Page 103 of Such Sharp Teeth

“Sure.” At this point, what do I have to lose? “Throw the crystals in, too.”

I stand at the register, embarrassed and defeated, as he rings me up for a plastic baggie full of dead flowers and a bunch of shiny rocks. There’s a tickle in my throat, and I realize I’m dangerously close to tears.

Am I really about to cry in public? In here? In front of this guy?

He’s watching me. I pretend I’m admiring the jewelry in the display case.

“Are you interested in seeing anything? All real silver,” he says. “It boasts a wealth of mystical properties.”

“I’m allergic,” I say, handing over my credit card.

“Silver is featured prominently in werewolf lore, yes?” he asks. “I have found, in my years of experience, there is always truth at the heart of lore, though it’s never quite what it seems.”

He smiles at me. I’m mortified.

I squeak out a thanks and leave the shop, laid bare.

I’m about to get in my car when I hear the man calling out to me.

“Miss! Miss! I must specify, the monkshood is under no circumstance to be ingested. It is highly toxic.”

I give him the thumbs-up, get in my car, and drive home.

—

I’m anxious to talk to someone about my misadventure, but the only person I can talk to is Scarlett, and when I get home, she’s gone. I wait, pacing around, turning the packet of wolfsbane over in my hands.

I kind of do want to eat it, just to spite that guy.

I contemplate opening the plastic to touch and smell the petals but change my mind and slip it under my bed.

Where are you? I text Scarlett.

Out, she responds. With Matty.

Her absence puts me in a fragile state. I’m clinging to this hope that I can salvage my life, that I can figure out a way to exist, and yet my own sister can’t stand to be around me. I went against my nature to seek outside help only to be met with more disbelief.

No one can help me. I’m on my own.

I change into scrub clothes, raid the kitchen to discover I’ve eaten almost all the meat in the house. I’ll have to go out soon to get more.

Until then, it’s this bag of frozen chicken nuggets. I’m too impatient to let them thaw.

I’m sitting on the couch with the sack of cold, pale nuggets in my lap, wearing a bralette and plaid pajama bottoms, when the doorbell rings.

Reaper comes running, barking.

I cautiously approach the peephole.

It’s Ash.

I open the door, and Reaper leaps into her arms, sweetly licking her face.

“Hello, hello, friend,” she says.

“Are you talking to me or the dog?”

“Both!”