“Time out. You’re serious. I’m going with you?”

“And Lily and Marcel, and whoever else would like to share the experience. But I’m not letting that happen if you have every intention of forgetting—”

“Hold that thought. I’ll be back. My car’s still down the block!” I sped past him, hand flying over my pocket, fumbling for my keys because Jesus knew I wasn’t about to miss a nation-wide road trip.

My father’s rumbling laughter faded when I closed the door to our home.

I was eight years old when my father took me to Sam Houston National Forest and showed me how different I truly was compared to other people. We walked through a stretch of land that used to be monitored by Haze year round. We had trail flags in our backpacks, some light snacks, heavy boots on our feet that made me feel like a real explorer.

On that day, my dad let me run yards past a family of hikers that were on the same trail. I’m sure the other parents were concerned about the little kid running alone in the woods. But it didn’t bother me. My dad had an unnatural skill for locating my hiding spots, no matter how far they were.

Around eight at night, when it was too dark and dangerous for visitors to be out in the woods, my dad pulled out his trail markers and a flashlight. He said to stick close. I did.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a present. A sorry for letting my mom divorce him a week earlier. An explanation as to why I felt my life was changing even though I didn’t really understand why.

In a way, I received the latter.

“Yan, mi hijo. What you’re about to see, you keep quiet about. No matter what’s in front of your eyes, I’m still your dad, and you’re still you.”

It was then he got down on all fours, face shiny with sweat, and welcomed me into the world I know today.

Haze was waiting on his porch with his baby son Trent and his wife Donna. The adults drank cool lemonades while sat around a tiny radio. Baby Trent slept on his mom’s chest. It was the news they softly listened to on the kind of station that could only be picked up by sorcerers.

It was weird seeing their casting in action, Industrialized Casting, my tutor once specified. Lily’s kind of magic was archaic, fixed and deeply rooted to Mother Nature and her four elements, but caster magic was always changing, always new, and always man-made. It was a bit irking to know that the sorcerers, whose magic could be traced to the most imperative Full-human advancements, who could wield steel, electricity, steam, airwaves, and even fire, just like some witches, were so against revealing our world to the people that lived among us.

Haze wasn’t that kind of sorcerer though. “O’Finley’s an idiot,” he said as I came into view, “to think he plans on challenging Carter for her state seat just ‘cus she’d consider the Avowal bill.”

“Don't worry about him. O’Finley’s jealous that my dad bumped him to second on the Hottest Freshmans in Politicana magazine.” I kissed Donna on the cheek in greeting and she smiled her hellos.

Haze chuckled. “Go on then, Yandel. Your dad informed me earlier. It's pretty late for the Shift, don’t you think?”

It was nearly ten P.M, but what he meant was that I’d never waited past a month to go through my Shift, aka my Change.

“It’ll be fine, Haze. Don’t wait up, I don’t know how long it'll take.”

“Alrighty, boy.”

“Watch out for the fence wire, sweetheart,” Donna said.

I left them with the staticky voices on the radio.

As I walked past the gravel driveway into the woods, my thoughts went to my impending Change. I didn’t think it would be that bad.

My uncle Ramón went five years without shifting. That made me believe my change couldn’t be as bad. But then again, after those five years were up, a violent involuntary shift in the parking lot of a JCPenney left him near dead. He was in a wheelchair now, also divorced, and really cranky.

My tío and my dad had a rocky relationship. Maybe it was a generational thing. Uncle Ramón was older than him and angrier too, often threatened to whack the pride out of me when I was fifteen, hormonal, and pre-metamorphosis.

“You not like the humans, niño pedorro.” Farty boy, that’s what he would call me.

My dad was progressive, at least more progressive than him. I remember he would often rebuke Uncle Ramón. Not about the fart boy thing, but about the term humans used instead of Full-humans. The term was insensitive. It was ugly.

“Get to changing,” I said to myself, stretching.

The forest around me hummed, bugs playing their songs, crickets among the loudest. My ears twitched at the crystal clear rustle caused by a passing lizard on the leaf-littered ground. The wind picked up, which I was grateful for. Though I’d be naked in the December front soon, my body offset the cold by cooking me on the inside.

A dress shirt, boots, and pants landed on the grass, followed by everything underneath.

Maybe my uncle had a point about not being like Full-humans, but I hated to think so. In the woodlands, I did feel comfortable, but that wasn’t because of some primal need to be close to my "animal side". The open space and the woods reminded me of being a kid. Of finding out my secret. Of learning how to keep that secret.

I got down on all fours like my dad had done twelve years ago, although unlike him, I wouldn’t ruin a perfectly good pair of—

“Uhrk!”

My abdomen burned. The first constriction was always the worst.

"Ah shit!"