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"You’re naked.”

I'm aware of my ankle. It hurts. I'm aware of a lot of things at the moment. I keep my eyes fixed on the Big Dipper like I’ve never seen it before. "There's a blanket on the chair. Use the blanket. Please."

Fabric. Movement. "Done."

I glance.

He's wrapped my grandmother's quilt around his hips and he's standing in the wreckage of my garden with black blood drying on his shoulder, breathing hard, watching me like I'm the dangerous one here.

I can’t stop looking at the huge lump I see beneath the quilt.

The gash above his collarbone is already knitting shut.

I want to laugh. What comes out is closer to a sob, so I bite it in half.

"You're a wolf."

"Yes."

"A werewolf."

"Shifter."

"That's the same thing with better marketing."

"It isn't."

"You had fur, Gage."

"I have fur."

"Oh my God."

He waits. He's very good at waiting. It's the most infuriating thing about him and always has been, and knowing why doesn't make it better.

"Do you get shots?"

"No."

"Do you fetch?"

"Maren."

"This is processing. This is what processing looks like."

"It's deflecting."

"Same thing, cheaper."

He starts toward me the way you'd approach a horse, slow, announcing every step.

"Don't manage me."

"I'm not."

"You're doing the voice."

"I don't have a voice."