The Last Human Day

July 19, 1:00 am

Flip West sat on the curb, under the light of a street lamp, and held a soggy bar towel over the bleeding, gaping cut near the corner of his right eye. He recognized the silhouette of the man standing in the shadows on the other side of the parking lot. The same silhouette he'd seen plenty of nights before this one, lurking in the distance, watching his every move. The same silhouette that followed him home, yet never attempted to come inside, or speak to him at all.

"I've never had a stalker before," said Flip. "I can't tell if it's creepy, or flattering." His bottom lip was swollen and split down the center, oozing the same dark blood that stained the skin around his nostrils. His eyes were black and blue at the inner corners, the bridge of his nose yellowing.

The other man chuckled and strode across the dim lot, his hands tucked into his pockets. He stood before Flip, looking down at him, and asked, "What happened to your face?"

Flip spat on the ground, his saliva thick and red. He wore a white t-shirt that was now spattered with his own blood, pale blue jeans, and black boots. His hair, though disheveled, was a glossy brown, and he intermittently ran his fingers through it, pushing it back away from his face.

"I was too pretty," Flip replied. "I couldn't live with myself anymore. So, I got a little work done." He winked up at the man and immediately winced at the pain. "My poor, tortured existence."

"Yeah," the other man said. "I know the feeling."

Flip laughed quietly and finally locked eyes with the man. He was probably somewhere around ten years older than Flip, but shorter and more muscular, and with a better tan. He frowned as he noticed an uncanny resemblance in the man; a resemblance to himself. The two of them had the same soft hair, the same strong jaw, and the same bushy eyebrows. If Flip hadn't buried his father just a few short years ago, he would have thought this guy was him. There was the same fatherly sincerity in his bright eyes.

"I got in a fight," Flip said. "Just minding my own business, girl comes up to me and asks me to dance, I say no, her boyfriend pummels me. Good times."

The man sat down on the curb next to Flip, who tried to inconspicuously scoot a few inches away from him.

"Maybe I should introduce myself," he said. The man turned to extend his hand toward Flip. "My name is Peter Lowell."

Flip shook Peter's hand. "Flip."

"Excuse me?"

"Flip," he repeated. "My name."

Peter laughed. "Surely, your mother didn't name you Flip."

"She didn't name me Shirley, either." He eyed the man for a second. "It's short for Philip. But, no one really calls me that, except my grams."

"Pleasure to meet you, Philip," Peter said. There was an uneasy silence between them for a few moments, and music could be heard thumping through the walls of the building behind them; a neon-lit nightclub with blacked-out windows.

"You come to this place quite often," said Peter. It wasn't a question.

Flip dropped the blood-soaked rag onto the sidewalk and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "Apparently, so do you." He tossed a cigarette into his mouth and lit it, taking a long, satisfied drag. "You smoke?"

Flip tilted the pack toward Peter, but he shook his head.

"No, no thank you."

Flip nodded. "So, what do you want from me, man? Why have you been following me around?"

Peter smiled. "It may sound strange, but I see a lot of myself in you, Philip. You remind me of when I was young and carefree. And for whatever reason, I'd like to offer you something. An incredible opportunity for someone like you."

Flip raised his dark eyebrows at him. "Someone like me? You mean, a scrawny white guy with a busted face on a dangerous path of self-destruction?"

Peter chuckled. "Someone who is so clearly lonely."

Flip frowned at him.

"Someone lost and without comradery," Peter finished. "Trust me when I say that you do not want to pass up this opportunity."

"What kind of opportunity are we talking, here? Because I've got a job. And, I'm not in the personal escort business anymore so if that's what you're looking for..."

"No, Philip." Peter held his hand up. "What I want to offer you is something extraordinary, and very rare. But I have to know if you're on board before I can give you any of the glorious details."

"I've seen way too many movies to trust you, dude," Flip said. "I'm a pretty open-minded guy, but I'm not agreeing to anything unless you tell me what I'm signing up for."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. But I can tell you this." Peter squared his shoulders and leaned in toward Flip. "I can offer you incredible strength and power, as well as community and safety. You will possess the ability to get whatever you want and to protect yourself from ending up in the situation you're in right now." He scanned Flip up and down, regarding his blood-spattered appearance.

Flip rolled his eyes and took another drag. "Sounds bogus to me. What's the catch? Want me to carry a couple of watermelons up a hill for you or something?" He chuckled, groaned, and gripped his rib cage.

