Chapter 167Ryan's son was seven when he made his first shift, which happened in the apartment building courtyard on a Tuesday afternoon in full view of the retired teacher who lived on the ground floor and spent most of her afternoons tending the courtyard garden. She looked at the small wolf where a small boy had been, looked back at her garden, and said: "Well, that explains some things. Does he eat the bulbs or just dig?"Ryan stood speechless for approximately thirty seconds."The bulbs," his son said, shifting back with the easy fluency of the young. "But only the ones that smell wrong.""The tulips," the teacher said with the resigned tone of someone whose suspicions have been confirmed. "I knew something was getting at them."She became, over the following years, the building's unofficial coordinator of supernatural-adjacent practical matters, a role she accepted without ceremony and executed with considerable competence, and when she died at ninety-three she left a letter tha
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