“It still says it's declined.”

The clerk looked between Harper and the credit card, and Harper could actually see the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. She couldn't have asked for a better mark.

For the purposes of conning people, she wished the entire world was full of men in their twenties who were moderately unattractive. Too much older, and they were wise to the game. Too much younger, and they sometimes lacked the agency to make decisions. Attractive men could be played, but it required more finesse, as they lacked the eagerness to please a pretty girl. Conversely, men who were too unattractive had long-since been burned in high school, and were always skeptical of the attention of a woman.

Of course, in the end none of it mattered. She wasn't some basic hustler that went around flashing her cleavage and mewling.

Harper was an artist.

“Oh my God, this is so embarrassing,” Harper said, drawing her brows up to affect a look of moderate vulnerability. “The card can be a little finicky. At the grocery store, the cashier is always having to put a plastic bag over it to make it work. I promise, there's way more than enough on there to cover the room.”

The clerk smiled and Harper registered relief on his face. “Okay. I'll just run it manually. Give me a minute here, my computer is a little slow.”

While he tapped at his keyboard, Harper glanced around the motel lobby. The red and gold patterned carpet was worn, particularly in the space between the glass entrance doors and the front desk. The room was a hodgepodge of second-hand furniture that matched only in its banality, a frayed leather chair, a couch with cigarette burns, and lamp with a dusty gold shade. In her experience, the quality of a guest room was a step below that of the lobby, which meant she was in for a treat.

She looked at the clerk again, just in time to catch him staring. He quickly glanced away, making a show of righting his hair while covertly wiping the sweat from his brow.

“I must look like crap,” Harper said, making a point to keep her tone friendly and conversational. “It's been a rough day.”

“No, you look—” He cut off in a nervous laugh. “You're fine. Definitely not like crap. Where are you from, anyway?”

He still had her state ID—or at least the one she'd given him—perched on his computer keyboard, so the question was simply to make conversation.

“New York—and no, not the city. I'm from one of the boring parts no one ever knows about. Montclair, near Clifton.” She gave him a second to stare blankly, and then laughed and flicked his shoulder. “See? I told you, you wouldn't know it.”

He was laughing and grinning as he unconsciously rubbed the place she'd touched.

Harper leaned over the counter, making a show of looking at his computer. “Did it go through okay this time?”

“Oh, crap, sorry. Haven't typed it out yet. One second. Sorry.”

He picked up her card and began pounding the numbers in.

“You don't have to apologize. After the day I've had, it's nice to just make conversation. Thank you.”

His smile vanished as he stared at the screen. He hesitated, chewing at his chapped bottom lip, and then shifted his eyes back to Harper.

“It's still saying it's declined.”

Harper drew her brows down, and then together, and then ran her tongue along her teeth, presenting a facade of bewilderment.

“Okay, that's definitely weird. Let me think.” She paused to run her fingers through her hair, tossing it to one side and perfuming the air with the scent of passion flower and coconut milk shampoo. “Can you take a card over the phone?”

“Sure,” he said, bobbing his head in earnest.

“Perfect. How about this? I'll call my credit card company and see if I can't get this sorted out. To be honest, I'm a little on edge today and I want to get to the bottom of this before I start panicking. Can I give you my home phone number? It's a little late, but my boyfriend Patrick should still be up. Just let him know you're here with me and my card is being weird. He'll give you the number for our debit card.”

This was where smarter men tended to be problematic. They would suss out the obvious flaws in her request, particularly the fact that she'd asked them to call her boyfriend, instead of just calling herself. That was only a minor hiccup in the plan. She could still sell it, but it was a bit trickier.

Thankfully, the clerk didn't notice the holes in her plot. She could see in his eyes that he'd latched onto one detail at the exclusion of all others—Harper had a boyfriend.

“Uh, sure, here.”

He presented her with a ballpoint pen with a credit union logo and a sheet of yellow legal paper. There was a smudge of sweat on the corner where his thumb had been. Harper quickly scribbled out the phone number and then pushed the paper to him, giving him an appreciative look.