Peter scowled. "This is not a joke, young man."

"Look, I don't want anything that you're selling, okay? Just leave me alone."

This time, when Peter spoke, his voice came out harsh and booming. "I happen to possess, at this very moment, the power to make you choose. I can control how you think, what you believe, how you feel. But I want to gain your trust and so I will not utilize those abilities to sway your decision." He sighed at Flip's wild expression and returned to his gentle demeanor. "There is no catch, Philip. I'm just a man who can and wants to help you. But first, you have to admit that help is something you desperately need and want."

Flip stared open-mouthed at him, unsure of whether to laugh or punch Peter in the face and run. There was something in the man's eyes that twinkled in suspense as he waited for Flip to reply. Peter truly believed in everything he was saying, and that was the scariest part about it.

"Look, buddy," said Flip. "I don't know what ward you broke out of, but you need to medicate yourself heavily and stay the hell out of my life, okay?" He took one last hit of his cigarette and tossed it across the parking lot. Grunting, he stood up and began to limp away. "And stop following me."

#

10:00 am

His hangover was in rare form, accompanied by the pain of his broken nose, black eyes, and busted lip. Flip did the best he could to make himself appear presentable for work, but it was no use. He poured a fifth cup of coffee into a white travel-mug printed with a photograph of himself, wrapped in the arms of an elderly silver-haired woman.

He grabbed his longboard from where it rested against the wall near the door and left, not bothering to lock the door behind him.

The LaJuala Beach Massage and Aroma Therapy Oasis was about three miles from Flip's apartment. He always enjoyed coasting along the boardwalk and looking out at the ocean as he cruised to work, the fresh air blowing his hair and waking him up. On this particular morning, however, the salty wind stung the fresh wounds on his face and Flip felt miserable as he strode through the front door of the spa where he worked.

With a wave at the tiny blonde receptionist, who stared back in wide-eyed silence, he wandered down the dim halls to the locker room where he changed into his typical uniform; white cotton pants and a white t-shirt, and a bright clean pair of flat, white, slip-on shoes.

He closed the locker and moved down the hall. A set of keys jingled in his pocket. He lifted them and unlocked the door to a dark room. A small rectangular sign to the right of the door read: HEALER: P. WEST.

Flip chuckled at it every morning. They called him a healer, but all he really did was give massages to divorced, lonely people who would sometimes paw at him and say something about how attractive he was.

He entered the room, switching the lights on to illuminate the massage table in the center and the shelves of oils and candles and incense along the walls. In the corner, a purple, tulip-shaped humidifier sat on a decorative aluminum stool. He turned it on and it lit up softly, and little puffs of condensation trickled from the top as if erupting from the center of the tulip and seeping through the plastic petals. The whole room smelled of lavender.

He walked around the room lighting candles and dimmed the lights, then switched on a sound machine on the small counter. Flip raised the volume a bit and the gentle sounds of waves washing onto a sandy shore filled the room. He closed his eyes for a second and breathed through his nose, inhaling the various floral scents that mingled around him and picturing the vast, blue ocean.

His coffee cup was empty; he set it on a small table which also held a tall aloe plant and a framed photograph. It was another picture of Flip with the silver-haired woman on his mug; his grandmother, Lynette. He brushed the dust from the top of the frame.

A small, quiet voice from the doorway behind him interrupted his reverie. "Good morning, Mr. West. You have three appointments, so plenty of space for walk-in clients today. Would you like me to bring you some coffee?"

"Of course, Susanna." Flip turned around to smile at her.

Susanna, the blonde from the front desk, let out a small gasp, her soft blue eyes like saucers. "What happened to your face?"

"Come on, it's not that bad, is it?" Flip reached up to brush the cut near his eye, which he'd bandaged pretty well. But he knew it still looked awful, along with the rest of his swollen, beaten features.

"Flip," said Susanna. Her lips, small and perpetually pursed like a doll, were painted hot pink to match her fingernails. "It looks like your face went through a wood chipper. Are you okay?"

"I'll live," he said. "What time is my first appointment?"

"That consultation with Rachel Wheeler in twenty minutes." She frowned at him, unable to look away from the mangled horror of his face. "Mr. Carlson is coming in around ten-thirty, he says he wants to get in and out before he meets his wife for lunch."

"Yeah, I'll bet he does."

One of Susanna's eyebrows went up, but she continued. "And then there's your usual Thursday three-thirty appointment with Mrs. Greenly."

