Sheryl’s alarm went off at five-thirty. She hit the snooze button without opening her eyes and lay there for another fifteen minutes before she pushed herself upright and started moving. Shower, scrubs, coffee, and Channel 7 ran in the kitchen while she stood at the counter waiting for the machine to finish brewing.

  The lead story stopped her mid-reach for her mug.

  “Tragedy in Everdale last night as the Wild Dogs Bar and Grill burned to the ground. Fire crews say no one survived. Bodies found at the scene were burned beyond recognition. The cause of the blaze remains under investigation.”

  Sheryl stood in front of the dark, still behind the glass. Her phone rang. Derek.

  “Please keep your head on a swivel out there.”

  “Don’t worry. For you, I’m bringing an extra nine and some silver rounds.”

  “Huh?” She almost laughed. “Why would I need that? I’m a werewolf, remember?”

  “Yeah, but even wolves need a first line of defense,” Derek said. “You can’t always rely on the transformation. And Mom, you’ve got superhuman strength. You could’ve handled those robbers without turning.”

  “Alright, alright, I get it,” she sighed. “Can you stop piling on?”

  He chuckled. “When should I drop it off?”

  “Evening’s fine. And Derek, be safe.”

  “Always, Mom. Always.”

  She set the phone on the counter and refilled her coffee. The television moved on to the weather. She turned it off.

  Later that morning, in a different part of town, Derek called Olivia from his kitchen table with a half-eaten bowl of cereal going cold in front of him.

  “Hey, what’s good, partner?” Olivia answered, voice half-serious, half-teasing as usual, before nine.

  “Do you have anything on what went down in Everdale?” he asked.

  “No. I do not,” she said. “You think werewolves were involved?”

  “Exactly. But we can’t just say it.”

  “They’d think we’re crazy,” Olivia said.

  A pause, then Olivia’s tone leveled. “Stay alert. I’ve got my silver rounds ready.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Derek said. “I’ve got the same.”

  “What’s your plan for today?”

  “Not much. No classes. I’ll probably hit the gym.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s link before the week’s out.”

  “Yeah,” Derek said. “Let’s do that.”

  He ended the call and sat there looking out the window at the overcast sky above the neighborhood. Somewhere past the cloud cover, the smoke from Everdale had already dispersed into the atmosphere, and the city that was waking up around him had no idea what had used that bar as its opening statement.

  Back at the hospital, the ER ran at a steady pace through the morning. Sheryl finished two shift reports, managed a consult with ortho on a patient from overnight, and was at her desk going through discharge summaries when Phil appeared at the open doorway.

  “Hey,” he said, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. “Quiet day so far, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she said, exhaling. “And I’d like it to stay that way for a change. But you know me, if it gets messy, I’m ready.”

  “Lunch?”

  She hesitated for a moment, then pushed back from the desk. “Sure. Why not?”

  They took trays from the cafeteria down the main corridor: chicken salad for her, gumbo for him. The doctors’ lounge had two round tables in the back corner, away from the vending machines and the residency board. They took the far one.

  “You know,” Phil said, working his spoon around the bowl, “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day.”

  “About what?”

  “The episode thing.” His tone sat somewhere between curious and gently needling. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around why it keeps you from dating. I mean, is it meds? Some kind of bipolar thing?”

  Sheryl set down her fork. "No, it's not that. It's medical, not psychological." She hesitated. "It's complicated."

  “So you can’t tell me? Not even doctor-to-doctor?”

  She met his eyes. “Phil, listen. If it ever happens around you, I could hurt you. Maybe worse. It’s safer if you stay away from me, especially around a certain time of the month.”

  He laughed lightly. “C’mon, you can’t be serious.”

  “I’m dead serious,” she said, her voice low and level. “If I lose control, you won’t be looking at this face. And it won’t be pretty.”

  He studied her for a beat, then smirked. “You know what? I don’t care. You and I are going out.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard you,” he said. “I just don’t buy it. You’re avoiding me, that’s all. What’s the worst that could happen? This is Bayou Mounds, not New Orleans. You think I’m the kind of guy who’d make you snap?”

  Sheryl sighed, took a long breath, and looked across the table at him. He had his spoon resting on the edge of the bowl and his full attention on her face, and there was nothing performative about it. He was genuinely unbothered by what she’d said, which was its own problem. “Fine,” she said quietly. “But there’s something you should know before you lock in that date.”

