I almost can't blame the parents. After all, this isn't what they planned on. This isn't what they spent all that money for. This isn't what they were promised in MetaGen's brochures and slick videos and the folders of reproduced letters with heartfelt testimonials. This isn't what they wanted.

But it's no excuse.

Still, blame doesn't get anything done. And I can at least do what I can to make things a little more right.

It's been a good day so far, and the smaller cubs are down for their naps. I glance in the younger boys' room and smile. I can't have favorites, of course, but I can't help it: Jamie is a born charmer. There are still a few shreds of beef jerky from snacktime clinging to his whiskers, and his claws are dug securely into his stuffed elephant. At five, he says he's too big to need it anymore, but that he still likes to have it. Crucial difference.

Jamie is one of the few whose story I know fully. His parents had great hopes for him when MetaGen Technologies, Inc. promised to engineer the fetus for improved stamina, speed, and athleticism. His father is some obscure Olympic bronze-medal sprinter, his mother a champion tennis player.

No one knows they have a child. MetaGen learned early on how to keep things quiet. First because of the laws--and then because of this. Because using animal genes in human embryos didn't exactly turn out the way anyone predicted.

Most transgen kids don't begin to manifest physical effects until around age three or so, some even later. (The up side of this, I suppose, is that otherwise I'd be crowded with cribs and bassinets.) Jamie is one of the smaller-percentage group. He manifested at birth, just barely too late to show up on ultrasound or any of the more sophisticated tests.

Must have been a nasty shock for them. You expect a squirming wet helpless pink thing, and wind up with a squirming wet helpless furry thing instead.

The fur on Jamie's head is downy gold, his ears mobile and edged in black. Down the fine fur of his face, along the edges of his short muzzle, the cheetah's black tearstains are softly blurred at the edges.

He is lucky, though. His parents do come to visit sometimes; whether out of guilt or obligation or compassion, they do come. He is one of the few who can look forward to that. He does not wake in tears, as others do.

He does not wake screaming, as others do. The ones who were abandoned, tossed out into nowhere like a stray. The ones who were kept in cages by parents too frightened, too ashamed, too filled with hate for what they had created to ever be able to face them as parents.

There have been stories on the news shows… horrible pictures. I try not to think about them. I can't afford to; it doesn't help me do what I have to do. It doesn't help me take the place of the parents they should have had, the ones who walked away.

It's funny, really. I never wanted kids, never had any interest in having them. And now I have eight. So far.

The oldest, Madison, upstairs doing schoolwork, is fifteen. She's never told me much of her life before she came here, but I've gathered that her parents chose to do her transgen injections just before puberty, letting the hormonal changes provide a natural trigger. "Hurt like hell," she said. Sometime after, she ran away. I'm not sure what happened after that, or how she even found the Ark, but she's great with the little ones, and I don't know what I'd do without her.

After awhile, she comes downstairs to the kitchen and starts boiling the macaroni for tonight's mac and cheese dinner--some of the cubs' tastes are still very human. Looking at her now, it's hard to remember how she looked when I first saw her, curled up asleep by my back door, fur matted, wearing old jeans with a hole ripped for her tail and a filthy tank top that had once been cotton-candy pink.

I'm not sure whether her transgenes came from lion or cougar or maybe some combination, but she's definitely feline, tawny and lean but with a teenage girl's awkward kind of grace. She told me once that the thing she misses most about being human is her hair, which I gather used to be long and a dark shade of auburn. She's still trying to figure out how to fit some kind of cap or scarf around her ears, but nothing's quite worked yet.

She also wears a little gold cross, on a chain around her neck. She doesn't talk about it, and I've never asked.

I know she misses things like school and going out with friends. None of the cubs go to regular school, though I do the best I can with home-schooling materials and the Net. I do let Madison go on errands alone sometimes, but I worry about her. If she meets other girls her age, they tease her. Adults stare or look away… except for some men who look at her in a way that disgusts her and chills my blood. As if she's some kind of living character from a sexy cartoon or a comic book.

She is not allowed out after dark.

The others are eight and under; the youngest is Nicholas, an infant canine, still bottle-feeding, who showed up in a cardboard box on the doorstep one morning last winter. Free to good home, I suppose.

It's so hard not to be bitter. Not for my sake, but for theirs.

Madison has dinner well under control, so I leave the kitchen to look in on the cubs. Seven-year-old Ryan is in his corner of the playroom, drawing dinosaurs. I check his UV light and heat lamp, glancing at the thermometer sitting next to him. Well within range. I fill his spray bottle with warm water and mist his green scales lightly. He looks up and smiles, and his tongue peeks out to catch the droplets. He won't eat the mac and cheese later, but Madison will have romaine lettuce and orange slices and cherry tomatoes for him, and I will scoop a half-dozen crickets from the bin. The others, especially the boys, love to watch Ryan eat. Madison will lay her ears back and say, "Gross," but anyone having to watch Madison eat barbequed ribs would probably say the same thing.

Dinner, for once, goes smoothly. The oldest boy, eight-year-old Zachary, doesn't turn up his nose at the food tonight, though I suppose mac and cheese would rank fairly high on a transgen rat's list of favorite foods. My little three-year-old furball of trouble, the raccoon kit Hunter, doesn't steal off the others' plates this time, and the four-year-old girl, Hannah--who won't eat anything but vegetables thanks to her rabbit genes--actually eats some of her peas and carrots instead of just making designs with them on her plate, earning her a handful of timothy hay for dessert.

I am grateful things are going well tonight. And as I pick at my frozen dinner, I think about other things I'm thankful for. Like the fact that Dr. Hutchinson is not only willing to treat transgens, but makes house calls to us as well, so we don't have to brave his office. And the fact that his daughter Melissa is a vet tech who's happy to step in when her dad gets stumped. I am thankful for the inheritance and the donations that keep at least most of our bills paid on time.

Most of all, I am thankful that there hasn't been trouble. Not like Hunter's brand of hand-stuck-in-the-jar or rubber-duckie-down-the-toilet trouble. I mean the kind you'd have to spell with a capital T. The kind other people, angry people, frightened people make.