"Oh, shit." His eyes darted from Susanna to the floor, and back again. "Sorry for swearing. You have to cancel that three-thirty."

"Why?"

Flip gestured dramatically to his face. "This is not the face that Rebecca Greenly comes here to see. You think she makes regular appointments with me because I'm a highly skilled masseuse? We have actual doctors that work here, Susanna, she comes to me because of my gorgeous face."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"The tips I make are directly related to the state of my facial structure. I shouldn't have even come in today, this was a waste of time."

The voice that responded was not Susanna's. It was the older, deeper voice of Flip's boss, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere to stand right next to Susanna. "You couldn't be more correct."

Flip nearly jumped out of his skin. "Dr. Harkin, hi. Where did you come from?" He looked up and down the hall.

"From my office, Mr. West. And I've got a bone to pick with you." Dr. Harkin, tall and gray and wrinkled, turned to Susanna. "Susie, dear, could you give us a moment?"

"Sure." She grimaced at Flip and disappeared back toward her desk.

"What can I do for you, Doctor?" asked Flip. He pretended not to be terrified. Dr. Harkin was not only an asshole, but he looked like the crypt keeper's dad.

"I'll keep this short and sweet, Mr. West, in most part due to the fact that I really don't want to look at your face any longer than I have to."

"Fair enough."

"You're fired."

Flip scoffed. "What? You can't fire me."

Dr. Harkin crossed his arms. "Yes, I can. And I just did." He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "I looked over some security footage from Wednesday night, Mr. West. Do you remember where you were and what you were doing on Wednesday night?"

Flip's face turned white. "Security footage?"

The look of pure rage in Dr. Harkin's eyes was chilling.

Flip took a step back. "Well, if there's footage, I guess I don't need to tell you that I was here on Wednesday night."

Dr. Harkin nodded in a slow, meticulous manner.

Flip swallowed hard, feeling more uncomfortable by the moment. He had indeed been there on Wednesday night, after the Oasis had closed, meeting up with a client for reasons that had nothing to do with massage or aromatherapy.

"And what were you doing here, Mr. West?"

Flip shrugged. "I don't know. How much did you see?"

The doctor's face turned red. "Should I call Mr. Greenly and ask if he'd like to take a look at the footage?"

"Nope," said Flip. "I'll pack my stuff up right now, Doc. Thanks for stopping by."

He took a large, dramatic step back into his office and slammed the door in Dr. Harkin's face.

#

11:30 am

The little red light on the answering machine was blinking when Flip walked back into his shoebox studio apartment, carrying a heaping box full of candles, books, and various boxes of incense. Most of the stuff in his office wasn't even his, and he was not happy about having to leave it behind, especially the fancy oil diffuser. He had to admit, he'd gotten accustomed to things like breathing easy in warm, lavender-scented air all day.

Flip pressed the blinking button to listen to his numerous messages.

"Hi Flip," came a robotic-sounding female voice. "This is Carol, down here at the nursing home. Lynette was expecting a visit from you yesterday and wanted me to check-in and make sure you're alright. Give us a call, will you?" A click and a beep, then the same voice. "Hi Flip, this is Carol down here at the nursing home. Your grandmother is really worried about you. It's been a few days since you've been in to visit. Please give us a call."

"Shit," Flip said aloud. He checked the calendar and screwed up his face. He moved into the living room, complete with one small couch and a tiny black and white television. He turned the TV on and found a news station, seeing the date printed in the bottom corner. Then, he moved back over to his calendar, which hung on the wall near the kitchen. "Shit," he said again. Another message from Carol played, relaying the same concern, as he panicked.

Across the living room was a small door to the bathroom, where Flip looked into the mirror. He grunted at the disfigured reflection. From the medicine cabinet, he retrieved a bottle of Tylenol and swallowed a few of the big, oval pills, hoping they would help reduce the swelling enough for his face to look familiar.

"Hi Flip." Another message. "This is Carol down here at the nursing home. Listen, Lynette's not doing so well kiddo, she's real concerned about you and, frankly, so am I. Get your ass down here as soon as you can."

Flip quickly changed his shirt and darted out the door. Inside his locked, empty apartment, one last message played from the machine while he darted for the bus stop.

Carol's voice had lost its mechanic tone, and she sounded somber. "Honey, I'm sorry. Your grandmother's taken a turn for the worse. We're doing what we can, but... Philip, if you get this message, you need to get here as soon as you can. This may be your last chance to say goodbye."

