Werewolf Skin

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I stepped down from the bus and squinted into the sunlight. Shielding my eyes with one hand, I searched the small parking lot for Uncle Colin and Aunt Marta.

I didn’t remember what they looked like. I hadn’t seen them since I was four, eight years ago.

But the Wolf Creek bus station was so tiny. Just a little wooden shack in the middle of a big parking lot. I knew I couldn’t miss them.

“How many suitcases?” the bus driver growled out of the side of his mouth. Despite the cold October air, he had a damp sweat stain on the back of his gray uniform.

“Just one,” I said. I was the only passenger to get off at Wolf Creek.

Across from the bus station, I saw a gas station and a one-block stretch of small stores. Beyond that, I could see the woods. The trees shimmered yellow and brown, the autumn leaves still clinging to their branches. Dry, brown leaves fluttered across the parking lot.

The driver grunted as he hoisted up the sliding door to the baggage compartment. He pulled out a black bag. “This yours, kid?”

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