Page 12 of Hoofin’ It

The lycanthropy virus was probably another contributing factor. The bloodlust would fade around the same time the virus worked its way out of my system, which would happen when Dad’s blood was replaced with mine. Assuming, of course, I didn’t end up with a permanent lycanthropy infection.

What was the downside to turning into a wolf capable of ripping people apart with my hands? Ah, right. The control issues and potential of ripping someone apart unintentionally. I couldn’t even remember the last time someone had gotten ripped apart because the Center for Disease Control had begun monitoring those infected with lycanthropy and providing services to new werewolves.

“When I meant for you to find a lady, fall in love, and settle down, I meant with a sentient, Shane,” Mom complained.

“It’s progress, Patsy. He’s obviously smitten with his little pet, which proves he is, in fact, capable of loving others. It’s our fault we didn’t get him a pet while he was growing up. Maybe if we’d gotten him a horse of his own, he’d be more comfortable showing us how much he loves us.”

Mom huffed. “He loves me more than he loves you.”

“You wish.”

My parents settled into bickering over which one of them I loved more. Unless I picked one of them, they wouldn’t stop. Picking neither wouldn’t help, and picking both wouldn’t, either. Of my options, annoying them both seemed more entertaining. “Maybe I actually hate both of you, and you should be arguing over who I hate the least. Compared to Sally, you’re hardly blips on the radar. Allow me to present some evidence. Mother, I scraped a pancake off the kitchen ceiling this morning. You know what? Don’t even get me started about you, Dad. You’re both the reason I’m such an awful child.”

“That would explain why he refused to give me his eye.”

“I refused to give you my eye because I gave it to someone else first. In a jar, too.”

“Shane! You didn’t!” My mother wailed. “That’s not fair.”

Dad chuckled. “Medical vault?”

“Who knew a mason jar and some preservative cost a hundred bucks? Ridiculous, if you ask me. I think they should have paid me to keep my eye. Insurance refused to cover it since they won’t even consider an advanced replacement.”

“That’s my boy, thinking ahead.”

“But I asked first!” I was willing to bet everything I owned my mother was pouting.

“Actually, the surgeon asked me if I wanted to store it in the medical vault when I arrived at the ER. I said yes before asking how much it cost. You were the second to ask me. Sorry, Mom. You snooze, you lose.”

She sighed. “This is all your father’s fault.”

“How is this my fault?”

“You convinced me lycanthropy wasn’t so bad. You didn’t tell me I’d end up with a son like this!”

I laughed. “Just let her shear your fur, Dad. That’ll keep her quiet for one whole hour. Go home. It’s not like I’m going to get into any trouble here.”

“I can’t say he’s wrong.”

Dad sighed. “The instant we leave, cops will be in here questioning you about what happened.”

“If they bring me dinner, and something better than crap hospital food, they can ask me all the questions they want.”

“Pizza, tacos, or fast food?”

“Is that Chinese place I like still open?”

My mother groaned. “Unfortunately. How can you stand that garbage?”

“I like it. If they bring me offerings of bad Chinese food, I’ll answer any questions they have.”

Next time, I needed to more carefully word my bargains. While a quartet of my parents’ co-workers brought me enough Chinese food to feed Dad, they had no interest in limiting their questions to the shooting. I should have known better.

In Lincoln, Nebraska, gossip amongst cops and their families was a way of life. They’d gotten the important questions out of the way first. It didn’t take them long to walk me through my morning up to the shooting. One of them even doubled as an artist, and within twenty minutes of the session’s start, they had a sketch of the middle-aged man, his junker Ford, and his gun.

“I have to give you credit, Marshal. That’s a damned good drawing of that truck.” I pointed my chopsticks at the detailing of the rusted-out wheel well. “Why aren’t you the permanent artist at the station, anyway? You’re good enough.”

“And miss partnering with your mother? You’ve got to be kidding me. Since I doubt they told you, your parents were ‘strongly encouraged’ to take the next week off work, so I’m stuck with your father’s partner for a week.”