Honestly, it never ceases to amaze me that the same groups, the same people who lobbied so hard to keep unborn children from being aborted--because life is so precious--are also the ones who harass me and Madison at the grocery store, who picket across the street and leave hateful flyers--and worse--on the front lawn.

Save the blastocysts, but not the freaks?

I don't get it.

I wish we could afford a security system. I've never liked the thought of owning a gun, but I'm well aware that that time may come whether I want it to or not. I have never fired a weapon, never even held one. But I look around the table, at Madison making Hannah giggle with a joke, at Jamie sharing his leftovers with Hunter, at six-year-old wolf pup Sierra playing peek-a-boo with baby Nicholas, and I know I could do anything, would do anything, to keep them safe.

After dinner, I draw a lukewarm bath for Ryan to soak in while Madison reads to the others. She starts with a Curious George book for Hunter and Hannah, then moves on to another chapter of Stuart Little. Zach listens for a little while, then heads up to the room he shares with Ryan, to continue working his way through Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. (He complains a lot about there being more books about mice than about rats. I tell him to write his own and make it the way he wants it.)

I'm scanning through the day's assortment of emails--hate, hate, support, spam, hate, spam, spam--when the crash comes from downstairs. Everyone in the playroom looks just as surprised as I do, so I race into the kitchen to find Hunter sitting amid a jumble of chairs and footstools.

"Hunter!" I scoop him up and start checking for broken bones. "Hunter, are you okay? Does anything hurt?"

Hunter considers the question solemnly. "My tummy," he says finally.

"Are you sick?" I touch his nose, testing, trying to remember what a raccoon's normal body temperature is.

Hunter shakes his head. "Hungry."

I sigh. I should have known. "Hunter, sweetie, if you want a snack, just ask me or Madison, okay? You could have gotten hurt trying to climb up there." I make a mental note to get child-proof latches for the upper cabinets--not that they'll likely do much against a determined raccoon kit.

"Okay," Hunter says. "Can I have a snack?"

Madison has already opened the cabinet. She shrugs, grinning, and tosses me a Fruit Roll-Up. I carry Hunter back to the playroom, send Madison back in with Fruit Roll-Ups for the other cubs who are now begging, then start putting the furniture back in place. The chairs are never going to be the same, finish-wise, but it doesn't really matter. There's not a single piece of furniture in this house that hasn't been scratched, ripped, scraped, snagged, or gouged by a hundred little claws. But I'm not exactly expecting any decorating magazines to come calling anytime soon, anyway.

Later, when the cubs are all tucked in and Madison is sprawled on her bed scribbling in her journal, I finally get back to the email. There's one from Jamie's parents, telling me they'll be visiting next week.

I won't say anything to Jamie until the morning of their visit. Once they had to reschedule at the last minute, and the poor kid was crushed. He must worry that maybe one day his parents will just stop coming, and then he'll be like the others.

I sometimes wish they would stop coming. It would hurt Jamie terribly at first, but I can't help thinking it would be for the best in the long run. It's painful to see how hungrily he soaks up their presence, how much he longs for any sign of affection from either of them. How much he wants them to love him.

Every time, as they get ready to leave, he asks if he can go home with them. Just for a little while. Not even to stay. And every time, they exchange uncomfortable glances, and Jamie's father says he doesn't think so, not this time, it's better he stays with us.

And I hate him for it.

It usually takes Jamie a day just to recover from one of their visits, to act like his normal cheerful self again instead of being quiet and withdrawn. I always hold my breath until he smiles again. I'm terrified that eventually, one of these times is going to break him completely, and I'm never going to see the Jamie I know again.

I sigh and hit "reply," and I tell Jamie's parents that yes, of course, that would be just fine, Jamie will be very happy to see them.

There's also an email from our attorney with some good news. Thanks to his lobbying, the latest MetaGen settlement included a provision to allocate a percentage of the amount to us for the cubs' ongoing care. There are enough zeroes in the amount Michael quotes to keep us going as-is for another full year--or at least through the end of this year if something major breaks, which it probably will. I bought this place because it was huge, but it's also old.

I stare at the screen a moment, letting my gaze linger over the amount. Maybe I'll get that security system after all. Plus, Madison's birthday is next month… I'd love to get her an iPod. She deserves one, for everything she does around here. And I have the feeling that if she were still with her parents, she'd have one.

Well, at least I don't have to worry about keeping them all in shoes…

I finish with the email, check in on Nicholas--he is sleeping soundly in his crib and hopefully will keep up his recent trend of sleeping through the night--then settle down on the secondhand futon next to my computer desk.

I have been asleep for maybe two hours when the howling starts.

At least everyone else hasn't gotten up this time; the other cubs must be getting used to it. On my way to Sierra and Hannah's room, I pass Madison in the hall and send her back to bed. She got up last time, and she looks way more tired tonight than I feel.

As soon as I open the door, I see her, a small gray figure in a blue nightgown, sitting in the window seat with her knees hugged to her chest. Her head is tipped back, her eyes closed, all washed in the pale yellow glow of her Little Mermaid nightlight.

Sierra's voice is… unusual. It has all the rich mournful music of the wolf's howl, but there is an eerily human tone underneath. It is strangely, strikingly beautiful.

At least, it is when you're not hearing it at one-thirty in the morning after being awakened out of a sound sleep.

Hannah is still sleeping peacefully, her teddy bear tucked under her arm. I peer into the base of one long ear and smile; she has her earplugs in. Smart girl.

Sierra pauses and opens her eyes. When she sees me, her ears go down and she looks at the floor. "I'm sorry. I can't help it."

I go to sit with her. She snuggles against me. "I know, sweetie," I say, "but when you sing at night, no one else can sleep."

"Hannah can."

