Remy
“Back office,” Todd said, very soft, to no one and both of us. “I’ll lock the lobby. Jacek’s covering the road.”
I turned, trotted through the shop door, and let the bay swallow me. The concrete was warm from the day’s labor. Grease cut the cold smell and reminded me of the human work that keeps the wolf fed. In the small back room we use for emergencies, I let the shift pull me back upright.
People like to talk about the pain of shifting one way or the other as if there’s a difference. There isn’t. It costs both directions. Coming back to two feet means joints complain, muscle fiber rearranges, skin crawls for a fraction of a second as fur goes to sleep. Teeth slide into gums in a way that would make a human throw up if they watched. The worst part is hands—knuckles remaking thems