“Do you mind if I have my card back? I can never remember the number.”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

While Harper dialed the Amex customer support number, the clerk keyed in the number she'd given him. He lifted his archaic, coil-corded receiver to his ear and shifted his weight back and forth as it rang.

She decided that he was kind of cute, with his scruffy beard and pale blue eyes. His haircut was unfortunate. It looked like his mom had cut it. His nails were also too clean, which didn't mean anything, but for some reason, it always turned her off. That, and men who smiled too much. In any case, it didn't really matter what he looked like, because he would never stand a chance with her. Chief on her extensive list of traits she didn't like in men was gullibility. This was why Harper's longest relationship had lasted four weeks. Because given sufficient time, she could twist any man like a pretzel.

She heard the hum of a voice on the other line of the clerk's phone. He blinked a couple of times before responding.

“H-Hello. Is uh...” He looked anxiously at Harper.

“Patrick,” she supplied, covering her own receiver as she spoke and issuing him a bright smile.

“Is Patrick there?” He waited a few seconds, and then said, “Uh, this is Reggie with Motor Inn, in Lynchburg, Virginia.”

That was two more strikes against him. She hated when anyone of any gender used the interjection “uh.” She would rather there be an awkward pause in their sentence, as the alternative made them sound weak, uncertain, and worthy of being dismissed. Also, his name. Either his parents burdened him with a kid's name, subjecting him to a lifetime of marginalization, or he willingly chose to forsake a cool name like Reginald in favor of a diminutive. Either way, ugh.

There was more chatter on the other line, and Harper could see he was becoming flustered.

“No, uh, I'm here with his...with his girlfriend, Harper.”

He had to pull the receiver away from his ear as the person on the other end began to screech. Even from across the counter, Harper could make out what was being said.

“What? What? You didn't tell me you had a girlfriend, you lying piece of shit.”

Reggie was pulling at his shirt collar. “Uh, maybe I have the wrong number.”

“Oh no you don't,” the person on the other end shouted. “This is Patrick's phone, and you can tell Harper that Patrick is a lying, two-timing piece of shit!”

“Everything okay?” Harper asked. She smiled as though blissfully unaware of what he was going through.

“Uh...”

His face was beet red and the brow sweat was back in full force. Another strike. It was one thing to not remain calm under pressure, but to have your anxiety splayed across your face for all the world to see? Harper was legitimately worried that they were going to give the poor guy a panic attack.

He went on, “There's a... It's a woman on the phone. She says...”

Harper hung up her cell and reached for his phone. “It must be some mistake. Here, let me.”

He was eager to pass the receiver to her. She used her sleeve to wipe the ring of sweat from the speaker and then placed it at her ear.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Jo's high-pitched voice was clear and crisp on the other end. “Is this working? I sure hope so, because it is so freaking cold out here. And this is the last time I let you rope me into one of your games. I told you I could just pay with my credit card. This room can't be more than fifty bucks a night, it's not like we're in Boston.”

While she spoke, Harper let a range of expressions play out across her face. Confusion. Realization. Horror. Anger. And finally, hurt.

“Slow down,” Harper said, her voice choked with emotion. “Who... No, that's not... Put Patrick on the phone, now.” She paused, giving herself time to rev up the waterworks. Within seconds, her eyes were welling with tears. “Patrick, how could you? No. No. Just stop. I don't want to... No. I can't believe this. How could you do this? And on the day of my mom's funeral?”

She could hear Ian's voice in the background. “Wow, she is really selling this.”

“I know,” Jo said. “I dunno why she bothered getting a degree. She should have just went to Hollywood. She could be in a soap or something. I bet she's making herself cry.”

“I can't deal with this right now. I'm at a motel in Lynchburg. I'm exhausted and now I definitely can't drive. My credit card is being declined. Can you just give me the number for my other card?”

As she spoke, Harper walked away from the desk as far as the cord would allow. She made a show of lowering her voice and trying to speak covertly, while still talking just loud enough for the clerk to hear. If she had stood at the counter and had such a deeply personal conversation, Reggie probably wouldn't have caught on, but she couldn't afford to skimp on the fine details.

