Page 99 of Raised By Wolves

“Slide next, then?” he says, grinning.

I look at his face, beautiful and shadowed in the darkness. I don’t really care about another children’s toy. I want to be close to him. I want him to whisper into my neck again. I want—

“Or,” Waylon says, “we can try this.” He’s holding up a lighter and a funny-looking cigarette. He sees my blank look. “It’s a joint,” he explains. “Which I also borrowed from my mom, along with the car. But she doesn’t know that part.”

I look around the empty playground like I’m expecting the chief to pop out from behind a tree or something. “I hopethisisn’t on your list of ‘classic childhood things,’” I say.

“No, you did so well on the swings that you skipped a bunch of grades.”

“Is it a good idea?” I ask.

“Depends on who you ask,” Waylon says. He lights the joint and inhales. The exhale comes several seconds later. “According to me, yes, it is.” He holds the joint out to me.

I take it. The end is smoldering, and the smell is vaguely skunky. “I guess it’s another rite of passage, huh?”

He nods. “Totally. And if we’d done this before the dance, maybe you wouldn’t have smashed Mac’s nose into his brains.”

“You think I shouldn’t have done that?”

When under attack, an animal uses all its strength to defend itself.

Rival wolves will fight to the death.

“On the contrary, I think you should do it daily. Mac’s personality has nowhere to go but up.”

A thin line of smoke from the joint spirals upward, and a reckless feeling surges inside me. I know I’ll be suspended from school for hitting Mac. I’ve lost my home. I don’t know what the future holds, so I might as well stop asking questions. Stop worrying andlive.

I put the joint to my lips. Waylon lights the end again, and I inhale. Immediately I cough a white burning cloud right out of my mouth.

“Agh,” I gasp. “It hurts!”

“Take a little at a time. Hold it in. Then let it out. Like this.” Waylon demonstrates again.

I’m nervous as I take it back from him. I feel stupid and innocent.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he says.

“Yeah, Iknow,” I practically growl. “Just… give me a minute.”

I put my mouth right where his lips were. I inhale, and the end grows more red. The paper crackles. The smoke stings my throat, but I don’t let myself cough. I take it deep into my lungs and hold it there for as long as I can before exhaling.

I look at Waylon. “Did I do it right? I don’t feel anything.” I start coughing.

He hands me a water bottle. “Give it a minute.”

I take a sip, then drain the rest of it in giant gulps.

“How about now?” Waylon says a little bit later.

I think about this. I cock my head, and the world seems to slowly tip sideways. I slide off the swing and walk very deliberately—it seems to take more effort than usual—over to the grass. Suddenly it becomes extremely important for me to lie on the ground. I let my knees go soft. I melt into the cool grass. There’s barely any moon, so the stars above me seem especially bright.

Waylon comes to lie down beside me. “How’re you doing?” he asks.

I blink. My eyelids are heavy.Blinking is weird,I think.And eyeballs are weird. They’re wet spheres sitting inside two holes in your face. Which is really gross if you think about it.

“Hello?” he says.

“What?” I say.

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