Early the next morning, my mother walked into my room holding a takeout box. I stared at the box, a bit stunned. I recognized the logo. It was from the restaurant where they celebrated with Jessica last night. My mother casually handed the box to me and said, "I made this for you myself. Eat up." I smelled the entirely unfamiliar scent coming from the bowl. I remembered how, ever since my inner wolf began failing, I threw up everything I ate. So my mother used to prepare different meals for me every day by hand. Hers was the only food I could keep down. Back then, she’d sit by my bed, feeding me spoonful by spoonful, her eyes red, saying she would cook for me for the rest of her life as long as I got better. But now, looking at this cold, leftover porridge they clearly brought back from a restaurant, I couldn't stomach a single bite. My mother didn't notice anything wrong. She just asked, "Did Jessica drop her favorite bracelet in here?" My chest tightened. "No." "How could
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