“You, what? Patrick, this is my credit card. You asshole! Mom was right about you all along.” She let her voice crack. “I want your things out of the apartment by the time I get back to town.”

Jo snickered. “If I took all of my things out of our apartment, you'd basically be left with a moldy espresso maker and that old bottle of hairspray that you keep saying you're going to get a new nozzle for.”

“It's my name on the lease,” Harper said. “I'm serious, I want you out. And don't you dare think about taking Paisley. She's my dog, not yours.”

“As if. You hate dogs.”

That was patently untrue. Harper loved dogs, she just hated the concept of pets.

“No. No. No. I'm done. I'm hanging up now. Don't ever call me again.”

She brought the phone down from her ear and put her hand over the speaker. Standing with her back to Reggie for a moment, she pretended to compose herself. When she turned, she had wiped the tears from her face, but she knew that her cheeks would still be stained with mascara and that her eyes would be red and puffy. If she were Reggie, well, she wouldn't have fallen for the act in a second, but she would have particularly balked at the mascara stains. No woman wore non-waterproof mascara to a funeral, which was where she said she been.

Thankfully, there were few people in the world that would notice such a fine detail. Reggie, like most people, was a slave to a series of habits so banal that most of his life was on autopilot. The small details of his life might change from day to day. Now and again something major would happen that would change everything for a bit, and then he would either resume his previous habits or adopt a new set of habits. He would forever be going through the motions, only seeing far enough ahead to take the next step, not realizing that he was walking in a circle.

Harper was an artist.

She didn't like the term “con artist,” because it had a negative connotation. She didn't hurt people, not unless they deserved it. She simply reimagined her reality and invited others to join in her narrative. There was no such thing as the perfect lie. If a person was shrewd enough, there were always little details they could pick up on. Lies always left behind crumbs.

Reggie didn't want to be lied to. He wanted to hear a story. He wanted to be led from his loop, if only for a little while, and engage in Harper's fantasy. A fantasy in which he could save the day of a beautiful woman.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, punctuating the sentence with a sniffle. “I don't know what to say. I don't think I've ever been this embarrassed in my life.”

“No, I'm sorry,” Reggie said, taking the phone from her rigid hand. He placed it back on its mount. “Is there anyone else you can call? You have family in the area?”

She started to pull out her phone. “Yeah, let me call my mo—” She froze and squeezed her eyes shut, allowing a small whine to escape her. “Sorry. It's only been two days since...” She gave a mirthless laugh. “I still have her text message thread on my phone. I was literally at her wake and I went to take out my phone to text her. How stupid is that?”

The dead mom card was a particularly dirty play, and it was one she used often. Given that her mom was actually dead, she'd never harbored any guilt or worried about bad juju.

Not that she believed in juju.

Reggie produced a tissue from somewhere behind his desk. Only as Harper was wiping her face did she realize it was a McDonald's napkin.

“My aunt died a few years ago,” Reggie blurted. “Not to say that my aunt dying is anything like losing a mom. Uh, wow. Sorry. You must think I'm a douche now.”

Harper reached across the desk to pat his freckled hand. It was cool and clammy. “My mom always used to tell me that there's no measurement for grief. I'm sorry for your loss, and I apologize for dumping all of this on you tonight. I guess if my world's gonna fall apart, it's better it all crumbles at once, right?”

He bobbed his head, clearly wanting to say something, but not knowing the right words.

“Well, I have to get some sleep,” she said, retracting her hand. “Will I get towed if I sleep in the parking lot?”

On reflex, he grabbed her hand. Instantly, he thought better of it and released her, blushing with renewed intensity. “Sorry, I just mean to say wait. Here.”

He turned and grabbed one of the copper keys that hung behind the counter. He smiled at her, his shoulders rolling with masculine confidence. For a brief moment, he wasn't an awkward, gangly, young man who sucked at talking to girls and probably played too many video games. He had fully invested into Harper's story, and she had made him a hero.

“It's not the greatest room, but I cleaned it myself. Stay here tonight. Just have the key back by nine. The owner comes in at ten. It'll give me time to clean it up and avoid any questions.”

Harper let out a fresh wave of tears and bent over the counter to hug him, making certain to push her chest into his. She'd gotten what she'd come for, she could give him a little something more in return.

