Betty knelt over the toilet the morning after the full moon, gripping the cold rim, and swore she would not let this ruin the pack. She had spent last night in the woods, guarding Lydia's sick wolves while hunters walked the roads with rifles. Her stomach had always been weak. Stress made it worse. But she had never thrown up this hard before, and she needed to get up, get dressed, and get back out there before someone found the shed. She flushed and wiped her mouth. She turned the faucet on so the water would cover any sound. She had almost caught her breath when the bathroom door swung open. Her older sister Polly stood there in a flowered dress, hair still perfect, one eyebrow raised the way she did when she already knew the answer. Polly always knew. She had caught Betty sneaking home three times this month alone. "You're green," Polly said. She crouched and pressed a hand to Betty's forehead. "And you're burning up. How long?" "I'm fine." Betty pulled away. "It's just my stomach again." "It's not just your stomach." Polly's voice dropped. "You come home covered in mud. You disappear every full moon. Betty, I'm scared for you." Betty grabbed her sleeve. "Please don't tell Mom." But Polly was already standing. She went to the top of the stairs and called down. "Mom! Betty's really sick!" Footsteps came fast up the stairs of the old farmhouse. Alice appeared in her jacket and jeans, keys still in her hand, blue eyes going sharp the second she saw Betty on the floor. "Oh, honey." Alice dropped the keys and knelt. She smelled like coffee and worry. "You're shaking." She looked at Polly. "How long has she been like this?" "All morning," Polly said. "And she keeps sneaking out at night." Betty's face went hot. "Polly." Alice helped her sit against the tub. Her mom's hands were gentle, but her voice was iron. "You're not going anywhere today. Not school. Not your friends. Nowhere." "Mom, you don't understand." Betty's mind raced to the shed. To Erica and Malia, too weak to move. To Deacon feeding them alone. To the hunters. "There are people who need me. If I don't go—" "People who need you?" Alice's grip tightened. "You can barely stand. Whatever those friends are dragging you into, it stops now." She stood and pointed. "Bed. I mean it. I'm calling the doctor." Betty looked at Polly, hoping for help. Polly only crossed her arms and looked away. Alice walked out and shut the door. Betty heard the lock click on the outside—the old bathroom latch her dad had reversed years ago to keep toddlers safe. She was trapped in the farmhouse, and somewhere in the woods, her pack was lying helpless, waiting for a girl who could not come.

By afternoon the doctor came. Alice let him in and led him upstairs to Betty's room. Betty was in the bathroom again, bent over the toilet, gripping the cold rim. She heard the two of them in the doorway and tried to sit up straight. She failed. The doctor knelt on the tile. He was an older man with a soft voice and cold hands. "What's going on, Betty?" he asked. "Your mom says this has been all day." "My belly just doesn't feel good," Betty said. Her voice came out thin. She would not tell him about the woods. She would not tell him about the shed, or the wolves, or the hunters with rifles. If she said too much, they would watch her closer. She would never get out. He pressed his fingers into her stomach. Betty yelped. The pain shot up sharp and hot, and her body folded around it. Her mouth filled with sour spit and she leaned over the bowl and threw up again. Alice made a small sound in the doorway. She stepped forward and put a hand on Betty's back. "Is she okay? What is it?" The doctor sat back on his heels. He pressed once more, gentler this time, watching Betty's face. "It's a little swollen. Inflammation." He looked up at Alice. "The fever is stress. Not an infection." Alice's shoulders dropped an inch. "Stress." "She's got some stress ulcers, most likely. Small sores in the stomach lining." He handed Betty a towel. "They hurt like hell. They make you throw up. But they're not dangerous." He stood and washed his hands at the sink. "Honestly, she'd heal faster if she moved around. Lying in bed all day makes it worse." Betty's breath caught. She wiped her mouth and stared at him. Not dangerous. Move around. She turned the words over fast, the way she turned over a locked door looking for the loose hinge. Alice frowned. "Move around. You mean she can go out?" "Short walks. Fresh air. Nothing hard." He clicked his bag shut. "Keeping her cooped up won't help her belly, and it won't help the stress either." Betty looked at her mother. She kept her face calm, but her heart was already running to the shed. Erica and Malia were still out there. Deacon was still feeding them alone. And now a doctor had said the one thing that could crack her open the lock. Alice chewed her lip. She looked at Betty on the floor, pale and shaking, then at the doctor packing up. "Short walks," she repeated slowly. "Where I can see you." "I'll take short walks," Betty said. She kept her voice small and sick. Inside, a plan was already forming. The doctor had just handed her a way back to her pack.

Betty waited until Alice was on the phone in the kitchen. Then she slipped out the front door and off the farmhouse porch. The plan was simple. Walk to the tree line, keep going, reach the shed and her pack. Erica and Malia were still out there. She only had to move. But her stomach fought her from the first step. The cold air did nothing. Her belly cramped tight, then tighter. She pressed a hand under her sweater and kept walking anyway. Snow soaked through her shoes. She counted her steps to stay upright. Ten. Twenty. The pain climbed her throat. She made it past a lavender bush, its purple clusters bent under frost. Then her body folded. She dropped to her knees and threw up in the snow. Her arms shook. She spat and gagged and threw up again. When it stopped, she stayed down, hands sinking in the cold. She wasn't going to reach the shed. Not today. Maybe not for days. The truth of it broke her, and she started to cry. "Betty?" Veronica came around the bush fast. She was Betty's best friend, dark hair loose, purple jacket half-zipped. She'd walked over from her own house and found Betty on the ground. She dropped down beside her and reached for her shoulder. "Hey, I've got you," Veronica said. "Come here." But her hand landed on Betty's back, and the touch was too much. Every nerve was raw from the retching. Betty flinched hard and shoved her away. "Don't," Betty said. "Don't touch me. It hurts." Veronica pulled her hand back. She didn't look hurt. She'd seen Betty's stomach flares before. She knew how the pain made even a gentle hand feel like fire. "Okay," Veronica said softly. "Okay. I won't." She didn't leave. She settled into the snow an arm's length away, close but not touching. She pulled her knees up and waited. Betty cried into her sleeve. Veronica just stayed there, steady, so Betty wasn't alone with it. After a while the crying slowed. Betty wiped her face and looked at the tree line. So far away. She couldn't walk it sick like this. Her escape had failed, plain and complete. "You were trying to get to them," Veronica said. It wasn't a question. "Erica and the others." Betty froze. She had never told Veronica about the pack. But Veronica's face held no shock, only worry. "You can't do it alone," Veronica said. "Not like this. You'll pass out in the snow before you're halfway." Betty stared at her friend. Veronica already knew more than she'd guessed. And she was still here, still sitting in the cold beside her. "Then help me," Betty whispered. Veronica held her eyes a moment. Then she nodded. Betty couldn't reach her pack on her own. But she wasn't on her own anymore.