#

12:15 pm

She was already dead when Flip arrived at the nursing home, and she had been for nearly six hours. He stood seething in a narrow white hall, his fists clenched tightly at his sides as he put every ounce of effort into staying calm and emotionless. He silently begged the pain to stay buried deep in his stomach and not rise into his throat. But he couldn't stop the tears that burned behind his eyes and seeped out to trail down his cheeks, the salt stinging the open wounds.

#

1:30 pm

Lynette West's skin was cold and gray, and she looked unfamiliar. The curls of her silver hair fell away from her expressionless face, the corners of her mouth curved downward.

Flip's jaw was sore, his teeth cemented together, his nostrils flaring as he fought against the tight soreness in his throat, the burning in his sinuses. He blinked, wishing she would just smile, one last time.

He recalled his grandfather's funeral, how Lynette was so calm and kept herself together in the wake of losing the love of her life. But when they'd returned home, when it was just Flip and his grandmother in the house, she'd broken down and sobbed for hours, wiping away the tears with her late husband's favorite flannel shirt.

#

2:00 pm

Flip signed paperwork like a robot, scribbling shapes that only slightly resembled the letters of his name across various lines pointed out to him by a lawyer and a nurse. He'd never felt so hollow in his life.

"Should I call my cousin?" Flip asked. His voice was hoarse.

"We can take care of that," said the lawyer, whose name Flip could not remember to save his life. He couldn't remember the names of any of the doctors, either, or the handful of nurses he typically spoke with whenever he'd visited, except for Carol.

"Good," said Flip. He wasn't sure why he'd said it, it would have been nice to hear a familiar voice, to connect with the last living member of his family. But something inside him was broken, and instead of craving closeness and community, he just wanted to be alone. He wanted to crawl into a hole that led deep down into the earth where he would never be found, curl up in a tiny little ball, go to sleep, and never wake up.

#

7:00 pm

Flip stumbled out of a greasy chain restaurant after filling his stomach with cheap beer and two for one appetizers for the last few hours. He didn't so much leave on his own accord as he was asked to leave by the manager, who'd witnessed enough accidental spills to know that Flip had overstayed his welcome.

His feet ached as he neared his apartment building, but all the pain of loss and walking back and forth across town seemed to fade away as the front of the building came into view. Flip stopped in his tracks.

The building was surrounded by fire trucks and ambulances and smoke floated from the top. Everything was wet and the air was heavy with the scent of noxious smoke. Flip approached a police officer who sat idly outside a line of caution tape.

"Excuse me," Flip slurred, "what's going on here?"

The officer eyed him. "You live here, son?"

Flip nodded, afraid to speak anymore for being caught drunk in public.

The cop stood up straight, sighing. "Explosion on the fourth floor."

"God dammit," Flip said. He threw his arms in the air.

"I take it that's your floor."

Flip nodded again.

"Anyone living with you? Pets?"

"No, it's just me."

The cop grimaced at him. "You need to borrow a phone? Call your family?"

Flip laughed. "No. No thank-you, sir. Have a good night."

#

10:30 pm

Inside the nightclub, Flip sat at the bar and ran a thumb over the condensation that covered the outside of his near-empty glass, which had been refilled a handful of times already. His head pounded with the bass of the music, his eyes squinted against the neon lights and lasers that danced around the room. He tossed back the last mouthful of whiskey as the door opened, and he turned to see a familiar face snarling at him.

"Oh, good," Flip said aloud. "This guy again." It was the same man who'd beaten his face to a bloody pulp the night before.

"You," the man said, pointing a chubby finger at Flip. He was tall and bald and sloppy, with a tattoo of a confederate flag on top of his head.

Flip put his hands up. "I'm just here to drown my sorrows, man. I'm not bothering you."

"You bother me every time I see your scrawny face, West." The man stalked over to him, flanked by two lackeys; one short and fat, the other so painfully average that Flip couldn't bear to acknowledge him.

The bartender tapped on the bar and said, "Take it outside, fellas." Flip glared at the bartender. "Thanks, man. You're a real help."

The bartender shrugged and moved away from them.

Flip stood up, grumbling and nodding, and tripped over his feet as he moved toward the back door. "Alright, whatever. Let's just get this over with. Could you try to avoid the face this time, though? I think my money-maker has been through enough."

