Chapter 4: Groceries

Perry looked the doctor in the eye.

"Then I guess you'll find out in January."

He turned and walked back up the middle of the ballroom.

Garret walked beside him.

Brianne was waiting by the doors with her arms crossed, glaring at three hundred werewolves.

Halfway there, a woman in a green dress caught Perry's sleeve.

She was maybe fifty, with gray in her hair and a wedding ring she kept turning.

"They took my son at birth," she said, very low. "Into the den. He's twenty-six now. He calls me ma'am."

Then she let go and disappeared back into the crowd.

Sunday night Garret knocked on Perry's apartment door upstairs with four grocery bags.

"I'm cooking you dinner," he said.

"Can you cook?"

"No."

He came in anyway.

Brianne was already on the couch with her shoes off, and her son was on the floor in his socks, practicing his flaps.

Garret unpacked the bags on Perry's kitchen counter.

A whole raw duck. A bag of saffron. Three kinds of mushrooms Perry had never seen. A jar of something French. Eight steaks.

No bread. No vegetables. Nothing you could actually make into a meal in under four hours.

Brianne got up and looked over Garret's shoulder.

"Who shops like this?"

"I asked the store what pregnant people eat."

"And they said duck?"

"They said protein."

Her son climbed onto a stool and stared up at him.

"Are you the werewolf?"

Brianne choked.

"Peanut. We don't say that outside this apartment."

"I'm in the apartment."

Garret crouched until he was eye level with a seven-year-old.

"Yes," he said. "I'm the werewolf."

The boy considered this.

"Can you do a shuffle?"

"I don't know what that is."

So the boy taught him.

In Perry's tiny kitchen, in his socks, the kid showed the Alpha of the Lakeshore pack how to brush his foot forward and back.

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