Wayward Creatures: Chapters 1–6

My nose to the ground, I track the marmot through the leaves.

“I’ve got it!” howls Pebble, who comes bumbling out of the exact wrong bush behind the marmot.

I am so flabbergasted by their total failure as hunters that I break from my chase and just gape at the roiling gold-and-red fur ball that is their two bodies.

The marmot glances back at me, squeals, and tears across the duff-covered ground, disappearing into the dense brush on the other bank.

I leap over Fern and land my front paws on Pebble’s hindquarters, sending her sprawling forward.

“I expect more from you, Rill. Yearling coyotes help train the new litter—they don’t become a part of it.”

I hunt up a few mice, collect them in my jowls, and lope back to the den.

Bottom diving in the hamper it is. I strike gold. My favorite shirt and...it smells fine!

We’ve switched to generic cereals, all except for Liz’s muesli.

“This is disgusting,” I say, and promptly dump the whole bowl of sludge into the trash.

The official idea is that the students have a “more intimate seventh-grade experience”: smaller classes with fewer different kids in each and teams of teachers dedicated to those fewer kids specifically.

“Awesome Allen,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm, and give a feeble little pump with my arms.

The scent of rabbit drifts by, and I manage to down the thing in a thicket without much of a chase.

I lope through the leaves, leap over a low bush, and—yikes!—company: I startle a young deer.

The hoof-head rears, squealing like a mouse, then bounds away from me.

Coyotes have obligations to their families, owe their parents respect and their siblings allegiance.

But then I remember that brief moment in the sun, the power of startling that deer, the delicious languor from a full belly, and it’s like the choice was made before we even started barking.

All I hear is my breath pulsing over my lolling tongue, the pounding of my heart, because I am free; I am the wind and the wild.

Only when I stop at the crest of a hill do I hear the echo of a howl.

Taylor is riding around on this kind of dingy bike, popping wheelies.

Taking a cue from Taylor, Owen and Leo both hand me their bags and peel out after him.

I stare into the bright glare, train my eyes over the glowing canisters, and then notice in the reflection a shelf behind me with the sign HALF-OFF FIREWORKS.

I dig three dollars from my backpack and hand them to him, praying he doesn’t notice the slight sheen of sweat on the bills.

I run from a green flare shooting out of Taylor’s tube. Pink, orange, and yellow leave trails across my vision.

The dead blades burst into flames.
Taylor jumps, stamps out the grass.

Taylor throws the remnants of his candle.

Mice are crafty—they jump in one hole and scurry out another.

The humans become distinct shadows in its light.

Bugs scuttle over the dirt.

The fire whirls. It roars.
I rear back, but my fur is singed.

The smoke whips out in dark tendrils, choking me.

A howl of pain breaks from my throat, my fur now smoldering. The flames are everywhere, smoke closing in around me.

I race through the flames, not caring which direction, just away from the heat and smoke and ash and burning, across the dirt, through heaps of leaves, up over rocks. I crash through bramble.

I stumble up the bank, trying to move fast, but the water keeps sloshing out of my shoes. There’s going to be nothing left to douse the fire.

I try to shrink down as small as possible, like maybe I can disappear into a crack in the vinyl.

“Stay here,” he says, dropping my wet shoes beside me. They land with a squelch.

“The fire marshal believes they have the fire under control. I spoke with the state’s attorney and, given Gabriel’s age, they don’t want to press charges just yet.”

“She does want to have your son referred to our community justice center and to have him engage in a restorative justice process. However, your son has to agree to participate.”

The cop answers, “Assuming he successfully completes their process, this case will be dismissed.”

But there’s this other part of me, and it feels small, but also, like, it’s most of me, and it’s brittle, and just hearing the way my parents are talking—half-scared, half-angry, all laced with this tone like they don’t know me, or don’t want to know me—their words are hitting it like a bat. And that part can’t take anymore. Like one more word and it might shatter.