The afternoon is my favorite time of day — in the classroom, at least.

There's a sense of relief in the silence that follows the final rush of students stampeding for the door; restfulness in the specks of golden dust floating in the beams of a decadent sun; a kind of peace in the knowledge that another day's work is done.

For the students, anyway.

I still have a few to-dos to check off, one of which I fear may prove unpleasant.

The boy is a talented artist — I'll give him that. Even without my gifts I'd have recognized the truth in what he drew. In his hand, the humble pencil becomes an instrument; and when it gave forth scenes of such savagery and sadness, I saw at a glance that more than mere imagination was at play.

From what I had learned of his kind, it was most often the males that proved violent; and yet when I confronted him with the careful questions on which I had been trained, he insisted that the smaller, frightened wolf in his drawings was his father, and that his mother was the fearsome beast who threatened him.

Further questions elicited more information: his mother was gone; his father was better now. Mostly.

Still, I would be remiss not to look into it, and so I consulted the trainings and procedures for such matters, and decided on a modified course of action.

I would speak to the father alone, first. If I was satisfied, that would be the end of it; with my gifts, there was no need for uncertainties or the painful inconvenience of human bureaucracy.

A phone call, and it was done; his voice was a pleasant tenor; he was on his way.

I waited at the back of the room with the door unlocked. I had found, through trial and error, that humans were often most honest when they thought no one was watching them.

He arrived in less time than he had promised — early and eager to get things straightened out, I imagined — but it was half a minute before he knocked on the door. Was he timid, or was he constructing lies as he stood on the other side of the plain portal, preparing his performance, perhaps?

At last, he knocked. Another minute passed before he tested the knob, and discovered it unlocked. Cautious as a rabbit peeking from its burrow, he entered the room.

I was struck, at once, by the softness of him, and knew in an instant that I need not fear for any child under his care.

He, on the other hand, bore the fearful expression one both curious and innocent, who had been taught through violence that curiosity is a sin.

His clear, strangely colored eyes darted about the room in search of dangers, passing over me where I stood in the corner, unseen, and only when he believed the room to be empty did he relax. I watched as he took his bearings, examining the easels in their rows, the paintings, the light streaming through the tall windows that made this room so suitable for art.

As he did, I cataloged and quantified him.

He wore cheap clothing, washed many times, judging by the pilling, but clean and neatly pressed nonetheless. His dark hair was trimmed short, and his physique appeared slightly malnourished, as if he'd skipped one too many meals in the name of frugality. His features, though, were all round and soft, from the fullness of his lips, to the short slope of his nose, to the prominent arcs of his cheekbones and his large, amber-brown eyes. The warm, dark tone of his skin gave life to his complexion, and I had the strangest urge to see him smile.

Meanwhile, he seemed as absorbed with the children's paintings as any patron of the arts perusing the Metropolitan, and I hardly had the heart to interrupt him.

Still, I'd called him here for a purpose, and the quicker we dispatched it, the quicker we could each get back to our lives. Such as they were.

"Hello," I said, approaching at his back.

Against my intent, he startled like a bird taken unawares, dropping his phone, crashing into an easel, and nearly tripping himself in his haste to set it right. I noted how he instinctively took the blame, rather than assign it to me for creeping up on him. There was no anger in the man — to his detriment, quite possibly.

As he muttered half-coherent apologies, I spoke.

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

Stooping to pick it up, I handed it back to him, a spiderweb crack spreading across the screen.

"You must be Martin Hunter," I said, using just a hint of my Voice to get his attention.

He finally looks up at me, his dark amber eyes reflecting the window's light.

"Mr. West?"

"Please, call me Sky," I said, always preferring the first name I'd chosen for myself upon beaching in this world. "Thank you for coming. I'm glad for the chance to talk in person."

"You're welcome," he said, and then blushed, his cheeks darkening as his brain caught up to his mouth. "I mean, thank you for calling me about Miguel."

As he spoke, a sudden heat bloomed over my heart as the amulet I've worn for the last century warmed for the first time in decades. I kept my expression neutral as I regarded the man before me with new eyes.

Our conversation continued, but I kept only a fraction of my attention on what I said.

The rest of my mind was elsewhere, and occupied with things from long ago.

Could this be the one, at last? The one for whom I had sought for years on end, learning to live among humans and perfecting this disguise, and for whom my hope of finding had long faded?

It seemed impossible, and yet the amulet did not lie. It burned against my breast, bright and hot as an ember as I spoke to him.

Even now, hours after he had left, as I lean against my desk, the world beyond the windows fallen into darkness, I feel it still.

A pull, like a tide.

I would not wish such a fate upon a father; but if he is the one, then it cannot be helped.

With a sigh, I come to the only conclusion left to me: I must learn more of this man, Martin Hunter.