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When Grandma Ruth mentioned council-approved doctors, I asked how difficult it was to find one nearby.

My questions were casual enough that nobody became suspicious. They answered freely because they believed I knew the basics already and that I’d been away from the pack long enough that I might need some reminders or updates.

I learned that most first shifts happened around puberty. Younger shifts had become more common, and nobody understood why beyond the general consensus that puberty was generally happening earlier than it used to. Children were called littles until they developed their wolves. The transformation itself could be uncomfortable, especially at first, but it wasn’t usually dangerous unless someone panicked or shifted in a confined space.

The council enforced secrecy and mediated disputes between packs.

There were bear shifters. That discovery required twenty minutes away from the chat.

I stared at the wall, then searched are bear shifters real despite already knowing the internet wouldn’t produce anything useful.

The following morning, Hudson sent his usual morning message before I had finished brushing my teeth.

Hudson: Hydration monitor, are you awake?

I studied my reflection. My hair stood unevenly around the knot on top of my head. Toothpaste clung to one corner of my mouth. My eyes looked too wide, which seemed reasonable since I’d learned werewolves and bear people existed less than twelve hours earlier.

Sloane: Unfortunately.

Hudson: That’s the spirit.

Sloane: I’m still deciding whether consciousness has benefits.

Hudson: Water first. Existential review afterward.

I rinsed my mouth and drank a glass from the bathroom tap.

He was a werewolf. An unknown man who texted me reminders about lunch had a second body with fur and teeth.

I wanted to see it.

God, what was wrong with me?

Sloane: Hydrated.

Hudson: I’m proud of you.

The words warmed me even now that I knew what he was.

Somewhere along the way, the arrangement had stopped being one-sided. I still reminded Hudson to drink water before coffee, eat meals involving more than three bites of a protein bar, to get fresh air and occasionally step away from whatever problem had drafted him into service that day. In return, he’d begun checking on me with irritating consistency.

Had I eaten breakfast?

What did I mean by “basically lunch”?

Did a handful of crackers qualify as dinner where I came from?

At first, I’d deflected. Then he started asking for specifics, which was deeply inconvenient when the specifics were coffee, half a granola bar, and the vague intention to cook something later. More than once, I’d found myself making eggs or toast simply because I didn’t want to admit to Hudson that I had forgotten to eat again.

Because of that, I had been getting noticeably more calories every day. Nothing dramatic. It wasn’t like I’d suddenly started meal-prepping color-coded containers on Sundays or bought vegetables with a realistic plan for consuming them. Still, I was eating breakfast regularly now, and lunch was slowly becoming an actual meal instead of an event I postponed until dinner.

It gave me a strange sense of accomplishment. Apparently, basic nutritional maintenance was the final threshold between struggling freelancer and responsible member of society, and all I had needed to cross it was a wolf shifter asking whether I’d eaten anything with protein.

Over the next several days, I continued my research. I learned almost nothing online. Every reliable-looking source dismissed shapeshifters as folklore. Every source claiming they existed also believed satellites controlled household pets. The secrecy system worked because the truth had surrounded itself with so much nonsense that anyone approaching it became embarrassed before getting close.

The invitation to the pack reunion was pinned at the top of the chat. Every day, someone else updated their RSVP, dish, arrival time, or available sleeping arrangements.

Grandma Ruth: WE HAVE 28 CONFIRMED.