I didn't sleep that night. Not really.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw his mother's face in that little photograph, and I heard the way his voice had gone dark and low when he said the word poisoned, and something cold settled into my stomach that had nothing to do with the drafty cabin. This was not two wolves playing games in a laundry room. This was blood and grief and ten years of a boy sharpening himself into a blade because the only family he had left had buried his mother and taken his name. And last night he had held my forehead to his and said...