I smile. Hannah has more sense than any of us. Maybe we could all just learn to sleep with earplugs. Or we could set aside one night a week for Sierra… She is, ironically, the quietest of the cubs, never gets into trouble, rarely asks for much, gets along with everyone. Maybe we could sacrifice a little…

"I couldn't sleep," Sierra is explaining now. "And the wind was singing at the window, and I had to sing back. It's so hard to be quiet at night."

"I know," I say soothingly. Minutes pass, and she grows heavier in my arms, her breathing soft and deep. I think she's asleep, until she whispers a question.

"Susan?"

"Yes?"

"Are there other kids like me?"

"Of course there are, silly. You live with seven of them, remember?"

"No, I mean kids who look like me. Who sing like me."

I pause. "I don't know, sweetie. Maybe. I can try to find out, if you want."

There is another long pause, and then she speaks again, sleepily. "I hear them singing sometimes. In my dreams."

"Hear who?"

"The wolves." Her eyes are closed, her voice a whisper I can barely hear. "Real wolves."

Then she is asleep. I wait a few moments, then carry her back to bed. She doesn't wake as I tuck her in.

I go back to bed myself afterward. It's a long time before I'm able to fall asleep again.

On the morning of Jamie's parents' visit, I sit down in front of the computer with a cup of coffee (instant, but it works) and start searching. There are a handful of forums and communities online for caregivers of transgen kids, and I'm curious to see what--if anything--they say about mental effects of the treatment.

Dreams, for example.

The truth is, I'm a little worried about Sierra. Maybe she's just having normal dreams, coupled with a six-year-old's vivid imagination. But she's been even quieter and more distant than usual. And there's something… less human in her eyes. Is there some kind of memory in the wolf genes?

I take another sip of coffee and scroll down the page. Maybe I'm the one with an overactive imagination. Sleep deprivation can play all sorts of fun tricks on the brain, and Sierra's been singing every single night. She says she can't help it, and I'm starting to wonder if she might really be telling the truth.

But everybody online seems more concerned with the obvious physical effects. I read through the topics. Whether you should homeschool the cub or institutionalize him. Modified clothing patterns to allow for tails and ears. Whether certain species can be shaved, have their tails amputated--I wince--and be passed off as physically deformed humans.

Whether they should be called cubs or children, and whether calling them cubs dehumanizes them further and risks encouraging discrimination. Suggested diet plans for carnivores and herbivores. The best cricket and mealworm suppliers for transgen herps.

All of it somewhat interesting, but none of it helpful right now. I turn the computer off.

I told Jamie at breakfast that his parents were coming by. As I pass by the living room, I can see that he has already curled up in the easy chair by the window, his gaze fixed on the street, waiting. The tip of his tail twitches slightly, back and forth, back and forth.

They didn't say what time they'd be coming. If they don't show up by lunchtime, I'll have to send Jamie down to the treadmill in the basement, to run off some of that pent-up energy.

And if they don't show up at all…

I shake my head a little, scolding myself. They've always shown up. There's no reason to think they won't come today.

A glossy black car pulls up to the curb. Jamie bounds to the door. "Susan! They're here, they're here, they're here!"

"All right, settle down, I'm coming."

For obvious reasons, none of the cubs, not even Madison, are allowed to answer the door. I take a careful look through the panoramic peephole. The car is familiar, but I wait until the couple gets out, both of them walking briskly, businesslike, as if on an important errand. His mother carries a plain paper bag, as if she's trying to smuggle something in.

I open the door before they can ring the bell. As soon as they're inside, Jamie races for his mother.

"Mom! You're here!"

I imagine, just for an instant, how it would look if Jamie's mother caught him as he ran toward her with his arms open, his eyes lit with anticipation. I imagine how it would look if she swept him into a hug, if she held him, kissed him on the nose the way he likes, that makes him laugh.

Of course, that isn't what happens. She doesn't respond, and Jamie ends up gleefully hugging her legs. She reaches down to brush her French-manicured nails over his head, just touching the fur, with an air of detached interest, the way you might humor a friend's overly-enthusiastic dog with a pat on the head. She clutches the paper bag tightly.

I force myself to be polite, even friendly. For Jamie's sake.

"Would you like some coffee?" I ask.

"Oh, no, thank you," she says. "We stopped on the way."

Good. I can imagine what she'd think of instant. She glances down at Jamie, and he catches something in her expression and reluctantly disentangles himself.

If you ask me, Jamie's mother--Lynn, I should call her; she's not worthy of the title--doesn't look much like my idea of a mother. But then, I might be biased by the fact that she doesn't act like one.

And while I'm being brutally honest, I should add that maybe I am a little jealous. Lynn is, frankly, gorgeous. There's no other way to put it. She is toned and tanned, muscular where it's desirable and curved where it's even more desirable. Her hair is that shade of blonde that always looks like the sun's shining on it, and though I suspect we're close to the same age, she looks ten years younger. (I also suspect that she panics over gaining two pounds where I could stand to lose twenty.)

She has striking ice-blue eyes. But there is no love in them for Jamie, and for that alone I despise her.

Jamie's father, Greg, has the typical dark-haired white-male good looks, a Ken doll with sparkling white teeth and deep brown eyes that remind me a little of Jamie's. He doesn't particularly look like an athlete, except for his lean build; in his suit and tie he could just as easily be a lawyer or an executive, or an anchor on one of the prime-time news shows. She is wearing a suit, too, just the right shade of blue to bring out her eyes while still looking professional. They could have been going to a business meeting, the way they're dressed. Maybe it's part of their cover.

Jamie has now moved on to gazing adoringly up at his father. Greg hesitates, reaches down as if to ruffle Jamie's hair, if Jamie had had hair, and then winds up patting him awkwardly on the head instead.

Good boy.

"It's good to see you, Jamie," Lynn says, as if reading from a script. She opens up the bag. "We brought something for you."

It's a boxed set of little action figures, Army men with a tank and a helicopter. Jamie's really more of a Legos-and-Play-Doh kind of kid, but of course they have no way of knowing that, or anything else about him other than his age.

He thanks them eagerly, as if it's something he's been wanting a long time.

Greg turns to me and speaks quietly. "We'd like to speak with you… in private… if you don't mind."

