Mason would never get used to the smell of the cafeteria. His parents insisted the food tasted decent. Even good. But there was something about the over-sterile smell of floral air freshener and bleach that just made the whole place feel like an old folks’ home.

And Troutdale Springs wasn’t an old folks’ home. It was independent assisted living. Independent. His parents just had a staff that could help them if they needed it. Mason still had to keep reassuring himself that they were going to be okay there, tell himself that he wasn’t abandoning them. Handing them off.

Even if it wasn’t like that at all. Hell, this had been their idea. It didn’t make him feel any better. He still felt guilty, like he was being selfish for letting them come here.

“Can I help you?”

Mason jumped, and his porcupine prickled in warning. He willed the quills away from his skin. We are fine. Everything is just fine.

The animal chittered in response, but backed down.

“Sorry, I was just…” Mason trailed off, turning to the voice.

A middle-aged woman, short, a mess of salt and pepper hair. She felt familiar, but he couldn’t remember her. He had met so many people in the last week.

“Still getting used to the idea?” She smiled sympathetically, a practiced look he was pretty sure she used on every son and daughter visiting their parents.

“Something like that.” Mason frowned, focusing his gaze on the ornate fireplace. He hated the way she studied him—like he was a kid or something.

“Well, I’m Florence. Not the nurse.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Not the nurse. Mason suppressed a groan. Florence Nightingale wasn’t the only famous Florence. “Mason Covey,” he said, belatedly remembering his manners. He reached out to shake her hand and was surprised at the pressure she applied to his knuckles.

“You parents are settling in just fine. I think they will like it here after so much time in the city.” Florence smiled at him and pulled a card out of her breast pocket. “In case you need anything.”

She walked away. Mason looked down at the card a little dumbfounded. He wasn’t sure he liked her. The business card did little to persuade him otherwise.

Right. Sighing, Mason slid the card into his slacks pocket. He wound his way around the tables and through an open door near the kitchen. At least from there, the room smelled more like food than cleaner. It almost smelled like dinner.

Mason didn’t have to go through the main building to get to his parents’ condo. The facility ran a series of elongated golf carts from the parking lot to the individual residences built along the edges of the property. For now, he felt like walking.

It might have had something to do with his somewhat irrational bitterness towards the lack of grandeur surrounding the golf carts. For what his parents were paying to live there, the carts should have been covered in chrome, or maybe, at least, enclosed by something other than a clear plastic sheet that looked like a shower curtain.

Given the constant state of barely-making-it the Coveys had endured for most of Mason’s childhood, he had been more than a little surprised when they picked out a handful of west coast properties in both Washington and Oregon and handed him a stack of pamphlets like they’d won the lottery. They had sold the gas station which supplemented the retirement account they’d used to collect every spare penny since before Mason was born.

Which was saying something. Those two knew how to save pennies. They’d put Mason through college with those pennies. He’d graduated from college mostly debt free.

Mason shrugged off the weighing feelings of guilt. So far, they seemed happy. And he did, grudgingly, have to agree with Florence. They would love it in Troutdale. He couldn’t fault them for it after more than fifty years in Washington DC.

Growing up as a shifter in a city that big hadn’t been easy.

In the week the Coveys had been at Troutdale Springs, his mom had already marked their condo in the string of identical residences with her customary swath of homemade and thrift store decorations.

A wreath with a solar lighthouse in the center hung from the door and a handful of stakes had been put in on either side of the short sidewalk. Thick hemp rope had been strung between them. A large stained-glass sailboat hung in the window. Maritime appeared to be the theme of the month. He smiled to himself, knowing that next month it could be anything else.

The door opened before he could knock, and before he could even say hello, his mom had pulled him into a crushing hug.

“Mom, seriously, it’s only been two days,” Mason said through a laugh, prying her arms from around him.

“And what if I died tomorrow? This could be the last time I see you.” Susan Covey fluffed the navy and white striped scarf bunched around her neck, and Mason caught a glimpse of anchor earrings as she ran a distressed hand through her hair.

For all that she knew how to save pennies, she could spend them, too, especially when she was stressed. “You—” Mason leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “—are being dramatic. Just because you live here doesn’t mean you’re suddenly on your death bed.”

“I’ve been telling her that all week.” Mason’s dad stepped into the short hall. “But she doesn’t believe me.”

“Well, at least her imminent demise hasn’t stopped her from decorating.”

Father and son shared a smile.

“I can’t die with the place in shambles.” Susan clasped her hand to her chest, but the corners of her lips rose minutely in mirth. “What would the neighbor’s think?”

Mason didn’t know why she cared or if she even really did.

She shuffled down the short hall to the kitchen, filling a cup of coffee for Mason and moving a plate stacked with Oreos onto the bar counter.

“Speaking of neighbors,” she said, adjusting an out-of-place cookie on the stack, “don’t be shy about coming around. You didn’t get the job here so you’d have an excuse to not stop by at least twice a week.” She pushed the coffee cup across the counter to Mason.

He looked pointedly at his dad, making sure his mom could see the smirk on his lips. “It’s like she thinks I have nothing better to do.”