“Sorry,” she said as she pulled back. “I'm a hugger.”

“It's fine,” he said, laughing it off while his Adam's apple bobbed.

“I promise, I'll leave the room cleaner than I found it.” She looked down, and then up through her lashes at him. “I can't thank you enough. If it weren't for you, I might have ended this day thinking that the whole world is full of assholes.”

A few minutes later, she was exiting the lobby, a burst of cool night air hitting her in the face. The motel was located in the foothills of The Blue Ridge Mountains, and she could smell the scents of the autumn forest on the breeze. Fresh air, pine trees, and dry soil. She paused for a few seconds to take it all in, ignoring the hissing whispers of her friends.

Ian and Jo were hiding on the far side of Ian's gray Camry. Harper had no clue why. She made her way across the dimly lit parking lot, giving them the thumbs up as she went. Ian met her halfway, giving her a high-five and flashing his trademark smile, which was a marvel of modern dentistry. No one but a politician should have teeth that brilliantly white and perfectly spaced.

“Did you get a room with two beds?” Ian asked.

“Doubt it,” Harper said, tossing him the key as she passed him. “Beggars can't be choosers.”

She pulled Jo into a hug and kissed the top of her head. Jo pretended to be annoyed..

Having been party to Harper's antics for nearly a decade, Jo had long since passed the point of being impressed, at least not on the surface. With her chronic anxiety, she probably lived in constant fear that they would get found out that she'd end up in some sort of fraudster's prison. Yet, every time Harper said, “I'll handle this, you just play along,” Jo issued only a perfunctory complaint and then fell in line. Deep down, Jo was a sucker for the thrill of it, she just lacked the initiative and the confidence to pull off plays of her own.

“You really killed it tonight. You had that poor boy sweating bullets.”

“That's awful,” Jo said. “Can we please just lay down now? I'm so tired.”

“Me, too. You think they have coffee anywhere around here?” Ian asked as he grabbed their bags from the trunk.

Harper extended her hand to Ian, but he ignored her. One of his quirks was that he never allowed women to hold bags or open doors. It was mildly chauvinistic, but Harper wasn't going to be the one to tell him that. Half of the reason she'd brought him was to be a pack animal.

Harper said, “I think there's a McDonald's around here, but you should shower and sleep. We'll have to leave before sunrise if we want to reach the campgrounds at a reasonable hour.”

“Ah, crap, you're right. It feels weird going to bed at nine, though.”

“You'll be thanking me tomorrow,” Harper said.

She looped her arm in Jo's as they made their way to their room. Their room number was 124, which suited her purposes nicely because it situated them on the opposite side of the motel. In the morning, she could go out, drive to the other side of the parking lot, and pick up her friends. They'd make one final stop at the local Food Lion, and then they'd hit the highway, not getting off again until they were near No Man's Land.

The motel wasn't the sort you'd find recommended on Google Maps. It looked liked it had been painted recently, but the fresh coat did nothing to cover its underlying seediness. Blackened gum spots and cigarette butts littered the cement walkway. Each room had a single, square window with yellowed blinds. Intermittently, they glowed with the light of a television screen.

A woman of indeterminate age hung outside room 121, wearing cowboy boots, a denim skirt, and a denim jacket of a different shade. A lit cigarette hung loose on her red lips as she drummed her acrylic nails on the brick wall.

As they neared her, she sized them up, her dull eyes likely observing more than the average person might. As she plucked her cigarette from her mouth, Harper slowed, preparing to be spoken to.

“Got any blow?” The woman asked. She had a raspy voice, but only a slight Appalachian twang, which told Harper she was probably in her late twenties to early thirties.

As Harper came to a full stop, Jo tried tugging her along. In a not-so-quiet whisper, she said, “Come on, ignore her.”

Instead, Harper extended her hand to the woman. “I'm Harper. This is Jo and Ian. And you are?”

The woman stared at Harper's hand, but didn't take it. Appearing perplexed, she responded, “Diamond.”

