“Wolf! Wolf!”

The shout rang through the valley, carrying into the village.

I was the first to arrive on the scene, though the men from town would not be far behind.

I found the boy there, a grin spread across his face, clearly pleased with his performance. With some effort he banished the glee from his expression, putting on the guise of the frightened child. A story spilled forth from his mouth, claims of a wolf almost impossibly large.

It had run off, of course, disappearing into the nearby woods.

“Isn’t it obvious,” I guffawed to the assembled crowd, “this bored child is just having some fun with us.”

“Don’t be a fool, boy.” I shift my gave in his direction, softening somewhat, “I know there isn’t much to do to occupy yourself, sitting among the sheep, but don’t claim that there is a wolf when there is none. No one likes a liar.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but the fun has apparently gone out of the game, and he lowers his head and returns to the sheep.

The crowd dispersed, the promise of danger having turned to something that masked itself in relief but was really disappointment. Everyone returning to their homes, and the business of the evening, in some ways as bored and lonely as the boy with the sheep.

Not unlike the rest of the village, I picked up my night’s plans where I had left off with them. A stunning evening, the moon hanging bright and full in the sky, lending a quality of mischief and drama to the proceedings.

The cry came again, “Wolf! Wolf!” a panic ridden shriek splitting the silence of the summer night.

I was once again the first to reach the boy, practically rolling on the ground in laughter.

The townspeople once again crested the hill, prepared to defend this young boy who was so set on toying with them for his own amusement.

By the time that they were in sight of the scene, the boy had gotten his mirth under control and had settled his form back into the character of the distressed shepherd. Despite the falseness of the previous alarm, they arrived more confused than angry to find the boy alone and the sheep undisturbed.

The wolf, of course, had once again escaped into the woods when he heard the boy’s scream, but apparently unsatisfied with the enormous wolf of his original tale, the wolf in this new iteration of the story had been embellished until it had become a creature who walked upright like a man.

“Are you all really as gullible as this child has made you out to be?” I implored the crowd.

“Not only are we to believe in this wolf who conveniently runs off every time that we come near, but now he wants us to believe in some sort of wolf-man. Boy, keep your tall tales to yourself, the rest of us have better things to do.”

Once again the crowd parted, grumbling with not a few muttered curses and angry stares in the direction of the boy. The child, for his own part, would not let the act drop, pleading with them to stay as if his preposterous stories hadn’t been works of obvious fiction.

In their wake, I removed myself from the scene once again, eager to return to the true focus of my evening.

“Wolf!” Not a cry or a shout this time, but a throat shredding scream.

I came into his presence one last time, finding him a whimpering crying mess, shaking with fear. The night had gone quiet, the normal quiet complaints of the sheep replaced with a vacancy of sound that made the remaining sniffles and squeaks of the sobbing boy all the more… satisfying.

The smell of blood seeping into the soil fills my snout, more sensitive now that I can fully turn myself over to my true nature. Changing that many times in a single evening was hungry work, and painful, but there is always pain in the change. It was nothing to me, or at least nothing in comparison to that about to be felt by the boy who cried wolf.

Typically, Alya doesn’t listen. That’s what we all say, you know, and everyone believes that over anything that Alya says, despite her flushing cheeks and her wild hair and the way she cries back in her dorm room after everyday.

Typically, Alya doesn’t fit in here. That’s what we all say, you know, and everyone believes that over anything that I say, despite her flushing cheeks and her wild hair and the way she cries back in her dorm room after everyday.

Typically, Alya is just a teacher’s pet. That’s what they all say, you know, and everyone believes that over anything that I say, despite my flushing cheeks, my wild hair, and the I cry back in my dorm room after everyday.

Typically, I shouldn’t be here. That’s what they all say, you know, and everyone believes that over anything that I say, despite my flushing cheeks, my wild hair, and the way I cry back in my dorm room after everyday.

Typically, I am not Alya, despite what they say.

But maybe I am.

Hearing footsteps in the hallway made me freeze up.

I heard them getting closer to the kitchen, which of course, was the room I was residing in.

Startled, I grabbed a knife from the counter and hid inside the pantry, clutching the knife in my hands.

It was just my luck, that the footsteps got closer to my hiding space. I adjust the knife and held the handle so the blade pointed at the door.

When it cracked open, as soon as I saw an opening, I lunged forward. My knife sunk into his chest and he fell backward and stilled.

I sighed and peeled off my gloves. He wasn't supposed to be home yet.

“Let me out! Let me out!”

“You’re staying in your room until you calm down. Then I’ll feed you.”

That’s what I told her. I know I didn’t word it very well, and I wanted to apologize.

But I was beginning to get upset.

My back hurt.

I walked away from April’s door, which I had locked because of her tantrum, and led my way over to the kitchen. I’m a poor man, it wasn’t a long walk. Just felt longer because of my back.

August was in the living room, waiting for her food. She was watching some old cartoon she watched all the time as a kid. I don’t remember what it’s called.