"Of course." I kneel by Jamie, who is fumbling with the box, trying to get it open. "Jamie, honey, why don't you take those into the playroom while I talk to your mom and dad for a few minutes?"

He looks disappointed, but says okay. I take Greg and Lynn into the office. They sit down on the futon, looking nervous.

For a moment, I allow myself to hope that they're going to ask to take Jamie home with them. But I know that's not going to happen, and anyway it would be cruel to send Jamie into a home like that.

Greg clears his throat. "This is the last time we'll be able to come here."

It's not a shock, but I wait a moment to collect myself before speaking. "What's changed?"

They exchange glances, and Lynn takes over. "There's a reporter who's been doing some digging…"

"Not a reporter," Greg cuts in. "Some hack with a camera who wants money."

"It's just that we can't afford for this to… I mean, I have two big endorsement contracts getting ready to be signed, and Greg has a shot at being on the team again in two years, and we don't want… well… something like this…"

I enjoy seeing her this flustered. "Bad publicity, you mean."

"Well… yes."

"We can pay off one person, one tabloid," Greg continues. "This isn't a problem. But if we keep coming here, someone's bound to find out again, and they may not have a price to keep quiet."

He says all of this very reasonably, as if any sane, level-headed person would see it this way.

"So we were hoping," Lynn picks up, "that you would tell Jamie… why we can't… I mean, explain it to him so he can understand--"

"No."

Greg frowns slightly. "I'm sorry?"

"No," I repeat. I see now, more clearly than ever, how weak these two are, and it disgusts me. Weak minds, weak stomachs, weak hearts. "I'll go with you; I'll be there, for his sake. But if you want him stabbed through the heart, I'm not going to be the one holding the knife. You're going to be responsible for him for once. You're going to tell him."

Surprisingly, they don't argue. I follow them to the playroom, where Jamie is sitting on the floor, spinning the helicopter's rotor slowly around and around. He looks up, and senses something wrong, and his parents--his parents--tell him what they have come to say.

"Of course we'll continue to send our payments," Greg says softly at the door, "as well as our yearly donation."

"Of course." I open the door for them.

"Thank you for being so understanding," Lynn says. She doesn't sound sarcastic, and I wonder if she's just being polite, or if she's really stupid enough to think that I understand.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. They slip out, and I close the door firmly behind them, then twist both locks into place.

I fantasize for a moment. Surely Michael knows a few reporters. Jamie's very photogenic. But that's not my concern right now.

Right now, I have to go pick up the pieces.

Jamie is still sitting on the floor, the new toys lying scattered and forgotten around him. His knees are drawn up to his chest, his arms folded, his chin resting on his arms. He is silent, dry-eyed, staring dully at nothing.

Oh, Jamie-boy. My sweet one. What have they done?

He was so quiet when they told him. He hardly reacted at all. His parents probably thought he was taking it very well.

But I knew better. I watched his eyes as they talked, saw the last hope fade from them. I saw how he looked as we left the room. So I'm not surprised to see him like this now, but I am worried.

"Jamie…"

I have no idea what to say to him, no idea where to begin. Nothing seems right.

I sit down next to him. As I settle myself onto the floor, my foot hits one of the action figures and knocks it over.

It's like breaking a spell. Jamie grabs the figure, tries to pull it apart, can't. He throws the figure against the wall, picks up another, throws it, again and again. The tank bounces a little on its tread, then rolls over onto its side. The helicopter hits the wall hard, and the rotor snaps off neatly.

Jamie looks at all of this imaginary carnage. He is silent but for puffing breaths, a moment, then two. Then he bursts into tears.

I hug him, afraid that he'll refuse me, but he clings to me. He is sobbing almost to the point of hysteria.

"Jamie," I breathed, smoothing the fur of his head and neck, stroking him, soothing him as best I can. "It's going to be okay, sweetie. I'm here. I'll always be here."

His crying eventually quiets down to hiccupping sobs. He says something I can't make out.

"Say that again?"

He doesn't look at me; his head is pressed against my chest. "Why don't they want me?"

"Oh, Jamie…" I rock him slightly, back and forth. I'm not sure which of us I'm trying to comfort. "It's not your fault."

"Yes it is."

"No, it isn't." I touch his face so that he pulls back. "Jamie, look at me. This isn't your fault. Sometimes…" How on earth am I going to explain this? "Sometimes people are afraid of… of people who are different. Your parents…."

I want to say, "Your parents love you," but the lie lodges in my throat.

"They're not bad, Jamie. And neither are you," I add, heading off the question I see in his eyes. "You haven't done anything wrong."

I sigh. "I know it's hard. It's just… the way things have to be."

He sniffles. "I'm never going to see them again, am I."

I hold him. "No."

After a few minutes, he sighs, and his tense body relaxes a little against me. "I didn't mean to break the helicopter."

"It's okay. Maybe we can fix it."

"I didn't like it. But I thanked them anyway."

"Yes, you did. You were very polite."

There is a slight scuffling from the doorway, and I look up to see Hunter standing, wide-eyed, clutching his blanket.

"Hunter? Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head.

"Well, Jamie's feeling kind of sad, so I don't think he wants to play right now, okay?"

Hunter chews on one claw a minute, thinking this over. Then he comes up to us and holds out his blanket to Jamie. "Make you feel better," he says softly.

Jamie takes it and manages to smile a little. "Thanks."

Hunter nods, satisfied, then turns and toddles out. He stops at the last moment and turns back. "Just today," he adds firmly, and leaves.

I get a tissue for Jamie. "You know what?"

He looks at me uncertainly. "What?"

"I think this is a good time for a bubble bath."

He perks up a bit at that. For all his feline nature, bubble baths are somewhere in the top five of Jamie's all-time favorite things. "Really?"

"Really. And you know what else?"

"What?"

"I think these army men are going to get caught in a tidal wave."

His eyes are lighting up now. "All of them?"

"Well, the helicopter might have flown some of them to safety, but since the hurricane hit it…"

He gathers up the action figures and races to the upstairs bathroom.

