Wolfsong

I ASKED him once about his tattoos.

The shapes. The patterns. Like there was a design. All bright colors and strange symbols that I thought should be familiar. Like it was on the tip of my tongue. I knew they went all the way up his arms. I didn’t know how far they went beyond that.

He said, “Everyone has a past, Ox.

“I COULD handle myself,” Joe grumbled as we walked down the dirt road.

“I know,” I said.

“I could have taken them all down.”

“I know.”

“I’m not some little kid.

I said, “I know.”

He scowled. “Say something else.”

“I’m glad I could protect you,” I said honestly. “And I always will.”

—”

“I’m done speaking with you,” Thomas said. “Your presence bothers me. Come along, everyone. It’s time to leave.”