I got to the stove and turned it off. I had been fixing August (my wife, if that’s not noticeable) some eggs, and when I had returned to the kitchen I found them done.

Excellent.

I opened up the cupboard, reached in for a plate, got one down, picked up the spatula I had been using and flipped the eggs onto the plate. I got out a fork, turning off the stove in the process, and walked on over to August, who took the eggs with a slant smile.

I wish she had smiled more. That kind of thing got to me.

“You aren’t happy?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” August said.

“You don’t look fine.”

“It’s just been a hard, long day,” she told me.

“What’s all gone on?”

“Some stuff happened at work. And April..” Her voice trailed off a little. I knew how she felt.

“It’s going to be alright. Really. Some children take adoption better than others, but they all come around eventually. As long as we treat them the way they should be treated and raise them well, that is.”

“Adoption,” August remarked, and sighed just after. “Listen, Josh, what kind of life can this be?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not happy with this.” She wasn’t talking about the eggs I made her.

“Look, it’s going to be okay.”

“What part of this is okay?”

“There’s nothing wrong with keeping April,” I told her.

“Adoption..”

It was then that I noticed her face had turned red, and once I had studied her enough to notice, she had turned off the television and set her plate of eggs down on the coffee table in front of the couch.

She stood up.

“You’re not going to eat those?” I asked her.

“I’m suddenly not very hungry anymore.”

I went to say something, I think was going to try and sit her down and have her finish the food I made, but she walked off back into the bedroom we share, and I let her go.

I would’ve gotten mad had she said anything else. Anything complaining. But she didn’t and so after she left, I sighed and scratched my head, and then I picked up the fork and the plate of eggs and I walked over to April’s door.

—

I picked up April a few days ago. She’s new to the house and must come from a family with violent tendencies. If I had known that I wouldn’t have picked her up, but she’s living in the little guest bedroom that had stayed empty for quite some time now. August and I had a kid before, back when August was happy. Happy with me and our marriage.

Since we got kids, she’s acted like a completely different person. I don’t know what it is about it.

I thought she was supposed to agree with what I say. I thought she was supposed to want kids.

Oh well, she still loves me.

April’s got dark hair and nice green eyes. She’s a pre-teen, I think around 12 years old.

She was nice originally, since I’ve brought her home it seems her personality has changed quite a bit. I don’t know what to make of it, in the sense of not knowing exactly how to handle that sort of thing.

Martha (our kid a few years ago) didn’t act out half as much as April does. I guess some girls are different than others.

I miss Martha.

I wish April could come around and make up to me, I’ve always wanted a kid. August has never wanted a child.

I’ve always wanted a kid.

—

I knocked on April’s door. No response.

I knocked again.

“Hello, anyone home?” Just some playful fun on my part.

“I’m here,” April responded coldly.

I don’t like when people speak to me as if I’m a bother, especially when I’m trying to do something for them. I sighed and opened her door.

April looked disheveled, her hair a mess. You could tell she had had a large tantrum just from the look of her. She had this crazed look in her eyes that could turn so swiftly into tire.

I didn’t want to disturb her, and I didn’t want her mad at me. I just wanted to give her some food.

My back hurt still.

I walked over to her, she sitting up in bed as if in a bit of alert, and set down the plates of eggs next to her.

“Would you like some salt and pepper?”

“No,” she said. And that was all.

“Anything else I can get you?”

“No.”

I wanted her to actually talk to me, or at least act like she liked me. Those one-word answers of hers were bothering me.

“Don’t you say anything else?”

“I hate you,” she responded.

That’s when I got mad.

I contained myself for so long. It’s easy to understate how long my patience lasts. But I can’t be told that I’m hated. Not when my body hurts.

“You know what,” I told her, “you’re lucky I’m feeding you at all.”

And then all the dirty things I could ever think to say came through.

“You should be nicer to me. I don’t have to feed you. I do so much for you and for my wife and both of you seem to not care for me. You know what? You’re lucky you’re alive. Yeah, I said it. And if it bothers you so much being here you should put up a fight or something. I’ve wanted a kid for so long, you better start acting right.”

I paused for a moment.

“My wife and I had a kid once. She’s dead because she didn’t listen. Don’t let you be next. You understand that?”

“I just want to go home,” April said, and then she began to cry. “Why me?”

“I’ve always wanted a kid,” I told her. “I wouldn’t go out of my way to take one if I didn’t!”

I had had enough. I knew I shouldn’t have said half the things I did, but in that moment, that had no chance of processing through me. How could it? I was upset.

August must’ve heard me because she started playing music so she could drown out the noise from me yelling.

I turned, left April’s room, shut the door and locked it. I didn’t want to say anything else.

I went into the living room, walked past it, and started into my bedroom. August turned off the music when I came in. She’s an okay wife, at least she knows when to turn the music down.

I hopped in next to her, gave her a kiss, and went to sleep. I needed to, I had such a long day.

I woke up a few times throughout the night due to the pain in my back, but most of the night ran smooth.

When I got up in the morning, I went to kiss August awake.

She wasn’t there.