The day I turned thirteen, a saw it looming in the distance. It freaked me out, standing eight feet tall and just as wide. A metal wolf, hunting.
Last night, I snuck out at one in the morning and met friends at the lake for some fishing. But we left when we heard an eerie howling.
On the way home, we cut through the park.
“Hey, ya see that? Someone took down the wolf statue.”
They shrugged.
**
“What is it Dad?”
“You’re a man now son. Sorry to break the news like this, but old Mr. Jones had died, attacked by wolves they say.”
Last week he told me he saw the wolf too, rambling about not staying out after midnight. What was he doing out? What was I doing?
“You okay, son?”
“Yeah dad. I’m gonna head to Ben’s.”
“Don’t say out past sundown. Not until they find out what happened.”
Ben and I met up at the park with a bunch of guys to play ball.
Cameron hit a ball out of the field.
I ran for it, slowing when I saw the wolf statue was back—towering over me, its metal mouth glistening red.
Blood, fresh blood.
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