“Cool name, thanks.” Harper leaned in, giving Diamond a conspiratorial look. “No one's ever asked me for coke without being on a first name basis. That was just a bit too weird for me.”

Diamond shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, you got any?”

Harper sighed. “Nah, sorry. Not my scene. I have some pot, though.”

“Harper!” Ian hissed.

Harper went on, “We're in 124. Wanna come smoke?”

As always, Ian got the door for them. He shot Harper a dirty look as she passed by. Diamond entered last, looking around the room with stark skepticism. She took a seat at the chair closest to the door, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest. Sometimes when people folded their arms, it was a sign of intractability. That they were standing their ground and would not be swayed. Other times it was a sign of vulnerability. Generally speaking, it was all in how high they positioned their arms. In Diamond's case, her arms were set low, covering her belly. Thousands of years of evolution, and humans were still protecting their guts.

The room was basic, with only a couple of chairs, a queen-sized bed, a bathroom, and a dresser with a boxy television on it. There was only a single nightstand on the right side of the bed, which Harper quickly claimed for herself. She set her iPhone down beside the television remote, which was both Velcroed and duct taped to the stand.

Jo went straight for the bathroom, while Ian opted to sit on the end of the bed and glower his disapproval at Harper. Half a foot shorter than her and three years younger, no amount of glowering would ever make Ian intimidating to her, though she didn't have the heart to tell him that. She playfully prodded his side with her foot as she rifled through her backpack.

Diamond was still eyeing them suspiciously as Harper extracted the sandwich bag of pre-rolled joints.

“Those look like smokes,” Diamond said.

Harper wrinkled her nose. “I know. I knew I had to make a bunch of them before the trip, so I borrowed a friend's roller. I'm not really happy with how they came out. They use twice as much as a joint I'd roll myself, but we still smoke them just as fast.”

“We?” Ian repeated. “You're the only one who smokes here, Harper.”

“I do, too, sometimes,” Jo called from the bathroom. She was always quick to admit things herself, as if worried Harper would out her. It was a trait she'd developed being the youngest of five sisters.

“What? You never told me that!” Ian yelled back.

“It helps me when I'm having one of my freak outs. It's either that, or those pills my doctor prescribes me, and those make me feel like a zombie all day.”

Harper had already lit the joint and had taken her first, long drag.

“Face it, kid,” she said, careful to let the smoke flow away from Ian. “It beats pharmaceuticals.”

“That's why it's illegal,” Diamond said, now confidently strutting over to pluck the joint from Harper's fingers. She leaned against the nightstand as she puffed. “Cause if people realized how much bullshit it could cure, ain't nobody would be popping pills and the industry would collapse.”

“Spoken like a true economist,” Harper said, grinning.

“This is good,” Diamond said. She pulled the joint back and examined it. “What do you want for it?”

Harper shrugged. “Nothing. Just want to hang out and talk.”

Ian's eyes bulged.

“Good,” said Diamond, taking another hit. “Cause I don't do shit for weed.”

“Duly noted,” said Harper.

“Where the hell are you kids from, anyway?”

Harper said, “Boston, at least presently. Ian's from Vermont, Jo's from the midwest.”

“College brats?”

Harper pointed to herself, then the bathroom, and then to Ian. “Harvard, Harvard, MIT.”

Ian's scowl deepened. “Why do you always have to say it like that?”

“No idea what you're talking about,” Harper said innocently.

“MIT is one of the top universities in the world.”

Harper accepted the joint from Diamond. “Tell me, Diamond, in your opinion, which school is better: Harvard or MIT?”

“Harvard,” she said without hesitation. “Shit, I don't even know what MIT stands for.”

“They have a great political science department,” Ian said defensively.

“So does Harvard,” Jo called.

Diamond interjected, “So, ya'll out here to see some werewolves?”

“How did you know?” asked Ian.

Diamond rolled her shoulders. “That's what all college kids who come through here are looking for. Take my advice and go back to where you came from.”

“We're aware of the risks,” Harper said.

Ian asked, “You've seen other college kids in these parts?”

Harper heard the toilet flush in the bathroom, and a second later, the shower turned on.