  Phil leaned in. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve got another job. Private investigator.”

  He blinked. “What? Why? You’re an ER doctor. You don’t need the money.”

  “True,” she said, with a faint smile at the corner of her mouth. “But that big house of mine gets quiet. Too quiet. I needed something else to fill the space.”

  He chuckled. “You, a P.I.? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “I’m serious,” she said. “I’m good at it. Good enough that if it pans out, I might go full-time.”

  Phil laughed again. “Right. You’d never leave this place.”

  She leaned back and lifted her coffee cup. “We’ll see.”

  “So, what are you investigating?”

  “A big case,” she said. “Can’t say much yet. But if I get a call during our date, I may have to bail.”

  Phil smiled, undeterred. “I’ll make it worth your while before that call.”

  She shook her head, the amusement getting past her guard. “Friday night. I’m off.”

  “Friday works.”

  They both stood and dropped their trays. Phil left first, and Sheryl remained a moment, regarding her reflection in the microwave’s black glass. Her badge sat square on her scrub top, her face composed and calm, nothing betraying what else she bore.

  She straightened the badge anyway and walked back to her desk.

  That evening, after her shift, Sheryl got home at six-fifteen and found a red gift bag sitting on her living room table that had not been there when she left that morning. She set her bag on the chair, walked to the table, and looked inside.

  A matte-black nine-millimeter pistol lay across two cases of silver rounds, the casings polished and catching the lamp light.

  “Real funny, Derek,” she muttered.

  The doorbell rang. She answered it, and a delivery driver handed her a bouquet of scarlet roses, the stems wrapped in dark paper, the arrangement fuller than the standard grocery-store variety.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Delivery for Dr. Brown,” the driver said.

  She took it, thanked him, and found the card tucked into the paper near the stems.

  For someone who deserves something beautiful again. Phil.

  She was still holding the bouquet when the front door opened and Derek came in wearing his usual expression: relaxed, reading the room, already halfway to amused.

  “How’s work?” he asked, glancing past her toward the dining table.

  “Good. Quiet for once,” Sheryl replied. “And yes,” she added, pointing at the table, “I saw your little surprise.”

  “You opened it?” Derek said.

  “Opened it, laughed at it, and considered calling you corny,” she said. “A Christmas bag for a handgun? Really?”

  He shrugged, grinning. “I was trying to lighten the mood. You’ve been so tense lately. You know, being a werewolf doesn’t mean you have to act like one all the time.”

  Sheryl smirked. “I’ll try to remember that, son.”

  His gaze moved to the bouquet still in her hand. “And these?”

  “Phil from work sent them.”

  He nodded, eyebrows going up. “Wow. You’re finally dating again.”

  “Yeah,” Sheryl said. “It’s a start.”

  “What about you and Olivia?” she countered, tilting her head.

  “Mom, no,” he said, shaking his head in the specific way he used when he wanted to close a topic completely. “We’re just friends. She’s busy being a detective, I’m busy trying to graduate. That’s it.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, unconvinced.

  He changed course. “So when’s the date?”

  “This Friday.”

  “Picked a spot?”

  “Not yet. He’s supposed to call tonight.”

  “Good. Have fun. You deserve it.”

  Sheryl exhaled, a slight smile forming. “Thanks. I’ll try.”

  She turned toward the hallway. “I’m about to shower and call it a night.”

  “See you soon, Mom,” Derek said from the living room. “Keep that silver close.”

  When Sheryl pulled into the lot, Phil’s blue Cadillac Escalade was already parked. He was standing outside it as she arrived, and he crossed to her door before she’d even gathered her bag from the passenger seat. He wore a dark blazer over a collared shirt and had clearly made an effort, which she clocked without commenting.

  “Good evening,” he said, opening her door.

  “Glad to see you, Dr. Hall,” Sheryl said, stepping out. “Thanks for being a gentleman.”

  Daniel’s Steak and Wine Bistro ran a full house on Friday nights. The hostess led them past the bar to a table near the window facing the sidewalk, and the room carried the warm, layered noise of a place that knew it was doing well: cutlery against ceramic, chairs pulling back and settling, a dozen overlapping conversations at an easy volume. A jazz trio at the far corner of the bar played at a tempo that sat low under all of it.

  The menus came. They ordered. When the drinks arrived, Phil cut into his steak and looked up at her.

  “So,” he said, “what brought you to Bayou Mounds?”