I have been fighting back tears through all of this, of course, but I don't cry. Not even the night when I tuck Jamie in and he says, "Night, Mom." No, I don't cry until a few weeks later, when I see them on TV, smiling behind the microphones at the press conference. They've just announced she's pregnant with their very first child.

Madison looks so wiped out at breakfast that I set a mug of coffee in front of her. Sierra is driving us all to the point of sleeping during the day and lying awake most of the night. As much as I hate myself for considering it, I'm starting to wonder if Dr. Hutchinson could give Sierra something to keep her asleep.

Madison takes a sip of coffee and chokes. "God, it's like acid. How do you drink this?" She dumps several spoonfuls of sugar into the mug, tries it again, and grimaces. "That's it. I'm going out for a latté."

"Yeah, well, coffee stunts your growth, you know."

"Not funny." She pulls a denim jacket over her tank top and grabs her purse. "Do we need anything?"

"Nah, not today." Let her have an hour without worrying about everybody else. A tiny voice tells me I could use that, too, but I tell it to shut up. "Madison--"

She rolls her eyes. "I know. Be careful. I will." And she's out the door.

A little while later, I glance in the playroom. Jamie and Hunter are building some kind of fort out of blocks and Hunter's blanket. Ryan and Zach are using the slightly waterlogged army men in a complicated narrative involving two superheroes, an alien spaceship, and a naked Barbie doll. In the corner, Hannah is serving Jamie's stuffed elephant a plastic steak and carrots.

And Sierra… I scan the room and finally find her, curled up on a mat, fast asleep.

Something, I decide, has got to be done. Now I just have to figure out what.

The answer, when I happen on it, surprises me. While searching various websites for transgen info, I follow a link to one of the advertisers, a wolf sanctuary about two and a half hours' drive away. It's a husband-and-wife operation, home to a number of rescued wolves. They usually only allow visitors a couple weeks out of the year, preferring that the wolves not be on display, but I plead my case in an email and get a reply within the hour.

By the time I finish with the email and change Nicholas, it's almost time to start lunch. I glance worriedly at the clock. Madison hasn't come back.

Cell phone, I think. Never mind the iPod, what the girl needs is a cell phone.

I tell myself she's perfectly fine. There's no reason to worry.

But it doesn't take three hours to drink a latté. Not even a venti.

Relax… I look at the clock again. Maybe she ran into a friend.

Oh, sure. One of her many friends who are always calling her and coming to sleep over?

After exactly twenty-two minutes of this insane mental fear-dialogue, she comes in, carrying a little bag from the local coffeehouse.

"Where have you been?" I snap.

She blinks. "Having coffee."

"For three hours?"

"Yeah, well, you know." She holds out the bag. "I brought you a chocolate muffin."

"Don't think you can bribe me with… hey, this is still warm."

"They were just taking them out of the oven when we left." She heads upstairs.

The chocolate drizzle on top is melty and rich. "You could have brought some coffee back, too. You saw what I dri--wait a minute. Stop right there."

She stops on the stairs. To her credit, she doesn't roll her eyes, though I can tell she wants to.

"Who's 'we'?" I ask.

"Just… you know. Somebody I met."

"Somebody you met."

"Yeah."

I raise an eyebrow. "And would this somebody be male?"

She fidgets, playing with the strap on her purse. "Yeah, so?"

"Madison…"

"Calm down; it's okay. He wasn't a perv or anything."

"And how would you know--"

"He was like me, okay? A leopard or a jaguar or something."

Interesting, but it doesn't get her off the hook. "How old was this leopard or jaguar or something?"

Now she does roll her eyes. "Seventeen. Just two years older. It's no big deal."

At fifteen, two years are an incredibly big deal, but I don't say that because I know it won't do any good.

"Look," Madison continues, looking down at me from halfway up the stairs, "we were just talking. I've never even seen a guy my age… like that. And I didn't realize I'd been gone that long. I'm not going to do anything stupid, okay?"

My muffin is getting cold. "Okay," I sigh. "But if I catch you tying your bedsheets together to run off with this guy--"

"Susan, please. He wasn't that good-looking."

But he must have looked good enough, because I catch her staring off into space a lot as she helps me with lunch. I shouldn't give her such a hard time, I know. There aren't many transgen teenagers as it is, so it's not like she's going to have dozens of guys to choose from. Serious dating, engagement, marriage, children-- I can't even guess at the odds for those. If she wants to flirt a little and talk and have fun, she deserves that much at least. Even if it might get her hopes up.

I tell Madison about the wolf sanctuary, about the planned visit.

"Anything that'll get her to sleep through the night," she says. "But what about the others?"

I know what she means. Trips with the cubs are few and far between, and I don't want anyone getting jealous about Sierra's day out. I chop the lettuce and think it over.

"What if we just tell them that Sierra's going to see someone who'll help her figure out why she's been singing so much?"

Madison considers it. "They'd think it was a doctor." She shrugs and stirs taco sauce into the ground beef. "Sounds good to me."

I don't know what I'm expecting to happen at the sanctuary. But whatever the answer is, I sense that Sierra will have to find it for herself, and that she's only going to find it with--

With her own kind. I can't stop the thought.

But Sierra isn't a wolf. Not fully, anyway. And all we can do, I remind myself, is see what happens.

Madison turns off the burner and picks up the pan of ground beef. "Should I serve this, or just dump it all over everybody to save time?"

"Don't worry. It's my turn to do laundry this week." I grab the basket of taco shells and follow her to the table.

The entrance to the sanctuary is a long gravel driveway situated between an abandoned gas station and, of all things, a tattoo parlor. It looks about as far from wilderness as you can get, but as I drive farther, the minivan's tires crunching over the gravel, more and more trees show up to either side, and then I see the sign, the carved wolf head, and the low building that serves as office and visitor's center.

I glance in the rearview mirror. On the drive, Sierra has been alert but quiet, lost in her thoughts. Now I can almost feel all of her senses straining as she presses herself to the window. She says nothing, but her ears and tail are up, and as I shut off the engine I can hear a soft, eager whine.