Diamond had the joint again and was burning it down at an impressive pace. She made no effort to pass it and Harper didn't ask. She wasn't an all-day, everyday smoker. Just a couple hits before bed kept the nightmares at bay.

“Sure,” Diamond said, sounding plain congenial by now. “They usually come through in the summer. Act like it's some sort of adventure or vacation. They think they're gonna go out running with the werewolves, like the reservation is some local fucking attraction. Well, let me tell you, it ain't. Half of 'em never come back. I know that, because every now and then, they'll find one of their cars parked out in the fringes, weeds growing over it and shit. The ones that do come back, they're either fucked up or knocked up.” She paused to wag a finger at Harper. “Pretty girl like you, them wolves will be plum crazy for you. They'll prolly kill your friend here, just to get rid of the competition.”

Ian glanced nervously at Harper. She wondered how he could dismiss everything else Diamond said, but let this statement get to him.

“I guess it's a risk we'll have to take, in the name of science,” Harper said, raising her voice triumphantly towards the end.

Jo had already finished her shower, and she cheered from the bathroom, “In the name of science!”

Harper looked to Ian, who mumbled the mantra under his breath.

“What kind of science?” Diamond asked. “Ya'll studying the animals or something?”

“Kind of, in the sense that we're all animals,” Harper said, sinking back into the lumpy pillow. “I'm an anthropologist.”

“What's that?”

After Harper had declined taking the joint back, Diamond had returned to her chair by the door. Now, she sat with her legs to the side and her shoulders relaxed.

“It's the study of humans,” said Harper. “And more recently lycanthropes, or shifters as they're commonly known. Right now, lycanthropic anthropology is more of a buzz word than an actual field, and we're hoping to change that by showing the research community a new side of shifter culture. There's a particular pack we're hoping to study, if they'll let us.”

“What for?”

Ian answered her. “The pack is rumored to have over a thousand members. It's significant, because most packs destabilize once they hit two hundred. That's because somewhere around one hundred and fifty members, human and humanoid groups reach a sort of critical mass wherein—”

Harper said, “Basically, once you have more than a hundred and fifty people in a group, whether it's in a company, or a neighborhood, or in this case, a pack, it's impossible to know and give a damn about everyone. People stop caring, they aren't able to trust one another as well, and they begin screwing each other over. Everything more or less goes to shit once you start hovering around two hundred people, unless—”

Harper paused, briefly distracted by the sound of the hairdryer coming on in the bathroom. She raised her voice. “Unless you have a clear and consistent set of shared values and beliefs. For example, humans have shared religions, shared laws, and more recently, shared belief in corporations. Laws, in my opinion, are the most fascinating. We take for granted that stealing is wrong and murder is bad, but there's nothing in nature that agrees with these principles. We believe them because religion tells us to, or because the government enforces them. We'd like to think that we're noble creatures, but if left to our own devices, without the intervention of gods or government, we'd be no different than all of the other predators, thieving and killing our way through life.”

Ian was shaking his head. “How much of that did you smoke?”

“I get it, I get it,” Diamond said, her head bobbing. “But what's any of that got to do with werewolves?”

“I'm glad you asked,” Harper said. “You see, every pack has rules, a general conduct. But the further up the social ladder you go, the less the rules seem to apply. Murder is taboo within most packs, but if a beta kills a lower ranking pack member, they may get away with it. An alpha can kill pretty much whoever he wants and get away with it. You see, while packs have rules, they're more like loose guidelines. There are no codified laws—principles by which all of their members live by, and face pre-established consequences if they don't.”

Ian added, “This pack we're tracking, rumor is that they have a very strict set of laws that are on par with the laws of early humans. Each member of the pack, all the way up to the alpha, is held the same standards. If we can prove this, and prove that the shifters obey governance, then it's not a great leap for us to say that they can follow the governance of human laws, and therefore be entitled to citizenship.”

Diamond's jaw went lax. “Wait, you're saying you want to make werewolves into US citizens? Like, give them social security cards and have them wait in line at the DMV?”

Harper asked, “Is integration really that hard to imagine?”

“They're already considering it in California,” Ian said. “There's a bill being proposed that would make shifter children born to human mothers legal citizens.”

