Timmory stared. how did u get my number?
A few minutes later, the phone buzzed again. Checked while you were out. Need to keep tabs on you now that you're one of us.
She scoffed. im not one of u.
Hate to break it to you, but you are.
That was irritating. says who?
Then she typed out another one. lets just pretend it nevr happened. no one needs to know.
Can't let you just disappear off my radar like that, Timmory. You're my responsibility.
um. how so.
Can I just call you?
fine.
Within seconds, her ringtone shattered the silence. She was grateful no one else was home and threw it on speaker phone. "Explain," Timmory said groggily.
Nate's voice crackled on the other end. "Hey Timmory."
"Explain," Timmory said again.
She heard him sigh. "Remember when I said cases like yours don't usually happen? We don't have a proper protocol for it. I'm the one that—hey, am I on speaker?"
"It's fine, no one's around."
"Take me off," he said.
Timmory begrudged the pain in her arm to hold the phone up to her face. "Okay."
"I'm the one that took over when we found you. I brought you back and looked after you, so now they expect me to make sure you don't blow our cover. I'm supposed to integrate you into our pack."
"But what if I don't want to be part of it? I have a choice too," she argued, which was a lot easier to do, she realized, when she wasn't a fucking dog.
"No you don't. This is going to stay with you your whole life. Everything is going to change; what you eat, what you think, how you perceive everything. You can't ignore this. Besides, I'm trying to make it easier for you. I'm trying to help."
"I never asked for this!" Timmory snipped.
Nate got annoyed. "Would you rather have died?"
She simmered, dwelling.
"There was nothing we could do to stop it. Sorry. All we can do is try to make it work. I want to make it work, Timmory, but you need to trust me," he insisted.
"I don't even know you."
"Then let's get to know each other," he suggested.
Timmory wrinkled her nose. "Fine."
"When are you free?"
"Wednesday evening," Timmory said, glancing at the calendar on her wall.
"I'll pick you up," Nate offered. "Text you then. And I feel it shouldn't have to be said, but Timmory, don't tell anyone. Nobody can know what happened."
"Yes Dad," she sniffed.
Nate hung up. Timmory put her phone down and closed her eyes, thinking she'd sleep again—she felt so worn and ragged—but something was off. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she still hadn't eaten. The last time she tried to, she'd thrown it all up. Maybe if she ate, she'd feel better.
She laboriously emerged from bed, steadying against the bedframe and her table. Her legs quivered like jelly and her muscles screamed. Everything hurt. Was it always like this? Was it going to be like this forever? Timmory shuffled into the middle of the room, catching sight of herself in the mirror. She stood hunched, her usually shiny, wavy hair now ratty and tangled up. Her arms were covered in bruises of every size and colour, her bandaged arm swollen. She lifted her shirt and saw the same bruises spotting her stomach and sides; her thigh, where she'd been bitten, was bandaged and tender to the touch. "I look like I died," she mused out loud.
Walking to the kitchen was Hell; Timmory nearly didn't make it. She had to stop halfway down the hallway, clinging to the wall as she willed her feet to move. Her knees throbbed. When she finally made it, Timmory couldn't even open the fridge. She had to sit for five minutes.
From the fridge, she laid out her options. Milk and cereal was always safe, but when she withdrew the milk from the fridge and unscrewed the cap, she stuck her tongue out at the overpowering dairy. Next she tried cheese and crackers, but the stench of the cheese permeated her brain. She tried just crackers, but they were too dry. Even the lunchmeat was unappealing with its briney aroma. Timmory settled for a tried and true remedy for an unsettled stomach: plain old bread. She pulled out the loaf and sat with it at the kitchen table, stuffing slices of rye into her mouth.
A scratching gave her pause. Timmory tilted her head, angling her ear toward it. A negligible weight to the noise put it just on the other side of the kitchen wall. And she was beginning to smell something—musty, dirty, warm. Timmory went to close the bread bag, only to find she'd eaten the entire half-loaf. Standing, she tiptoed to the wall. The scratching ceased, then when she stopped, it began again. Timmory painfully crouched and followed the length of the wall, eyes glued to where the skittering came from.
It turned a corner and carried along the other wall. She watched. From a slit in the caulking along the floor, she saw a pink, twitching nose. The mouse poked its head out and looked around, then caught its beady gaze on her. Timmory froze, holding her breath as if hoping it wouldn't see her.
The mouse retreated.
Timmory sat on the floor. She listened until the mouse vanished beyond the walls.
She stayed awake for another hour, playing on her phone and checking social media, perusing the photos that Donnie must have sent from his phone to hers, before sleep took her away. Then she woke in the evening, while her parents were home. She reassured them that she was okay and feeling well enough to attend classes tomorrow. Truthfully, the more she was awake, the stranger she felt. There were things she could sense that she'd never sensed before. Hungers, urges that she had never known and couldn't sate.
She slept, unsatisfied and dreamless.
When Tuesday morning came, she was glad to go back out into the world. Her injuries were less stiff now. When she usually would have worn capris and a tee, she covered herself in a light sweater and jeans. Timmory relished the sausage and eggs her father made for breakfast then packed herself a fair-sized lunch. When no one was looking, she tossed a pack of frozen bacon into her bag. Just in case.
Unsurprisingly, Julia swarmed with questions when she pulled up to her house. Boy Meets Girl was on the radio again. Her engine growled louder than usual, and she had to roll the window up after gagging on the stench of exhaust. "I just fell down the stairs," she said, because she couldn't say she partied it up at a campsite.
"Where?" asked Julia.
"My cousin's place. They were having a party. For her boyfriend." she said quickly.
"Oh. Must've been pretty wild."
"Yeah. Kinda was," Timmory laughed weakly. She kicked herself for weaving another lie. It wasn't fair to Julia or her parents, but she couldn't tell them what really happened. Ugh! It would have been easier if she'd just died. No lies necessary, just the cold, sad truth of her departure.
On Wednesday, Timmory repeated her explanation to Milo. He laughed it off and moved on and the three of them sat for lunch. Timmory claimed she wasn't hungry after realizing what she usually packed for lunch was revolting. After lunch, she hid in a bathroom stall and shoveled strips of more raw bacon into her mouth, if only to sate her long enough to get home.
She almost forgot about her plans with Nate before her phone buzzed: I'm here.
Chewing on an uncooked breakfast sausage, Timmory spied his black Mazda sitting outside. Her father saw it too.
"Who's that?" he asked curiously.
Timmory stuffed the rest of the sausage in her mouth before he could see and grabbed her bag. "A friend from school," she answered, heading for the door.
Her father followed her into the kitchen. "A boy friend?" he prodded.
"Ew. I'll be back later." Timmory opened the door and glanced at her father. He looked strangely dejected. "I'll just tell you later, okay? I have to go now. Love you."
He managed a smile.
Timmory flitted out to Nate's car, sliding into the passenger seat.