#

10:45 pm

Flip doubled over, coughing as the air was punched out of his diaphragm by a fat fist. Another fist connected to his kidney and he fell to the pavement like a sack of dirty laundry. He gasped, sucking in a ragged mouthful of air.

His vision swam, shadows creeping in at the corners of his eyes. The silhouettes of the three thugs hovering before him moved like vapor as if they were conjured there by the damp heat that floated up from the steaming pavement. But then another silhouette joined them; a familiar one that erupted from the darkness in a flash.

Flip blinked and wheezed, rolling onto his back as he listened to the sounds of bone cracking against bone, skin slapping against skin. He heard bones crunching, grunting and gasping, and, finally, feet shuffling off into the distance along with frantic voices.

"Philip?" The voice drifted through his ears and broke through the deafening sound of ringing. "Philip, are you alright?"

Flip peered up at him, groaning as his eyes adjusted. "Hey, Pete," he croaked. Peter held out his hand. "Let me help you up, son."

With each slow, hazy blink, Flip saw his father's face and Peter's interchangeably projected on the figure looming over him. Behind the man, the moon shone like an abalone shell suspended in a pale, dark sea.

He reached out and let Peter pull him up to sit on the sidewalk, just a few feet from the place they'd met the night before. Peter took Flip's cigarettes from where they'd fallen to the pavement, lit one, and handed it to Flip.

"Why do you keep ending up in this position, Philip?"

Flip breathed out a heavy laugh. "I guess it's because of my no good, dirty rotten, pig stealing, great-great-grandfather."

Peter arched his eyebrows.

"You need to see a movie every once in a while, you know that?" Flip laid back on the sidewalk to stare up at the clear sky, the bright stars speckled across it like freckles, the face of the moon almost visible on its full, shining surface. "My whole life feels like groundhog's day lately, know what I mean? Like I just wake up every day and do the same shit, live the same day, over and over. I go to work, I visit grams, I go to the bar, I get drunk, and I go home." He laughed. "Except now, I have no job, no home... and no grams."

Peter was startled at the wavering in Flip's voice. The hard steel of Flip's demeanor had fallen away, and he was completely vulnerable. His chest rose and fell in rapid breaths as he tried not to cry.

"I'm so sorry," said Peter. "Whatever it was that broke you today, I'm sorry. I know what you're going through."

"Bullshit," said Flip. He sat up, his face screwed up with pain and grief and injuries. "I hate that, the whole faux-empathy thing. You don't know what I'm going through, what I've been through. You don't know anything about me."

"You're right."

"Yeah," Flip spat, "you're damn straight I am. I mean, who are you, anyway? What are you, some kind of math teacher, father of four, graphic designer or something?"

Peter laughed out loud for the first time since Flip had met him.

"I don't get what you want with me," Flip continued. "I have nothing to offer you, man. As of today, I don't even have anything to offer myself." He stared down at his feet, the cigarette burning away between his fingers. "I never got the chance to know my mom, but I'm pretty sure this is not the life she pictured when she looked down at her baby boy. You know?"

Peter nodded.

Flip shook his head and flicked the half-burned cigarette across the parking lot. He leaned back on his hands and glanced over at Peter.

"Whatever it is," he said, "I'm in. What we doing, here? Door-to-door knife sales? Peddling the word of our lord and savior? Something darker, like moving drugs? Oh shit, it's not human trafficking, is it? I'm out."

"No, Philip." Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not human trafficking. You might think it sounds stupid, or you may not believe it when I tell you, but I want you to have an open mind. Can you do that for me?"

Flip glared at him for a moment, then nodded.

Peter took a deep breath. "Philip, I'm a werewolf."

#

11:26 pm

Peter led Flip down a narrow walkway under the pier. The beach was calm, and the dark water lapped against the cold, wet sand in a quick rhythm that matched the beat of Flip's heart.

"So, if you bite me," Flip said, "I'll be a werewolf, too?"

"Yes," said Peter.

"Then I'll have that cool mind-control thingy? And I'll be, like, fast and strong and all that?"

"Sure," Peter replied. "You'll still be you, Philip, don't think of it as a recreation of your entire self. Just an... upgrade."

They stood in the dark shadows under the pier and Flip rubbed at his cold arms. He watched as Peter peeked out to look at the moon, standing completely still and solid like a statue. Peter had also told him that werewolves don't get cold and they never got sick. He still wasn't sure if he believed anything the guy was saying, but he had nothing better to do than to humor him. Plus, he was absolutely inebriated and it was all rather entertaining.