Janet and Carl come out to meet us. They are in their early fifties, I decide, based on the salt-and-pepper color of Carl's receding hair and the deep laugh lines on Janet's face. Both are in jeans; Carl wears a plaid shirt that looks as old as I am, while Janet's blue T-shirt has two wolves on the front.

"Come on in," they say.

Most of the cubs tend to be shy, especially around strangers--simply put, they don't get out that much, and they don't meet new people very often. Sierra, though, surprises me by introducing herself, and Janet and Carl are so responsive to her that I become certain that they've had children of their own, perhaps even grandchildren. They treat her as one might treat any six-year-old girl who loves wolves, and I love them for it.

Janet explains how the wolf pack is kind of like a big family, and I smile at that, mentally fitting our unusual family into the roles. Alpha female: I guess that's me. Madison as the beta.

Alpha male… Not necessary. Unless you figure I'm doing double duty.

I do wonder sometimes about good male role models for the boys as they grow up. Michael's good with them when he stops by, but he's hardly a permanent fixture. And I don't have time for a social life, let alone dating. Even if I wanted to.

Janet and Carl lead us over to the largest enclosure. There's a lot of brush and natural cover, and a little man-made stream courses through the trees. It's been an unusually warm spring, and when I first see the wolves, they're relaxing in the shade.

At first, looking at them, I can almost imagine that they're dogs, lazing in someone's overgrown backyard. But once they scent and see us, their ears and eyes ratchet to a level of alertness--a level of awareness--that I've never seen in any domestic dog. And when they turn their attention to Sierra, I can feel a subtle shift in the mood. Not threatening, not tense, but something uncertain. I think her scent confuses them, and none of them know quite how to react to a not-human-not-wolf.

Sierra drops to her knees by the enclosure, very close to the wire fence, so close that I want to warn her back. But I don't. I don't want to speak; this moment feels so fragile. Janet and Carl are silent as well, watching. Waiting.

Sierra keeps her gaze down, focused on the grass tangled in the base of the fence. The largest wolf, heavy and silver, approaches. There is confidence in his stance, but there is a wary edge to his body language that you don't have to be a wolf to pick up on.

Then a second wolf comes to the fence, a gray female who is heavily pregnant. For a moment, she shares her mate's caution, but then she visibly relaxes, and after a few beats, the male does, too.

I can imagine what she's saying: It's just a pup. It smells funny, but it's just a pup.

And then, following their lead, the other wolves crowd around for a look. There are four other adults, as well as two juveniles who still haven't quite grown into their paws. The young ones are especially eager, pressing their moist noses between the links of the fence, hungry for a new playmate.

Janet introduces them each in turn. I catch the alphas' names--Silver and Storm--but the rest wash over me, because all my attention is focused on Sierra.

It isn't only that I've never seen her so happy. I realized that I've never seen her look so… complete. She is relaxed here, and open, and somehow whole, in a way that she has never been before. The difference is all the more stunning because I never thought anything was missing.

"Do they sing?" Sierra asks, speaking for the first time since meeting the wolves.

"Mostly at dusk," Carl says, "but we can see if they feel like it."

Carl cups his hands around his mouth and produces a remarkable imitation of a wolf howl. The wolves turn his way, momentarily interested, but none take up the song.

Then Sierra raises her voice, and though the howl still has a pup's high-keening pitch, it is richer and sweeter than any wolf-pup's song could be. I hear Carl exhale softly, almost a sigh, and I feel that if he had been a man to swear, it would have been in that moment of wonder.

Before the note can die away, one of the juveniles takes it up, wrapping his cry around hers. Then the female--Storm--lifts her muzzle and joins in. Silver, the male, still looks wary, but in time he adds his voice, a powerful ringing howl that vibrates in my chest and stirs something in my heart that is older than human memory.

Everything looks blurry, and I blink away tears. I have no idea if this is normal behavior for wolves, but suddenly what's normal doesn't seem to matter as much as what's right.

Silver's last howl fades slowly into silence. I can hear my own breath in the quiet. My mind feels like a bell that's been rung and goes on vibrating, thrumming even after the sound has lowered past hearing. The air tingles on my skin.

Sierra is grinning as if she's just brought the house down in a school concert. I put my arm around her, pulling her gently to me. I don't know why, but I feel the need to touch her, to make contact with her, to bring her back. To claim her, somehow. All of a sudden, I don't know who she really belongs to, or where.

"How long until Storm has her pups?" Sierra asks, breaking the spell.

"No more than a week or two, now," Janet replies.

"Can I come back and see them?"

She asks this while looking at Storm, so I don't know if the question's meant for me or for Janet. I glance at Janet, and she nods, so I reply. "Of course."

"We'll give you a call when she's ready for visitors," Janet adds.

We stay a little while longer. Back at the office, they have juice and cookies for Sierra, and they tell her about the money they send to help wolves in the wild, showing her a thick photo album of glossy pictures. She lingers over these, studying the wolves' faces, sometimes pausing to touch one lightly. The air conditioning feels too cold on my skin.

There is a gift for her, too: a CD of wolfsong and light music, "for bedtime," Janet explains, and Sierra, my quiet one, usually so shy, not only thanks them both, but hugs Janet and lightly licks her cheek.

"Time to go, Sierra," I say finally. Dismay clouds her face for a moment, but she follows me out of the office. Janet and Carl walk us out to the van.

Sierra's ears perk at something I can't hear, and she looks to the enclosure, then turns to me. "Can I tell them goodbye?"

"Okay, but just for a minute."

At the enclosure, the wolves have moved out of sight, except for Storm. The alpha female stands at the fence as if she's waiting, as if she knew Sierra was coming back.

"I'll be back," Sierra whispers. Storm whines a soft reply, and that sound ghosts in my ears for the entire ride home.

When we get to the house, Michael's car is in the driveway, and he gets out to greet us. I unlock the door and hold it open for him. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"No big deal. I did some paperwork, made a few calls… Wow, something smells good."

