Jennifer Palmer
“Knock it off, Shannon.”
“But I’m not hurting anyone!”
“Sweetie . . . .”
Shannon’s mother Beth stands at the kitchen counter, spoon poised above the cake batter. She was stirring it before the Labrador retriever had barreled into the room and shape-shifted back into her tween daughter. Shannon shakes her head, hair wet from the rain pouring outside that had drenched the fur coat she’d worn moments before.
“What’s wrong?” Shannon asks.
“We’ve talked about this before . . . .”
“Listen to your mother, Shannon.”
Shannon turns at her grandmother’s gravelly voice. The woman sported a cane—her form crooked, like a weathered willow tree.
“Nona!” Shannon cries, rushing forward to hug her elder.
“Bah, ger’off Shannae,” Nona squirms under Shannon’s arms. “One would think you
