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Karen: Why were you in wolf form near the road?

Trevor: hypothetically

I paused over that. Wolf form. I waited for someone to clarify.

Hilary: Come see me.

Trevor: this feels punitive

Hudson: Bring the mailbox.

Trevor: it’s attached to the ground

Hudson: Then bring tools.

I read the exchange twice.

The wolf comments were constant but never quite clear enough to mean anything. People talked about shifting schedules, running trails, moon nights, scent blockers, and council regulations. I assumed it was some family role-playing tradition or an inside joke no outsider would understand.

The younger crowd seemed especially obsessed with wolves. Their profile pictures included cartoon wolves, wolf silhouettes, paw prints, and, in Trevor’s case, an AI-generated image of a wolf wearing sunglasses and holding a glue gun.

All families had quirks. Mine went on European vacations and introduced me to separated men in airplane aisles. Theirs loved wolves. I didn’t bother too hard with trying to figure it out.

Over the next several days, THE PACK became part of my routine so gradually that I didn’t notice it happening. I checked it after brushing my teeth. While eating cereal. During file exports. Between client calls. At night, I took my phone to bed and read until the conversations slowed.

The family existed inside my mind as names, typing styles, and profile icons. Only a few used actual photographs. Julie’s picture showed a glamorous blonde woman in pink sunglasses. Hilary was a dark-haired woman standing beside a lake with one arm around Julie’s waist. Patty’s was an artsy selfie in black and white, showing her looking out into the distance.

Hudson’s profile picture was not a picture of him at all. It showed a mountain ridge beneath an overcast sky.

I had still developed an image of him in my mind.

He was probably serious-looking. Maybe older than the others (except Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Alfonse). I envisioned him as a bookish type of guy, maybe with glasses? Perhaps a dad bod?

He used complete sentences and punctuation, even when everyone else abandoned both. He rarely joined the chaos without purpose. When somebody needed directions, he sent them. When Grandma Ruth’s grocery delivery went to the wrong house, he found it. When a cousin’s car wouldn’t start, Hudson said he’d be there with jumper cables before anyone finished offering suggestions. Everyone went to him and no one ever asked whether he was busy.

By Wednesday, I knew that Julie cooked for too many people on purpose, Hilary could silence three arguments with one sentence, and Byron approached ordinary life as an academic debate. Mason argued for recreation. Trevor required supervision.

Patty seemed lighthearted and didn’t take anything too seriously, to the dismay of Aunt Karen, who constantly corrected her. Aunt Karen had never encountered a subject she couldn’t make unpleasant.

Patty and I began talking privately because of a graphic novel. She had posted a meme featuring a panel from Nocturnal Hearts, a fantasy series about a witch who inherited a failing funeral home and discovered the corpses were unionized.

I had reacted before thinking.

Sloane: The embalmer subplot deserved better.

The chat paused.

Then Patty sent me a direct message.

Patty: YOU KNOW NOCTURNAL HEARTS?????

I stared at the capital letters, not knowing if I should respond. Was it a good idea to engage in a private conversation with one of the family members? Probably not, but damn, the idea of having someone to discuss my favorite book series with was too enticing to pass up.

Sloane: I own all nine volumes.

Her response arrived immediately.

Patty: I have been alone in this family for YEARS.