“All of them are born to human mothers,” Diamond said.

“Exactly,” said Harper. “And they're getting more and more human each year. What we consider to be a shifter nowadays would be unrecognizable from a shifter even two centuries ago. Go back another few centuries, before Columbus sailed, and shifters were as big as houses and worshipped as gods. Integration is inevitable, because shifters are dying out. We don't have to raid their packs to kill them. We're killing them softly, generation by generation, diluting their gene pool with our humanity. The least we can do is give them ID cards.”

Diamond stared at her. “I ain't living next door to no shifter.”

For some reason, her statement cracked Harper up. Probably the pot. While she laughed, Ian did the heavy lifting.

He said, “You may already, statistically speaking. Estimates are that 0.5% of the population of New York City are shifters, and their concentration increases the closer you get to one of the reservations. In fringe towns, one in seventy residents is a shifter.”

“And that's just the ones over the age of eighteen,” Jo called, having finished drying her hair. “Something like 5% of children and adolescents in fringe towns are fathered by a shifter.”

Diamond squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “That ain't possible. I've never seen one. Well, I think I met one in a bar once. Real creepy looking fucker.”

Harper said, “He probably wasn't a shifter. The types of shifters you'd encounter outside of a reservation are the ones that can blend in well. They also tend to be less aggressive than their cave-dwelling counterparts.”

“Then how do I tell them apart?”

There were ways, but Harper wasn't about to go down that route.

“If they're doing a good job, then, you won't.”

“Damn, just what I need, more shit to worry about.”

“Statistically speaking, you're more likely to be in a car accident, or die of congestive heart failure, than of a shifter attack,” Ian said. “There were only sixty reported shifter killings in the US last year, and many of them were likely staged.”

Diamond snorted. “I'm sure those statistics will make you feel real safe once you got one of them hairy fuckers gnashing its teeth in your face.”

Jo emerged from the bathroom, the scent of her fruity shampoo filling the air.

“That was fast,” Harper remarked.

Jo gave a pout. “The water never got above lukewarm.”

“Better get used to it,” Harper said. “Could be the closest thing you have to a warm shower for a long time.”

Diamond asked, “How long you figuring you'll be gone?”

Harper answered, “Sixty days, ideally. Should give us enough time to get the lay of the land. If there's enough quality stuff to learn, we might go back in for a second round in the summer.”

“Ya'll are crazy. Can't say I wish you luck, though I do hope you make it out in one piece.”

From somewhere outside of the room, they heard banging on another door, followed by a shouted expletive. Diamond was up and on her feet in the instant before a man was yelling her name.

“Shit!” she said. She gave them a vaguely apologetic look. “I gotta go.”

She put the joint out on the arm of the chair and then stuffed it into her coat pocket. After muttering a suggestion that they stay in school, she was out the door in a hurry, slamming it behind her.

As soon as she was gone Jo flopped onto the bed, laughing. “I can't believe you invited a stranger into our room.”

Ian said, “She could have killed us. There are women serial killers, you know? And I can't believe you told her what we were doing. The highly illegal thing we're doing.”

“Chill out. She's not going to tell anyone,” Harper assured him. “And she was harmless.”

Harper took a moment to explain how everything from Diamond's seat choice, to the way she folded her arms, and the way she angled her body towards the door had televised that she had initially been wary of them.

“Fine, but what if she tells someone that we have drugs in here?” asked Ian. “I really can't believe you brought that stuff.”

“It helps me sleep. And believe me, that woman does not consider pot to be a drug.”

Harper turned on her side and patted the space beside her. Ian rolled his eyes, but began removing his boots.

Harper said, “I brought that woman in here to teach you a lesson. In the next few weeks, you're going to have to step outside of your comfort zone and talk to people you have nothing in common with, at least not on the surface. Some of them, you might find utterly objectionable. Still, you're going to have to be able to build rapport with them, or this whole venture will be pointless.”

“I did talk to her,” Ian said, sounding petulant.

“Yup, and I'm proud of you.”

Ian shrugged off the compliment. “Guess I'll go try the shower. Where should I sleep?”

