Scarper drives in angry silence, so annoyed to be stuck behind a school bus that he doesn't even yell at you or do more impressions. You wish you had more information except that one receipt from the gun store, but even that is more than Scarper knows.
The van lurches to a rattling halt outside the recycling center.
"Clay wants to talk with you," Scarper says, his voice carefully composed. "'Where is that boy?' You know how he is." A momentary, flawless impression of Clay's raspy voice, offered without enthusiasm or sardonic humor. Scarper's eyes are red-rimmed, his skin gray and drooping. He's in his fifties but he looks seventy right now. The old man doesn't move from the driver's seat or try to roll the van into the garage, so you drop down onto the snow and head for the main door. It's still half-open, letting the cold in. When you glance back at Scarper, he's banging on the steering wheel.
"What happened, man?" he asks no one. "We ruled these lands. We were kings! We were…fucking…kings…" He's weeping as you head inside and yank on the door until it latches.
You can smell Clay as you move through the living room and down the hall. He's in your room. There's nothing left of your bedroom except the werewolf. Everything else has been destroyed.
What about my computer? I need to research everything I've learned!
My only concern is Clay right now. What's left of him?
"So Clay, you're a trash bag full of pudding. Did it feel good to wreck my stuff?"
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