  Sheryl swirled her wine before answering. “Twelve years in New Orleans will burn anyone out. The traffic, the ER chaos, the constant sirens. It just became too much. I wanted quiet. Space.”

  “Understandable,” Phil said. “You’re from a small town, right?”

  “Sullivan,” she said. “Tiny place, one grocery store, two traffic lights. I guess I missed that pace.”

  Phil nodded. “Makes sense. So did you always want to be a doctor?”

  “Not at all,” Sheryl said with a genuine laugh. “I started as a nurse. Medicine was supposed to be a temporary thing, but I fell in love with it, or maybe the challenge. Medical school pushed me harder than I expected.”

  “What made you go back for the MD?”

  She considered it. “A patient, actually. An older woman came in three nights in a row with the same complaint, and the attending kept sending her home with the same diagnosis. On the third night, I was the one who sat with her long enough to catch what was actually wrong. A resident shouldn’t be making that call. I decided I didn’t want to be in that position again.”

  “What was it?”

  “Aortic dissection presenting atypically. She survived because we caught it, but it shouldn’t have gotten that far.”

  Phil set down his fork. “That’s what makes a good doctor. Staying in the room.”

  “It’s just paying attention,” Sheryl said. “Most of medicine is paying attention.”

  He took a drink. “What about outside of work? What did twelve years in New Orleans look like for you socially?”

  “Busy,” she said. “I had friends, a neighborhood I liked, and places I went regularly. But the hours leave you with a very specific social life. You end up knowing other doctors better than anyone else because they’re the only people who understand why you cancel plans three times before you can actually show up.”

  “Accurate,” Phil said. “I’ve lost more friendships to bad timing than I have to any actual falling out.”

  “Exactly.” She picked up her glass. “What about you? You’re from here originally?”

  “Born and raised,” Phil said. “Bayou Mounds, then four years at Bayou Mounds University on a football scholarship.”

  Sheryl tilted her head. “You played ball?”

  “Quarterback. Thought the NFL was next.” He said it without bitterness, which took more practice than he made it look. “Blew my knee out senior year. Got drafted late anyway, played one season as a backup, then got cut in training camp the following year. That was the end of it.”

  “Tough break.”

  “It was,” Phil said. “For about eight months, it was all I could think about. Then I stopped thinking about what I’d lost and started figuring out what was next. Medicine was always my second interest. I figured if I couldn’t save games, maybe I could save lives.”

  She smiled. “That’s not a bad trade.”

  “It took a while to see it that way.” He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “How long did it take you to feel settled here? In Bayou Mounds?”

  “Honestly? A while,” Sheryl said. “The first year was an adjustment. The second year, something happened that made the question irrelevant. You stop asking yourself if you belong somewhere when the place becomes where you’ve dealt with the hardest things in your life.”

  “What happened in the second year?” he asked.

  She met his eyes steadily. “Things I can’t fully explain at a dinner table.”

  He held her gaze for a moment and then nodded. He didn’t push, which told her more about him than most of the conversation had.

  “Derek’s doing well,” Sheryl offered, shifting direction. “He served his time in the Army, came home, and decided to finish school. He’s a year from graduating now. I wasn’t sure he’d find his footing after everything, but he did.”

  Phil leaned forward. “What branch?”

  “Infantry. He deployed twice.”

  “That’ll change a person.”

  “It did,” Sheryl said. “But not in the ways I was afraid of. He came back with more patience than he left with. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Sometimes you have to leave home to find out who you actually are,” Phil said.

  Sheryl looked at her plate. “He figured out very quickly that the version of himself he was before he left wasn’t the final version. Most people take years to accept that about themselves. He was twenty-three.”

  Phil refilled her wine glass. “You’re proud of him.”

  “Completely,” she said. “He’s the clearest thing in my life right now.”

  They talked through the main course and into dessert, moving between their histories without the performative effort that first dates usually carried. At some point, the jazz trio took a break, and the room got slightly louder to fill the gap, and neither of them noticed for a while.

  When midnight came, and the restaurant was thinning out, they paid and walked outside into the cool night air. The streetlights in downtown Bayou Mounds were lit through a light mist, and the sidewalk was damp from earlier rain.

  “I’d like to do this again,” Phil said. “Whatever this condition is you’re managing, you seem to have it under control.”

  “It’s unpredictable sometimes,” Sheryl said. “There are moments when I can’t.”

