Wolves

I have not tracked an animal in many years. The alley stinks of piss and car exhaust. It was here, according to the newspapers. An animal attack, they wrote. I know better. Our tales tell of them, the Shadows-at-Night, the Wolves-Who-Walk-Like-Men. I have spent my life hunting and slaying them.

“Old man!”

A half-dozen youths surround me. I begin to speak, to tell them I have no money, when I see the glint of their yellow eyes.

And I know. The wolves who walk like men are not the true enemy. Not compared to men who think they are wolves.