The Last Werewolf (Vidar #1) | ONC2021 Grand Winner

Don't tell me you use 1-2-3-4

"That should be all, Manneke." The middle-aged trucker lady took a pen from the breast pocket of her white and blue jumpsuit. She spoke with a thick, local accent, the type that schools tried beating out of the children for most of the twentieth century until politicians and linguistics worried about the decline of Flemish dialects. "Sign here."

Vidar scribbled a V and a loopy O.

"Allé, have a nice day," she said.

"You too."

Just as she slammed the door of the blue van, a mop of blue hair turned the corner.

Kira kicked her foot off the ground, approaching faster. The skateboard sucked to her shoes as she leapt onto the pavement. She zigzagged, narrowingly avoiding the moving van.

She catapulted the board up, landing a good metre from Vidar. Out of breath, she said. "Sorry, I'm late."

"You're here now." Vidar lifted the pack of newspapers with one arm and carried a small box of books in the other.

Once again, Kira was apologising without any reason. She came and went as she pleased, working more than Danny ever had. And costing less too, if he didn't count the apple-granola breakfast waiting for her in the kitchen.

She placed her skateboard against the counter, then tightened her ponytail. She opened her backpack, a tiny yellow bag with googly eyes and drawn-on eyebrows.

"I know you said it wasn't my fault, but I felt so bad for frying your phone." She took out something flat, glittery and silver. "It's not much, but you mentioned not using it much, so I thought you could have my old one. It's a bit slow, but it works, and uses the same charger."

He hesitated to take it, mainly afraid the silver would burn his finger. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, he braced himself for the sting.

"Thanks," he said through gritted teeth. His skin touched the glitters, but there wasn't the slightest tingle or prickle. He brushed over the rough texture-fake. Nickel.

"Sorry about the cover. It's not very manly."

"It's... fine." He touched the button on the side. Instantly, the screen lit up.

Enter SIM PIN, you have 3 remaining attempts.

"Oh, the code is 1-2-3-4. I reset it for you, but you'll have to change it, of course," Kira said, already taking the ten copies of De Standaard newspaper.

Vidar entered the numbers. "What's wrong with 1-2-3-4?"

"Everything," she intoned. "Don't tell me you use that code?"

Vidar let the silence answer for him.

"Oh my god, Vidar, change it. It's like having a lockless door. People only need to push, and they're in."

Humming, he scrolled through the chromatic icons of apps he would never use. Fine, he would change it to 2-3-4-5. How else was he going to remember the combination? He already had too many things to worry about and memories that got lost in the maze of his brain.

"Remind me to change it later," he told Kira as he heaved the box onto the table and practically tore the flaps.

Not that book again.

The shirt-shredder stared at him with sparkling eyes. In the corner, the faded silhouette of the wolf still howled at the moon. Five copies, and two of a sequel featuring a fanged lady in her underwear sitting seductively on what seemed to be a wolf's fur. Shirt-shredder, wearing a tank top now, stood behind her, holding a stake above her head.