  He smiled. “I’ll take my chances.”

  He reached for her hand and leaned toward her. She stepped back, gently, her tone even and clear. “Phil, not tonight. I’m not ready, not yet.”

  He stopped and exhaled, and the smile he recovered was slightly awkward but genuine. “Fair enough. Just don’t act like you don’t want it,” he said, half-joking.

  “Goodnight, Phil. Be safe,” Sheryl said. “I enjoyed the food and the company.”

  She got into her SUV, closed the door, and watched him cross the lot to his Escalade. The streetlight caught his jacket as he unlocked the car. She sat for a moment before starting the engine, and the smile that crossed her face was the first one in a while that she hadn’t had to manufacture.

  Phil got in at twelve-forty and didn’t go directly to bed. He poured a glass of water, changed into sweats, and turned on Sports View 360, which was running its late rotation: trade analysis, injury reports, talking heads around a desk working through the week’s games. He stretched out on the couch with his feet on the coffee table and let the voices run over him.

  His mind kept drifting back to the restaurant. The way Sheryl had described her patient in New Orleans. The way she’d talked about Derek with no performance in it at all, just flat, honest pride that she hadn’t seemed aware she was displaying.

  He’d been around enough people in enough social situations to know when conversation was real and when it was managed, and that had been real. Whatever she was carrying, whatever the condition was that she wouldn’t explain, she was a person worth the difficulty of figuring it out.

  He turned down the television volume and was reaching for his water glass when he heard it.

  “Phil.”

  He was still on the couch. It was a woman’s voice from somewhere in the back of the house, close enough to be indoors, and the inflection was wrong for the television, which was in front of him, muted.

  He muted it fully and sat up.

  The house was quiet. The refrigerator in the kitchen, the slow rotation of the ceiling fan, nothing else.

  Then again, from outside this time, through the kitchen wall: “Phil. Come to me.”

  He stood and picked up his phone from the coffee table, walked through the kitchen, and pushed the screen door open into the backyard. The motion light above the porch door, which activated when a squirrel crossed the yard, stayed dark.

  He stepped off the porch onto the grass, and the light at the property’s perimeter had gone out somewhere. The fence line, the oak tree at the south end of the yard, the neighbor’s roof that was normally visible above it, all of it was gone. He was standing on his grass with his phone in his hand, and there was nothing visible past arm’s reach in any direction.

  A single beam of white light opened in the center of the yard, narrow and direct, like a follow spot dropping onto a stage.

  Sheryl stood in it.

  Her hair was loose, and her eyes were warm, and she was wearing a black dress, and she was looking at him across the yard the way she’d looked at him across the restaurant table: steady, focused.

  “Phil,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  He walked toward her without thinking about the dark on all sides of the light, and when he reached her, she raised her hand to his jaw and leaned forward, and he closed his eyes, and for one second it was real, the warmth of it, the pressure.

  He opened his eyes.

  The face an inch from his was Karen 's, and it was not Karen’s. The jaw sat too far forward. The eyes were green from edge to edge, radiating their own light, no ambient source accounting for it, the green burning at full saturation across the entire iris.

  “Karen? Is that you?” he whispered.

  Lycara’s smile widened. “Karen is gone.”

  The body in front of him convulsed and then expanded, the change moving through it in a single surging wave: the frame broadening at the shoulders and spine, the arms extending and thickening, the jaw stretching forward and down, black fur pushing through the skin across every surface in a dense, rapid spread. The dress dissolved as the mass beneath it grew past what fabric could accommodate, and the figure that replaced the woman in the light was eight feet of black-furred muscle with green eyes burning in the dark face and claws extended at both hands and jaw open with its full display of fangs running past the lower lip.

  Phil stumbled backward, and his heel caught the edge of the porch step, and he went down onto the wood of the porch deck with his hands behind him.

  “Sheryl,” he gasped.

  Lycara’s roar broke across the yard and rolled out through the dark beyond the fence line and through the neighborhood in a concussive wave that scattered the birds from the oak tree at the yard’s south end. She leaped from the grass to the porch in a single bound, and the screen door frame buckled under the impact when she came through it, and the porch light flared once and went dark.

  The yard was empty and still. Wind moved through the oak tree, and the motion light above the door swung on its mount, and the grass in the center of the yard still held the compressed impression of two sets of feet standing together where the light had been.

  Rewritten on March 11 2026