“You don’t.” Susan kicked out a hip and glared at him.

“Mason, don’t rile her up.” Robert Covey took the seat next to him and flipped open the newspaper, disappearing behind it. “You get to leave. I’m stuck with her for the night.”

“Rob, what did you do with your captain’s hat? Oh, and the skipper’s?”

“Closet,” he said, without looking up.

Mason put a finger in the center of the newspaper and pushed it down.

Robert frowned at him.

Mason mouthed captain’s hat in question as his mom shuffled past him from behind.

“Don’t ask.”

Mason shrugged and let go of the paper. He popped an entire Oreo into his mouth and sucked it down with a mouthful of coffee. He was going to have to do something about the cookie situation. The condo came equipped with a small fridge, hot plate, and a microwave. No oven. Susan wasn’t much of a baker, but there had always been fresh cookies in the jar on the counter back home.

“Selfie-stick,” Susan’s voice was assertive and chipper as she stepped back into the room. “Mason, I need you to be the selfie-stick. I can’t find mine.” His mom returned to the room with two hats and her giant cellphone, her lips gleaming with bright red lipstick. “Robert, put down that damn paper and come here.”

Mason chuckled, but reached for the phone. Part of him really was glad that they had the chance to be as…eccentric as they chose. Living in Washington DC with the threat of discovery constantly hanging over their heads had taken its toll on them both.

Susan shoved a white captain’s hat over the top of the paper and then handed the black skipper’s hat to Mason.

He frowned at it, and looked at his dad.

The man had put his hat on without complaint, and when he caught Mason’s look, he shrugged.

Sighing, Mason pulled on the hat and took his mom’s phone.

“Anchor rot in three, two, one—”

Mason clicked the picture as he laughed through his mom’s catchphrase. “I was hoping to get out of those once we moved here,” he said, handing the phone back. Because she was the queen of the family selfies and had been ever since he could remember. Some of the things they’d had to do to get a selfie with the older cameras… usually, it involved talking to other people.

“Do it for your dying mother,” she quipped.

Dying mother. There was no way that was happening.

Eventually, she settled down into her favorite chair, phone propped up on her knee with a video of a new crochet stitch playing.

Mason traded the coffee for a soda and snatched the page of comics out of his dad’s newspaper before sitting on the couch. The three of them had upped and moved completely across the country on a whim, and sitting there felt as much at home as ever.

Except for Mason’s porcupine. It was restless. Itching to get out and run. To breathe the forest air.

Mason had shifted every night since he moved into his small house on the edge of town just because he could. Despite the reservations about his parents, he had never felt so free in his life. And his porcupine agreed.

The city could be suffocating for a shifter, especially if you shifted into a non-native species. The only porcupine he had seen or heard of in DC claimed residency at the National Zoo.

Mason’s parents had been—he didn’t know if lucky was the word. Better off? Either way, there were no rat shortages in the city, so they’d been able to shift every day if they wanted, which they hadn’t because they had to be so careful with Mason.

Why the animal spirits had gifted Mason with a porcupine had eluded him all through his childhood. It had felt like a cruel joke.

“Dad,” Mason said, folding down his page of comics. “When are you going to come shift with me?”

Robert grumbled something inaudible and Susan paused her video. Neither of them said anything. Shifting still made them uncomfortable. Even here. In Troutdale. Shifter capital of the world, from what Mason could tell.

“Dad?”

“Leave it be, Mason.” His mom pushed play on her video again and picked up her yarn.

Frowning, Mason set his newspaper on the couch next to him. Fine. He wouldn’t push it. They were still getting settled. And they hadn’t shifted in as long as he could remember. They had time.

The porcupine perked up at the mention of shifting. It wanted out. Mason could feel the quills poking at his skin.

Give me an hour, dude.

Mason checked his watch. A quarter to six. The shuttle would be coming in half an hour to pick his parents up for dinner. He would ride back to the lodge with them instead of walking. It had already become somewhat of a ritual.

“I start at the school tomorrow,” he said, suddenly wanting to fill the quiet of the room with something. The comfort he’d felt there was gone and part of it was that he was nervous. This was the first shifter school he’d ever taught at. It was both thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

Susan paused her video again and smiled broadly. “You’re going to be great.”

Mason shrugged. He’d been a teacher in DC for four years. Svelte wouldn’t be that much different. “They seem excited to have me. I won’t be able to come over until after dinner during the week now, though. The school days are long.”

“Mmm.” It wasn’t a question. Merely an affirmation that he had spoken. What had gotten into them?

“It’s a paranormal school. Shifters. Witches. An entire school of them.” Mason looked between his mom and dad, who were both staring at their distractions without seeing him.

It felt kind of like a let-down that they couldn’t be as excited about this as he was.

Was he excited? He still didn’t even know.

In a world of shifters, he still had a lot to learn. How could he teach kids when he’d never had a chance to do the things they were?

“I just—well, I wanted you to know. We really are safe here. Free.”

They continued to ignore him.

Living in fear for so long would do that to a person. It was going to take a lot more than… a few days shifting every night to get it through his head that he was safe.

But he would get there. One way or another. He would get there.