"I bought a slow cooker with some of that settlement money. And roasts were on a good sale this week."

Sierra runs to find Hannah, and I head into the kitchen with Michael following. The pot roast has been cooking all day with carrots and potatoes, and the scent makes my stomach growl. I turn on the oven and toss some frozen dinner rolls onto a cookie sheet.

"Stay for dinner?" I ask Michael.

He raises an eyebrow at the roast. "I don't know… I kind of had my heart set on takeout from the Chinese place on the corner for the third time this week."

"I'll see if I can dig up a fortune cookie somewhere."

He smiles, and once again I'm taken by how young he looks, even though I know full well he's only a year or two younger than I am. His brown hair is so dark it's almost black, and though he keeps it short and neatly trimmed, it still has a tendency to curl. Add that effect to his wide brown eyes and slightly softened features, and he looks like nothing so much as a half-grown poodle, friendly and eager.

The cubs, of course, love him.

"So what brings you around?" I ask, putting the rolls into the oven. "Unless you can smell pot roast all the way from your office."

"Barbequed ribs, yes, but not pot roast." His expression sobers a little. "Hunter's case is coming up."

"And?"

"Good news. They're being charged with child abuse and neglect after all."

I sigh, relieved. For a while, it looked like his parents were going to be charged with animal abuse instead, which would have set a dangerous precedent, to say the least.

"Of course," he adds with a bitter chuckle, "we might have done better with animal cruelty. I think those sentences tend to be tougher." Then the bitter note drops away. "How's Hunter doing these days?"

"He's doing okay," I reply, thinking of the exchange with Jamie, marking the first time he's ever willingly surrendered his blanket. "He's talking a little more now. Getting into trouble. I have to be careful, though--for one thing, I can't raise my voice with him." I learned that the hard way, early on.

"Do you think he needs therapy?"

I brush my bangs out of my eyes, suddenly tired. "God, Michael, I don't know. Probably they all need therapy. [I]I[/I] need therapy." I sigh. "Sorry. It's been… kind of a weird day."

"It's okay. I forget sometimes."

"Forget what?"

He smiles, a little sheepishly. "You always seem to have everything so… together over here. I forget that you might need a reminder to look after yourself every one in a while."

"I'm okay," I tell him, trying not to sound too defensive.

"I know," he replies, and to his credit, he lets it go.

"Michael!"

It's Zachary, skidding into the kitchen with a rattling box--his Chinese checker set. Michael steadies him. "Careful there, buddy, or you'll lose all your marbles."

Zach rolls his eyes but can't help smiling, too. "Want to play before dinner?"

"Zach, dinner's almost ready." I glance at the timer; the rolls have about five minutes left.

"No problem," Michael replies. "It won't take me that long to beat him."

"You wish!"

As they race off to the playroom, Madison comes in. "Everything go all right today?" I ask.

Madison rummages in the spice rack for a new jar of calcium dust for Ryan. "Hannah fell, but she's okay."

"She fell?"

"Relax. If she hadn't had fur, she would have scraped her knee, that's all. I put an ice cube on it and kissed it. She was fine five minutes later. How did it go with Sierra?"

"She had a good time." I wasn't sure what else I could put into words.

"Do you think it helped?"

The timer goes off, and I take the rolls out. "I guess we'll find out tonight. Grab that basket for me?"

She hands me the bread basket, and I hunt around for a clean dishtowel to line it with. "Michael's staying for dinner?" she asks.

"Yep."

She smiles, eyeing me. "Good."

"Don't get any ideas." In the beginning, Madison had a bit of a crush on Michael, not that she would ever have admitted it under pain of death. Soon enough, though, she picked up on the little signals Michael was sending--the ones I was careful to ignore--and now she's determined to see the two of us either married or at least living together at the earliest possible opportunity.

I gather the plates and silverware, then look back at Madison. "You *will *behave yourself, won't you?"

She smiles, takes the basket of rolls, and sweeps past me into the dining room.

Dinner is mercifully uneventful, unless you count Madison glaring pointedly at me during every lull in the conversation. Fortunately, Michael is used to the eating habits of transgen herps, and he doesn't bat an eye as Ryan snaps up tonight's allotment of dusted crickets.

Two helpings later, Michael places his knife and fork on his plate and sighs contentedly. "That's the best meal I've had all week."

"You should come by more often," Madison says, getting up to collect everyone's plates. "Shouldn't he, Susan?"

I ignore her. "You know you're always welcome," I tell him.

He smiles at me over his iced tea. "You're just looking for cheap babysitting." He takes a drink, then stops. "I almost forgot. I have something for you out in the car. Hang on."

Madison beams, obviously expecting something romantic, but I can't help laughing when I see it: a coffee maker and two bags of coffee.

"I was just going to get the coffee," he explains, "but then I wasn't sure you… um, had anything, so…" He finishes with a shrug.

"I'll handle the dishes," Madison pipes up. "You guys go see if that works. Oh, wait. Here." She dumps half a bag of Oreos onto a plate and hands it to me. "Dessert."

"Thanks, Madison." I grab two mugs, the fake creamer, and the sugar bowl, and Michael follows me to the office.

The coffee is, of course, incredible: rich and smooth without even a hint of bitterness. With creamer added--even my cheap stuff--the flavor turns even silkier. I'm afraid to even wonder how much the stuff cost, but I tell myself sternly to enjoy the gift without worrying about it. After all, not all of Michael's work is pro bono.

Michael takes an Oreo and unscrews it, eating the cream first and then dunking the cookies. I smile as I watch him, and I find myself wondering if anyone ever called him Mike or even Mikey when he was a kid, or if he's been Michael his whole life. At the dinner table, surrounded by cubs, I could have asked him. Now, though, even a lighthearted question seems weighted with too much meaning.

"I wanted to thank you for everything," I say. "I mean… with the settlement…"

"Well, it wasn't just me on that. There were three of us working on it, plus a couple of long-suffering interns fueled completely by caffeine and the desire to make a difference. But on behalf of all of them, you're welcome." He pauses. "You deserve more, you know."