"What about that whole deal with silver bullets," said Flip. "Is that real?"

"Yes and no," said Peter. "All bullets can harm us, and if they hit vital organs, we can die. We heal rapidly, but it's not instant." He peeled off his t-shirt and threw it onto the sand.

Flip perched on the edge of a large washed-up chunk of driftwood and peered at Peter with one eye closed. "Why are you taking your clothes off?"

"Well, I'd look a little ridiculous if I were a wolf wearing trousers, wouldn't I?" Peter tossed a frown over his shoulder at Flip as he unbuttoned his pants.

Peter's voice was rough and he spoke between gasps of breath. "I will leave, but I will return. When you regain consciousness, wait here for me. I will come back for you and teach you everything you need to know."

"Sure." Flip frowned and felt his nerves rising.

If he wasn't so drunk, he wouldn't be here. If he'd had his apartment to go back to, he wouldn't be here. He didn't even know this guy, but he was pretty sure Peter was crazy. Flip sat as still as possible, his head bobbing, his eyes squinting and widening as he focused on the scene before him. His stomach turned and he was near sober in the blink of an eye as he began to hear the most horrible sounds he'd ever heard.

Peter's bones were breaking. But they weren't snapping and cracking, they were crumbling in on themselves and grinding together, becoming powder and rebuilding themselves in a new way, creaking and groaning like old, swollen planks of wood. Flip held his breath as he watched the shadows move a few feet ahead of him and Peter's body slowly began to change shape.

Flip's mouth fell open as he heard Peter let out a few sounds of discomfort that melted into quiet whimperings, like that of a dog who was locked outside and wanted in. Then, instead of a man before him, it was a great big wolf with long, black fur and bright green eyes that sparkled with flecks of gold.

"Holy shit," Flip whispered.

The wolf started toward him, tiptoeing with its nose to the ground. As it came closer, Flip could see Peter in its eyes, and he finally sucked in a breath. The wolf sat with its ears cocked forward toward Flip. Then it tilted its head to the side.

Flip breathed out slowly and tried to stay calm. He reached out toward the wolf and it cocked its head to the other side, then stood up. Flip pulled his hand back, his heart pounding, then reached toward the wolf again.

A brief moment of calm settled between them and everything was silent as Flip felt the cold, wet nose of the wolf on the back of his hand. But that moment ended swiftly. The wolf opened its mouth and clamped its strong jaws onto Flip's wrist, and Flip's throat-shredding cries echoed off of the water.

#

12:30 pm

He convulsed in the sand for an hour; he'd watched the black wolf run down the beach and disappear into the night and wondered how long it would take for his body to stop twitching and burning and aching. When he finally went still, Flip reached up to wipe the drool and foam from his lips. He couldn't help but notice that his lip was no longer cut, his face no longer sore and bleeding. Running his trembling hands over his face, he no longer felt the welts and gashes that were there before. The bite on his wrist was already beginning to heal.

It took every ounce of strength he had to sit up, and when he did, he saw the bright moon hanging above him. The face on its surface winked down at him as if to say, "Hello." He crawled forward to the water's edge and looked down at his reflection. Warbled as it was on the moving ocean, he could see that his face was back to its normal beauty.

He stood up, his legs shaking, and looked in the direction Peter had run. He could see faint imprints in the sand from the wolf's paws trailing away along the beach. He ran, feeling stronger as he went, following the wolve's prints in the sand. Every step he took was like a dose of adrenaline and he rushed along the water's edge. He sprinted as fast as he could, which was much faster than he used to be able to run, until he reached the end of the trail of footprints. He glanced around, searching, but saw no sign of Peter.

#

July 20, 3:00 am

Flip lay in the sand, staring up at the impossibly bright stars. He could make out every constellation, now. He could hear cars driving on the freeway a few miles from the beach, and the insects that tunneled in the sand beneath his head. Then came the steady foosteps of a man. He didn't need to look to know that it was Peter, returning as he had said he would to teach Flip all the secrets of living as a lycanthrope.

"Welcome back, wolfman," said Flip.

"I am surprised that you stayed," said Peter.

"You asked me to wait."

It was quiet then. Peter pulled his clothes back on and plopped down in the sand next to Flip. He smelled of iron and sweat and the breath of a dog. They sat there, saying nothing to each other, for nearly an hour. At the edge of the horizon, the morning sun was beginning to wake. Flip nodded as he greeted the day and realized that he was no longer human.