I held out the dog treat again. Pilot picked his head up.
“So let me get this straight,” my father rumbled. “You don’t object to the actual consumption of animals, right?”
Keith hesitated. “Right.”
“It’s how the animals are treated before they’re slaughtered that bothers you? Not the actual slaughtering.”
“I guess.”
“So the predator should respect the life of its prey? Am I understanding you? The lion should honor the zebra? It should feel empathy?”
Now Keith looked furious. He was being condescended to. It happened all the time. Mom called it “the Socratic method” and said it was the way Dad lectured and the reason he could get so many people to see things his way. She also said it never paid to make him mad, but Keith seemed immune to the whole thing. Or more like allergic. “You know that’s not what I mean. We’re not animals. We’re human. We have certain responsibilities—”
“We’re not what?” My father grinned, but he didn’t look happy. His face took on an eerie cast from the glow of the television. A major league leer. I shuddered.
Keith shot a nervous glance in my direction. “Empathy’s not a bad thing, Dad.”
“Really? Are you so sure? Even when it’s a matter of life or death?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what exactly are you talking about?”
“God!” Keith exclaimed. “Am I the only one around here who gives a crap about anything but myself?”
I tensed and waited for my father’s reaction. Even I didn’t like Keith’s tone.
But nothing happened.
After a moment, Keith dropped his gaze. “I mean, how hard would it be just to buy free-range chicken from now on?” he muttered. “’Cause that would be a great start.”
“Free-range?” My dad gave a sharp bark of laughter, startling me. Pilot growled. The sound came from deep in his belly, and I buried my face in his snowy ruff. Inhaled his doggy scent.
“Free-range,” he repeated. “Hell, sure, Keith. That we can do.”
I growled, too.
My dad swatted the arm of his chair one more time.
“Get over here, Drew.”
chapter
five
matter
The directive is handed down the following morning: We’re not allowed in the back woods on the far side of the river anymore. This is expected and I’m not sure what took so long, but the entire student body is complaining and making idiotic arguments like how there’s a greater chance of dying in a dorm fire than being eaten by a wild animal so maybe we should all strip naked, cover ourselves in fire-retardant foam, and sleep in the parking lot.
You know, just in case.
But the headmaster is firm. There’s something out there, he tells us while we’re all crammed shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh in the dark shadows of the school’s creaking chapel. A bear. A cougar. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. No one knows. State wildlife experts will investigate. The matter should be resolved quickly, and our cooperation is appreciated.
The platitudes and clichés spill from his mouth in rapid succession like the lame script of some poorly programmed android. I listen but learn nothing new. I do know the cops are in the woods again this morning. I know because I watched them trudge out there, real early, with their cadaver dogs and everything. But today’s forecast calls for rain, and this will wash away evidence, I guess. That’s too bad. I’d like the truth to be known as much as the next person.
More, really.
I feel restless. I do math inside my head. It’s been twenty-five days since the last full moon. That was during the first week of school, back in September, and I spent that night like others before it. I walked in the dark, alone. At curfew, I returned to my room, where I tossed and turned for hours. When I finally slept, I awoke to failure. I hadn’t changed. Again. Or so I thought.
Now I don’t know what to think.
I fidget. I long to leave. My elbow hurts and my hip hurts because I’m curled against the end of a pew, doing everything I can to avoid letting Brandon Black breathe on me. He smells awful, like some combination of scrambled eggs and designer body spray, and I have to inhale through my mouth because I’m this close to puking my guts all over the scuffed wood planks beneath my feet. I wrench my head to the right, and in an ocean of J. Crew and American Eagle, I spy the girl who looks like a boy sitting across the aisle and one row back. She’s wearing cargo shorts and leather sandals.