“I already showed you,” Harper said, patting the middle of the bed for emphasis.

“I can't share the bed with you.”

“Jo does it all the time.”

Jo said, “I don't think Harper has slept in her own bed since junior year.”

“You guys are so weird,” Ian said as he disappeared into the bathroom.

“Don't forget, you're in the middle,” Harper yelled. “You can be my little spoon.”

Harper kicked off her jeans and then climbed under the covers. She hadn't bothered packing nightclothes, or even a spare change of clothes, aside from an extra pair of panties. Once they made contact with the pack, they would be able to procure more suitable clothing, and in the meantime it freed up a lot of space in her backpack.

“I can't believe we're finally doing this,” Jo said. She scooted over to rest her head on Harper's shoulder. “Do you think it's as dangerous as that woman said?”

“There's always a certain amount of risk, but as long as we're approaching them from a place of peace, then we don't have anything to be afraid of. They really are just like humans, Jo.”

“There are some pretty awful humans out there.”

Harper didn't bother to refute that.

Jo continued, “If I die, will you do something cool and name it after me? Like, discover the cure for cancer and name the drug Joanacil?”

“I'm not an actual doctor.”

“Then I guess you'll have to go to med school.”

“How about I become a civil lawyer and write some legislation and name it after you?” Harper waved her hand in a sweeping gesture. “The Joana Act. It'll make it illegal for women to wear two different types of animal prints in a single outfit.”

“Yes, please,” Jo said, cracking up.

Jo was still ranting over pattern choices when Ian emerged from the bathroom. His golden-blond curls were extra tight from having been washed and his t-shirt clung to his boyish figure. Harper could smell the artificial fragrance of men's body spray all the way from the bed.

“We talking about mixed animal prints?” he asked, placing his day clothes on top of the dresser. He turned and wagged his finger at the bed. “I'm seriously not sleeping in the middle. Give me one of those pillows. I'll sleep on the end of the bed.”

Crawling to the end of the bed, Jo grabbed his arm and pulled Ian forward. “Don't be weird. Get up here and snuggle with us, dork.”

Ian gave a melodramatic groan. “We really need another guy in this group. The estrogen is overwhelming.”

Jo clapped her hands together as her head hit the pillow. “Oh! One whose name starts with a K! Like a Kyle, or Keith. Then we could be HIJK!”

“Cute,” Harper mused as Ian settled in between them. She stretched her arms across her friends, but was careful not to snuggle too close to Ian.

“Are we seriously sleeping like this?” Ian grumbled.

“Welcome to my life,” Jo said. Then, with more enthusiasm, she added, “We could be seeing real, live shifters by tomorrow.”

“Don't get too excited,” Harper said. “Odds are, we won't see any for at least a day or two. Even when we do encounter some, they'll keep their distance for a while, until they know we don't have weapons.”

“How do you know that?” Ian asked.

“I read it in a book.”

Jo asked, “What do you think they'll be like? I mean, I've seen pictures and videos of them, but it feels like they're in costume, like once the camera is off and the director shouts, ‘Cut!’ Then, they'll take out their cigarettes and head back to their trailers. I mean, how can people really live like that in America, in the 21^st century? Living in caves, hunting animals, warring with one another...”

“Does she always talk this much in bed?” Ian asked.

“Only every night,” Harper murmured.

The familiar drone of Jo's rambling was already lulling her towards sleep. Along the way, she avoided the familiar pitfalls of insomnia: her regrets, her private insecurities, and her fear of what waited for her in her dreams.

One thing managed to catch her on the way down. It was a new form of guilt that had recently metastasized. It was guilt over using her friends. Deliberately putting them in danger, in order to preserve the life she had so carefully built for herself.

The responsible thing, she knew, would be to leave in the middle of the night and return to the wilderness on her own. Or slightly harder, admit to her friends that this was all a huge mistake and that they should return to Boston. Problem was, she was already dead set on going, and if she was going, then it needed to be with Jo and Ian.

If she went on her own, there was a good chance that she'd never come back.

“Harper?”

Jo's voice broke through her storm clouds of emotion.

“Hm?”

“Do you think Diamond is a prostitute?”