"Well, we'll keep working."

"That wasn't entirely what I meant," he says softly.

I stare into my coffee, trying to think of something to say. "This stuff is really good."

"I thought you should have a treat."

Another awkward pause.

"So," he begins, "what I was thinking was, I can't depend on you to know when you need a break. And I can't trust you yet to tell me, even if you do know. So I was thinking I might come by and barge in every so often. Maybe even kidnap you and drag you out of this place once in a while. Dinner, or a movie, or something."

I smile just a bit. "For my own good?"

"Not really," he says, his voice softening again. "Actually, it's kind of selfish. So… what do you say?"

I can't remember the last movie I watched that wasn't animated and/or on DVD. I think of Madison going out for coffee and coming back hours later. If I'm willing to let her have some semblance of a social life, I guess I can allow myself the same thing, even if--to be brutally honest--I'm more than a little scared of where all this might lead.

"I think I can handle that," I reply.

"Good," he says, as if we've struck a business deal. He finishes his coffee. "I'd better get going. I have an early hearing tomorrow."

"Good luck."

He raises an eyebrow. "You sure? You don't even know what side I'm on."

I smile. "I know you well enough. Whatever side you're on is the right one."

He smiles, then nods. "Thanks." He gets up, looks unsure for a moment, then gives a little wave. "I'll… see you later, then. Thanks again for dinner."

I nod. "Good night."

He smiles again and heads out. I pour myself the last cup of coffee and sip it slowly. I know that if I go back out there now, I'll have to suffer Madison's eager interrogation, so I decide to catch up on email until it's time to get the cubs to bed.

There's a message from Janet and Carl, thanking us for coming, and mentioning how much they enjoyed seeing Sierra. Apparently their two grandchildren live four states away and aren't able to visit very often, so they miss having "little ones" around.

I remember how Sierra hugged Janet. A cub could do infinitely worse for adoptive grandparents; maybe I should invite them over sometime… I write a quick note back, thanking them for showing us around. The rest of the email is either spam or not worth reading, so after I send the message to the sanctuary, I carry the coffee mugs into the kitchen and go to help Madison.

The sound of enthusiastic splashing tells me that she must be giving Hunter his bath, and sure enough, the kit is in the tub, with so many toys surrounding him that I'm not even sure how he's managing to get wet, let alone clean. His blanket hangs nearby on the towel rack, and I wonder if I might have an easier time snagging it for laundry the next day.

Madison hates getting her fur wet, so I take over--bathing Hunter is like sitting in the splash zone at Sea World, and skin towels off far easier than fur. Hunter sits still long enough to have his fur soaped and rinsed; the shampoo's made for puppies, but it works well enough. By the time I get him toweled, blow-dried (thank you, grooming supply catalogs), and brushed, he's already sleepy, cuddling against me as I return his blanket and carry him into his room. He doesn't protest when I diaper him--he's trained during the day but feels better with a little help at night--and he's nearly asleep by the time I'm done.

I pause a moment, holding him, breathing in the scent of shampoo and clean fur, feeling the warm weight of his body in my arms. Did his mother ever hold him? Did she ever feel how soft and fine his fur was? Did she ever see, really see, the delicate texture of his black nose, his perfect tiny hands, the soft rings of his tail?

It wasn't likely. There's a reason the star-shaped nightlight in the corner always has to be on. The first few nights he was here, Hunter woke up screaming, a high, shrill sound that still haunts me and probably always will.

Hunter's parents were terrified to go near him after he manifested. So they bought a cage, the kind of wire crate people use to train dogs. And, whether out of their own fear or fear of others finding out, or some dark impulse I'll never understand, they put the cage in a closet, and they kept the door closed. By the time a social worker found him, Hunter was half-starved, completely withdrawn, and utterly panic-stricken whenever he was in the dark. From the child-development books I've read, I know that even now, he's still lagging about a year behind where he should be. All in all, though, I figure things could be much, much worse.

I hold Hunter a little tighter, and he sighs in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering. Soon enough, his parents will be in court, and from there… Well, I can only hope.

I hope their cells are very, very dark.

That night, I come wide awake at two a.m., and it takes me a few panicky moments to realize what woke me up is: nothing. The house is silent. No wolfsong, no nightmares, no emergencies. Only the quiet, soft as the clouds drifting by the moon.

I get out of bed anyway and make the rounds. Zachary and Ryan sleep soundly with the hum of Ryan's humidifier in the background. In the girls' room, Sierra is the picture of tranquility, her gray fur soft against her pillow. She fell asleep listening to her new CD, and the headphones have slipped off. Wolves howl from somewhere far away until I press stop, and the player buzzes a bit, then goes silent. In the next bed, Hannah has left her earplugs on her nightstand and is snoring softly.

I slip out and head down the hall. Jamie's stuffed elephant is tucked securely in next to him; Hunter still clutches his blanket in sleep. The nightlight burns steady and true. In his crib, Nicholas whimpers a bit, dreaming, then settles again.

I glance in Madison's room--it's hard to do much more, considering what a mess the place is. She has fallen asleep with a fashion magazine open next to her on the bed, and I crane my neck to read the headline in a swath of moonlight. The season's hottest haircuts.

I can't help smiling. Poor Mad. And then, because she isn't awake to protest, I pick my way to the bedside and kiss her forehead, lightly, the way I imagine her mother might have done, back when her child was still human. If I only knew where her parents were, I would tell them she was safe, with people who love her.

I wonder if they would care.

I'm not a religious person; I never have been. But in the gentle silence of early morning, with the cubs sleeping peacefully around me, the prayer comes unbidden, rising from a place within me that didn't exist before they came:

Keep them safe, please help me keep them safe. I'm only one person, only human, but I am all they have. I don't know what they would do without me.

I don't know what I would do without them.

This work and all characters (c) 2007 Renee Carter Hall ("Poetigress"). This work may not be reprinted or redistributed without written permission.