The men went beyond where the neon and squad lights touched, straight into the muted browns and greens of the woods. It was an ungainly pursuit as Robin was unused to traversing unpaved terrain. Dusty continued to dash ahead, deftly avoiding branches and depressions. Swerving left and right, he made no attempt to acknowledge the young man.

As much as he wanted to avoid a confrontation with police and the assailants, Robin’s gut started to sink at the thought of getting lost in the woods. He was about to call out to Dusty again when he was struck with disbelief. Dusty had shrugged off his jacket. A thought crossed Robin’s mind to pick it up from the ground as he passed it, but he didn’t want to lose sight of the man among the maze of trees.

Dusty kicked off his boots, pulled off his socks. Skipping over the shed items, Robin closed the distance between them. Branches whipped their sides as Dusty broke through a tight grove. The older man then unbuttoned his jeans, practically leaping out of them and his boxers. Robin’s feet skidded to a halt. Dusty continued a few paces ahead, finally pulling off his shirt. For a moment, Robin questioned if he should have run after this man. Then his doubt turned to regret.

Dusty doubled over, snarls and growls ripping from his throat. Robin nearly stepped toward the man’s shoulder, to comfort him as one would a drunk friend bent over the toilet. However, his hand stopped when the muscles below his skin slithered. Robin scurried backward. Dusty’s skin boiled from beneath, stretching until a mantle of fur burst from his back. Robin yelped and spun to leave but the trees closed around him, caging him with the scene unfolding.

Pops and snaps crackled through the air, and for a brief moment the memory of an open grill during the Fourth of July slid through Robin’s mind. Then he realized it was the sound of Dusty’s limbs reaching out from his body, stretching beyond his frame. A sickening crunch obliterated any thoughts of food from Robin.

Piercing out of the skin, a tail snaked from the base of the man’s spine, flesh and hair sprouting along its length. Wet coughs splattered against the ground. Before Robin could imagine what his front now looked like, the former man became a blur. Robin opened his mouth to scream only to be stopped by leathery pads smashing against his lips, claws curling around his jaw.

“Don’t,” said the beast, “don’t make a sound.”

Robin screamed into his pads anyway.

“Goddammit, I tried to lose you.”

Nearly bulging from his head, Robin’s eyes scanned the face now before him. No longer a man, it was fully a wolf—not completely like a wolf from what Robin knew by way of nature shows and casual research—but it was close enough. The young man whimpered.

”I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice was nearly the same as how Robin had heard it when he was human, only slightly deeper as though his vocal cords were stowed further down his neck. “Look. I’ll let go, but don’t freak out on me.”

Robin hadn’t realized he nodded until the finger pads slowly lifted from his face. The expression the beast wore was indiscernible and his words were calm, undoubtedly so as not to scare him. Robin shook nonetheless, slinging his backpack around to his front for a paltry barrier against the beast. He slowly stepped backward until a trunk stopped his progress. Sliding down the bark, the young man hunched into himself. Thankfully he had already gone to the bathroom.

“Oh my god.” It came out more flat and monotone than Robin had planned.

“I didn’t think you would follow me,” said the beast. He paced around on his hind legs, his human-like torso visible in the waning light.

“L-look, thanks for sticking up for me,” Robin stammered over his bag. “I-I won’t tell anyone about this! Please don’t kill me.”

“I already woulda done that if I wanted to.” He continued to pace as Robin continued to sit. “I’m thinking.”

“You’re not just thinking, y-you’re a werewolf!” squeaked Robin. “Werewolves are real?”

The beast turned to look at him, his sea-green eyes glowing in the dusk. “Werewolf, lycanthrope, rougarou, shifter; we go by many names. My family liked to call us weers—comes from Middle Dutch.”

Robin warbled, ”Ah, an etymology lesson, great.” Suddenly, his vision tilted. His stomach rolled. The world had shifted and he was catching up. Like a print formed by skewed plates, a chromatic echo of the world chased and ran ahead of him at the same time. He wondered if he was on the verge of a panic attack. His upper half swayed.