat us. They’re doing their jobs, too. The situation is controllable, but we appreciate your assistance. Take it easy.”

(John privately suspected half of Schuster’s reassuring sentences lied.)

The wolf ripped Schuster’s ballistic vest and skin, and he collided with a Little Tikes push-and-ride car. Sliding, Schuster ordered Mr. Marshal to drop Foster and run indoors.

Unusually, compared to Schuster’s previous encounters with him, Mr. Marshal did not comply. Foster spluttered along the lines of, “Mr. Marshal, go inside.” Schuster repeated himself until Mr. Marshal said he had shut the back door behind himself.

The wolf had bitten through Foster’s cheek. Mr. Marshal turned gurgling Foster on his side, hoping the blood would pour onto the floor instead of into his mouth.

Meanwhile, Schuster managed to sit up, still under woozy attack by the wolf, who tended to stay behind him, jump, or yank his arms. The wolf still latched onto Schuster’s left arm, but weaklier. Then when he transferred the gun to his right hand, the wolf snapped at his right arm. He fired blindly once, the wolf hid, and Schuster fired again.

Radioing dispatch, Schuster bolted for the door, but, again, the wolf attacked his ballistic vest. Outside, Schuster slammed the back door and drew his pepper spray.

Mr. Marshal said through the kitchen window, “Do you want my shotgun? I can shoot it, but what if the buckshot hits you, too?”

The wolf charged the window, and Schuster followed, yelling, “Shut the window!” Mr. Marshal thought of the same idea.

The wolf’s front claws screeched down the glass. Schuster yanked the wolf’s tail; Mr. Marshal locked the window.

As the wolf drunkenly turned, Schuster tripped it. He pepper-sprayed the wolf; relatively little blew into his face because of the height difference.

The wolf and Schuster toppled off the concrete back step, Schuster losing his grip on the wolf’s tail on the way down. Though the wolf did not bite Schuster, it bowled him over and aimed for his head and neck. He pistol-whipped the wolf’s snout, thinking a broken jaw would deter biting and attacking the eyes might equalize the two species’ night vision. It felt like hammering the teeth deeper into his forearm.

Thinking the wolf had bitten Schuster, Mr. Marshal opened the window just enough to yell, “I’m worried about missing, but do you want me to shoot the wolf?”

Lacking a safe way to reach the shotgun himself, Schuster said, “Okay. Just don’t shoot the glass out.”

The wolf careened between the houses. Mr. Marshal fired his shotgun once, Wayne his .44 Magnum six times, and Officer Lang his Beretta seven times. Schuster had heard Wayne and Lang in the distance but assumed they were discussing the other two wolves.

Wayne followed the wolf and Lang remained in the backyard. Schuster called, “Wayne, don’t go alone!”

“I’m with him,” Lang said. “Where is Zach?”

“I bet it crawled off to die in a hole,” Wayne yelled, sounding full of adrenaline and matter of fact, while Schuster said, “In the Marshal’s kitchen.”

“Check on him. We’re fine here,” Lang said.

Mrs. Marshal was comforting the children in another room.

“Well, maybe the rain just makes it look worse than it is,” Mr. Marshal said. “For you, anyway. Not Officer Foster.”

Schuster opened Foster’s mouth. He worried Foster died from Schuster forgetting to check his airway, breathing, and circulation after the first attack, but Megan said that he died of massive blood loss.

“The dispatcher walked me through first aid. Maybe I’d better use it on you.”

Foster spluttered.

“Take it easy, buddy,” Schuster said.

Lang and Wayne crashed through the door. “The wolf isn’t moving fast or well, but it’s out there,” Wayne said.

“He can’t wait for an ambulance,” Schuster said.

“Neither can you,” Lang said. “Wayne and I will get him to the police car, and I’ll drive.”

“Then I’ll hunt the wolf. It’s weakest now, so all of us probably won’t be attacked getting Foster to the police car,” Wayne said.

“I’ll drive,” Schuster said. He felt like the time between donating blood and eating the orange juice and the cookie.

“Wayne, you need to apply pressure,” Lang said.

“I’ll do it,” Schuster said.

“Who will do it to you?”

Mr. Marshal asked, “Will you get Dennis Laufenberg sentenced for something?”

“What? Yeah, probably,” Schuster said.

“I’ll go with Officer Foster,” Mr. Marshal said.

In retrospect, Schuster believed Lang tourniqueted his arms with Schuster's and his tourniquet. He remembers he, Wayne, and Mr. Marshal providing first aid to Foster, which required all hands constantly, and nobody else had the opportunity.

“I’m good to drive,” Schuster said.

“Fine. Foster doesn’t have time for an argument,” Lang said.

They discussed how to transport Foster to the police car. When the police began chasing wolves, they asked Dr. Groves to wait for casualties in the Wolftown Medical Clinic. Wolftown’s two ambulances took two other officers to the clinic, but Schuster could not tell John why.

Mr. Marshal and Wayne carried Foster and, Lang and Schuster guarded them against the wolf. Schuster borrowed Mr. Marshal’s shotgun and Wayne had reloaded his revolver.

“What are you doing here?” Schuster asked.

