"What is it?"

"I don't know. Cramps or something."

“They always this bad?"

"Ben, we've been living together for five months, you should know the answer to that." He glared, unamused. I shook my head. "No, never."

"What else could it be?" He was sitting up now, his hand on my arm, frowning worriedly at me.

"I don't know." That came out with a definite whine.

"Should you go to a hospital or something?"

"I never have to go to the hospital."

"Kitty, what if this is serious? You've been tired and sick for weeks."

"It's just cramps. What else could it be?"

"I have no idea what it could be—cancer? You accidentally swallowed a butcher knife last night? I don't know."

"Werewolves don't get cancer."

"Kitty." He bowed his head. "Never mind, do what you think is best."

"You think I should go to a doctor."

"Can you even sit up right now?"

I didn't want to think about sitting up, I hurt that much. Which meant maybe he was right.

"I don't have health insurance. Werewolves don't need health insurance." I reached for his hand; he took it, held it. He gave me that exasperated look he always did when I was being stubborn.

"One checkup won't break the bank."

"But what if something's really wrong?"

"You said it yourself—werewolves don't get sick."

“Then I don't have to go to the doctor."

We glared. He looked away first—deferring to the more experienced. A submissive wolf. He dug my clothes out of the hole we'd stashed them in and threw them at me.

"Let's get moving, then see how you feel."

"Ben?"

"Hm?"

I held his arm, pulled on it, drew him close. Kissed him, and was happy when he smiled. "Let's go."

Back at home, I returned my mother's weekly Sunday phone call. Every Sunday she called, like clockwork. She'd known I was out for the full moon, but she'd left a message anyway. "Call back when you can, let me know everything's okay." She tried to be supportive in her own way. She'd convinced herself that my being a werewolf was like joining a club that did some vaguely dangerous and thrilling activity, like rock climbing.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hi, Kitty. How was your weekend?"

Oh, I turned into a wolf, killed something, woke up naked in the middle of the woods, went home, and brushed my teeth a half-dozen times to get the taste of blood out of my mouth. "It was okay. I haven't been feeling too great, I think something's stressing me out."

"Any idea what?"

"Maybe it's the book coming out. I'm worried how it's going to do."

"It'll be fine—I've read it, it's a really good book. People will love it."

"You're my mother, you're supposed to say that."

"Of course I am," she said happily.

And who could argue with that? "Ben thinks I should go to the doctor."

"It certainly couldn't hurt. It might make you feel better if they can tell you that nothing's wrong."

And if something was wrong? What was the local general practitioner going to know about lycanthropy anyway?

"Nothing's wrong," I insisted.

"Of course not," she said. "Nothing's ever wrong until it is." Her tone had become serious.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She paused, like she was trying to decide what to say. Then she sighed. "It means it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Mom, is something wrong?" The conversation had gone a bit weird.

"Oh, no, not really. I just think Ben's right is all."

I couldn't win. I was besieged. "Okay. I'll think about it."

She changed the subject. "When are we going to meet this Ben character of yours?"

She knew I was living with Ben; I couldn't keep him a secret. She'd expressed a great deal of worry that, out of the blue, I'd apparently shacked up with my lawyer. I didn't tell her he'd become a werewolf in the meantime.

"I don't know, Mom. Maybe Christmas?"

"Kitty. That's months off. That's most of the year off."

"You aren't even ecstatic that I'm bringing up the possibility of coming home for Christmas this year?"

"I'll admit, that would be nice."

"I'll talk it over with Ben. Maybe we can work something out for this summer."

She seemed to be happy with the compromise, because she changed the subject, moving on to the topic of family, Dad and my sister and her brood, like our typical calls. The whole thing was comforting. No matter what I did or what happened to me, Mom was always there with her phone calls.

After I'd hung up Ben said, "I'm still not ready to meet your family."

"You'll notice I didn't commit us to anything."

"I'm just saying."

I almost argued. I could have said all sorts of things, needled him, picked at that sore spot until it festered: why not, what's wrong with my family, you just don't want to admit that we're in a relationship, and so on. I started to say these things, just to see what his reaction would be.

But I let it go, because I wasn't ready for that argument any more than Ben was ready to meet my family.

I started bleeding that afternoon. I should have been relieved—my period, that's all it was. But it was late, there was too much, and something about it wasn't right. So I went to the doctor on Monday.

The nurse drew blood. The doctor wanted a urine sample. She wanted me to strip and sit on the examination table in a flimsy paper shirt. Then she poked, prodded, all the rest of it. In the five or so years since the last time I'd been in a doctor's office, I hadn't missed it, not once, not at all. The place had a weird smell. Everything was disinfected to within an inch of its life, but the antiseptic only covered up an underlying odor of illness telling me that sick people passed through here all day long.

I sat there for an hour, waiting. When the nurse poked her head in and said I could get dressed, I nearly sprang off the table.

"Is Dr. Luce coming back? Did she say anything?"