After checking in at the front office, I make my way to the art room with my visitor's badge pinned to my chest. Numerous parent-teacher conferences over the past year had made me familiar with the school's layout, but not with any teachers named Skylar West. Either he'd not attended the meetings, or he was new.

At the art room, I pause for a breath, attempting to steady the tremble in my hands. I'm not so nervous for Miguel as for how any sign of distress in him might reflect on me. I didn't need wolf's ears to hear the other parents' whispers.

Other parents, I'd discovered, weren't always kind, and they liked to gossip. They were like wild wolves in a way: always on the lookout for the weakest among the herd, and here I was, barely limping along.

As a marginally employed single father of four, the odds were against me. The last thing I needed was for some seemingly aberrant behavior to lead Child Protective Services to my door. It wasn't as if I could simply explain that the howling was perfectly normal, or that growling over shared food was just a thing with young wolves.

The kids understood — even Nico and Rio were careful — but I knew grown wolves who couldn't always control their primal instincts. It would only get harder once they hit puberty and experienced their first Shift, which Flora and Miguel were due for any day.

Sighing, I straighten my spine and do my best to convey competence and confidence as I knock on the door.

No one answers.

"Mr. West?" I call, knocking again and trying the handle. It's unlocked, so I let myself in.

It looks as if class has just ended, rows of easels lining the floor with watercolors drying on the boards. The silence and the musty smell of art supplies bring back memories of my own youth, when I'd loved to paint and draw as much as Miguel did now. Captivated, I peruse the student paintings and find many are quite good. Either Mr. West has an unusually talented batch of students, or he's an unusually talented teacher. Perhaps both.

After several minutes, I come back to myself, remembering the reason I'm here, and check the time on my phone. Was there another art room I didn't know about? Or had the art teacher found something more important to do than discuss my son's disturbed imagination? I'm about to call the number he'd left in my recent calls log, when a voice speaks close at my back.

"Hello."

Not having heard anyone approach, I startle violently, dropping my phone and knocking over an easel.

The spindly wooden contraption clatters to the floor and the painting it had carried lands face down on the dirty linoleum. Horrified, I scramble to pick it up and right the easel, nearly knocking over two others in my haste.

I mutter a stream of apologies as my face burns and my hands shake worse than ever. So much for calm and confident.

A hand on my arm steadies me, and another holds out my phone, as a mellow voice speaks soft assurances.

"Never mind. These are practice pieces, not master works. There's no harm done, though I'm afraid the same can't be said for your phone."

Taking the proffered device, I see that the screen had cracked, and swear before I can stop myself.

"Oh, fuck."

"You must be Martin Hunter."

The mellow voice now sounds amused, and I kick myself for swearing in front of a teacher before finally looking up to find myself face to face with what appears to be a young god.

I blink. "Mr. West?"

He flashes me a brilliant smile, ocean green eyes shining like the sea, and extends a hand. "Call me Sky."

With fresh mortification, I shake his hand while experiencing a level of self-consciousness I thought I'd left behind in high school. I wouldn't describe myself as ugly, but no one's about to ask me to pose for a calendar shoot—unless it's for frumpy dad of the year. I haven't put more than the minimal effort into my appearance for a long time.

'Sky,' on the other hand, looks like the lovechild of a fantasy superhero and a sexy hair product commercial. His broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, a light dusting of stubble shadows his chiseled jaw, and modestly defined muscles show through the thin fabric of his shirt. Most striking, perhaps, and most unusual, is the cascade of shining blond hair falling almost to his waist.

"Thank you for coming," he says, giving my hand a light squeeze before releasing it. "I'm glad for the chance to talk in person."

"You're welcome," I say, and then wince as I realize this is not the appropriate reply. His quiet voice is strangely musical, and I find the sound distracts me from the meaning of his words. "I mean, thank you for calling me about Miguel."

He eyes me for a moment, as if deciding something, and then nods slowly.

"He's not in any trouble, rest assured. He's a good student—quiet, obedient, respectful. It's just the nature of his drawings that concerns me. As a teacher, it's my duty to look into it.

"Of course."

He beckons and leads me to a desk at the front of the room. There, he unlocks a drawer and pulls out a slim sketchbook, which I recognize as Miguel's. Perching on the edge of the desk, he rests it on his raised knee and opens it, revealing the graphite-covered pages within.

I quickly look away as I recognize what some of the scenes depict, and instantly understand the teacher's concern.

"You're the only parent listed in our records. Miguel's mother is... not present?"

"No. We're... separated. She lives in Canada, now."

"Is she in contact with the children at all?"

I take a calming breath as my heartbeat spikes at the very thought. "No. Our separation was... not pleasant."

Skylar taps the notebook, drawing my attention back to the page. "Miguel told me this is his mother and her family. And that this is you."

I force myself to look. It's a two-page spread, telling a story I'd hoped Miguel hadn't seen enough of to remember.

One wolf, flanked by two others, stands over a fourth who cowers on the ground, obviously injured and frightened, and with no hope of escaping the others' jaws.

I look away again, a sour twist tugging the corners of my mouth.

"That's in the past," I say. "Doctor Vance—our family therapist—says it's healthy for Miguel to express himself, and that it's easier for him to deal with the memories like this—casting us as animals. He says it gives him some... 'emotional distance' from the events."

All of that is true, except Dr. Vance doesn't know that Miguel is actually drawing things exactly as he saw them, with me and his mother as wolves.

"I see." Skylar closes the notebook, thankfully, and sets it aside. "I'm sorry if I've upset you. But you understand my concern."

I nod. "Of course. I can give you Doctor Vance's number, if you need to confirm anything."

"That won't be necessary. In fact, Miguel's sketches seem to tell a story, though he's sketched the more 'recent' scenes first. This one, for example."

He picks up the notebook again and flips almost to the back, where I see a lot of the pages are filled in. He holds it towards me and I risk another look, but this picture makes me smile.

It's the five of us—me and the kids—standing in front of our house with our arms around one another on the day we'd moved in. I can tell from the moving van in the background. Even in monochrome, we look happy.

"His perspective technique is impressive for his age," Skylar comments, indicating the angles of the roof. "He's got talent worth nurturing."

I smile, vicariously pleased with the praise. "I agree. That's what I want to give all my kids—the best start I can offer them, and the support they need to follow their dreams."

Skylar nods, shutting the book again. "And what about you, Martin? Are you getting the support you need? The strongest foundation will still fail if it's built on sand."

Instantly, my defenses are back up, walls closing off and emotions shutting down. I've heard enough about 'male survivors of abuse' and 'avoidance of help-seeking' from Dr. Vance to last me a lifetime. I don't need to hear it from Mr. Perfect Hair, too.

"I have all the support I can handle," I say. "I have family nearby. The kids will be taken care of no matter what."

Skylar smiles—a disarmingly kind expression—and hands me the book. "That isn't what I asked. Here—give this back to Miguel for me along with my compliments on his skill."

I take the book and somehow manage to say goodbye and depart without embarrassing myself further, though I can feel Skylar's eyes on me all the way to the door.

I keep looking over my shoulder the whole way home, in fact, almost hearing the echoes of his melodic voice in my ears.

"What a weirdo," I whisper to myself as I shut and lock the front door, though I'm not sure if I'm talking about Skylar or myself.

Being attracted to men as well as women, I'd found him, objectively, quite attractive. From his handsome face, to his trimly toned form, oddly long hair, kind smile, and gentle ocean eyes, he was, in a word, alluring. But I wasn't sure I liked him.

No, I decided, as I carried Miguel's sketchbook up to his room. I don't think I like him at all.