“Wayne stopped cooperating. I said I was chasing him to bring him back,” Lang said.

“So, he stopped cooperating, too,” Wayne said.

Nobody saw the wolf, including Lang and Wayne, who continued hunting the wolf.

Schuster had asked Lang to check on the Parkers and Mr. Lyons, and later in the morning, Lang told him they reached a friend’s house safely.

Stephanie and Megan overheard the wolf attack on the radio and waited for Schuster and Foster at the Wolftown Medical Clinic. Schuster told Stephanie that Foster told him to tell her to tell Megan to stay away from him because, regarding other wolf attack victims, Dr. Groves had not ruled out rabies. Apparently, Mr. Marshal promised Foster he would give Schuster a couple of personal messages for Megan. They did.

The medical clinic already typed all policemen’s blood and, with type AB+ blood, Foster could receive any type. Dr. Groves could not collect blood from pregnant Megan and Schuster lost over one pint, and so Stephanie donated.

Because Foster worried about losing his wedding ring and infecting Megan, Schuster asked a nurse for a specimen container.

Dr. Groves called an air ambulance.

Worried that the Wolftown emergency services could not transport Foster to the landing site, and they might request county resources too late, Schuster called Sheriff Jordan’s home. The Sheriff immediately coordinated with the air ambulance, then notified the Wolftown Police Department. Sheriff Jordan thought if the Wilde County Sheriff’s Department appeared, the local police might not disperse them.

The country police escorted the ambulance crew and Foster safely to the air ambulance, but Dr. Groves and Stephanie forced Schuster to remain in the Wolftown Medical Clinic. Nobody saw a wolf. Stephanie and Megan drove to the University of Washington Health University Hospital.

Foster died in surgery before Stephanie and Megan arrived. Transfusions and IVs pumped more blood and fluids than a human body normally held, but Foster bled too rapidly. His heart stopped and he could not be resuscitated.

Schuster convinced Dr. Groves he could continue working, and they hid some injuries from the police. Schuster showed John his bite wounds and the claw marks on his back. The wolf sprained or tore his shoulder’s muscles. Dr. Groves had no idea how the wolf’s teeth caused serious but not severe damage.

Dr. Groves asked Schuster if he or Mr. Marshal should receive the last rabies vaccine. Schuster told him to vaccinate Mr. Marshal. On Monday or Tuesday, Dr. Groves expected the shipment, and he and Schuster relied on the incubation period. Although the first victims’ rabies test results were negative, he would vaccinate Schuster anyway.

Because the Marshals had one bathroom and Mr. Marshal worried about infecting a friend, Schuster let him shower at his house.

He washed the blood out of the police car’s front seats, but some soaked the upholstery. Dr. Groves said the rabies virus died when the blood or other fluids dried, so Schuster borrowed Stephanie’s hairdryer.

Schuster disinfected Foster’s wedding ring and left it to dry on his dresser. He washed off the mud and blood, changed his uniform, and wrote a note for Stephanie, warning her he would disinfect the bathroom later.

Dropping off Mr. Marshal, Schuster noticed Mrs. Marshal scolding him, but it did not seem to be a domestic altercation.

Then Schuster returned to work because the Wolftown Police Department lacked enough officers. He offered to wash out the back of the police car, but Karl Henry volunteered, saying he needed to protect the sutures. They talked while he cleaned.

Deputy Chief Phelps assigned Schuster to routine patrols instead of unpaid administrative leave, but only for the duration of the wolf emergency.

Schuster had asked Lang to check on the Parkers and Mr. Lyons, and later in the morning, Lang told him they reached a friend’s house safely.

Due to the holidays, the next post will be on November 29, and there will be no post in December. Regular, every-three-weeks posting will resume on January 3, 2025.

My parents say I’m an old soul. They’re probably right. I was accidentally invited on a birdwatching walk for senior citizens when I was university, and I went on it! I joined a knitting circle once, and everyone else there had at least twenty years on me. I’m twenty four years old right now and I feel like my soul is older, like I’ve lived more experiences than twenty four years ought to be able to hold, but perhaps that’s because I lose myself in fiction as often as I possibly can, trying to pretend I can live lives other than my own, that other souls could overlap onto mine like a Venn diagram or a kaleidoscope. Some semblance of more than humanity, of animal or vegetative souls like the sort Aristotle wrote about.

My best friend is a plant.

They're a spider too.

Did you know they could flower?

Now I do too.

They're a little cutie:

Half veriegated and half solid green

With plenty of off-shoots

We make a good team.

My spider grows little,

But grows every day.

They're a good listener

When I have nothing to say.

They bring up good points

To help me see the flaws

When I complain about

Unjust human laws.

I feel balance and peace,

While putting my two cents

On the days' toil and trouble

Of current events.

Spider's heard of Hamas

And mass genocide.

Yet they gave me a smile

When I should have cried.

With so much death and destruction,

With struggle and strife,

My spider brings me back

To the meaning of life.

They talk about growth,

And off shoots and decay.

I see a flower bloom;

They reassure me: it's Ok

My best friend's a plant.

They're a spider too.

They see through the horror,

Now I do too.