RULE #1

"Papa, why is Mama still in bed?" I ask, staring at the closed bedroom door. Mama is always up by now, making breakfast and singing with the morning birds. I always look forward to her song choice, always a different tune, always equally beautiful. The birds always come to the window and sing right back. Mama is the sunshine even when the sun hides behind the clouds. That's what papa says anyways.

"Mama is not feeling well, Vilkas," Papa says, glancing at the bedroom door quickly. The look in his eyes worries me. I don't think I've ever seen Papa look so afraid.

I move closer to him. I'm young still, nearly eight years old, but I know my papa well. He always tells me wolves must be strong, always, because life will always be tough. So it's strange to see him look afraid. After all, I'm reminded of the rule each time I have a nightmare about human-shaped monsters and lakes that swallow me whole.

"What's wrong with Mama?" I ask, frowning. "She said she was going to make pancakes today. I can help?—"

"She's not feeling well," Papa spits, his words biting. "Leave her alone."

It's the first time Papa has ever spoken to me like that. Mama is the gentle and Papa is the steady. Neither yell. Neither ever speaks harshly to me, so when Papa does so now, it shocks me into silence. I stare at him, confused, and look back toward the door again, fear tickling the back of my throat. I'm supposed to be strong, but how can I be strong when Papa looks so afraid? How can I possibly remain calm now?

"I'll just eat some fruit," I murmur softly, moving around the table. I think to offer to take Mama something, but I don't, afraid Papa will snap at me again. My feet hand high off the floor as I take a seat at the table. I should be taller, but Mama reminds me that I'm just taking my time to grow and that's okay. Strong roots take time. They also need nourishment, so I pick plenty of fruit from the fruit bowl and prepare to eat it.

"Do what you must," papa says, running a hand through his hair. "I must go out. Leave mama alone until I get back."

I watch papa gather his coat and slip out the door. I don't know where he's going. He doesn't work today and as far as I know, there's nothing that needs to be done outside. Though I would normally ask him where he's going, I don't today. My eyes watch him as he moves around and then disappears through the front door without another word. His shoulders remain tense the entire way.

The table seems a safe space to sit at for the next thirty minutes. I nibble on the bitter fruit in my hand, my eyes lingering on the bedroom door when Papa isn't here to scold me. No sound comes from inside and Papa probably won't return for a while. Is Mama even in there? Is that the secret?

I glance at the front door. When Papa doesn't immediately come through it, I stand and go through the fruit in the bowl, picking out the best strawberries. Mama loves strawberries. She says they're just right when the skin is red but not wrinkly, so I use her words to choose the tastiest ones. Then I carry the plate over to Mama's door and knock softly. No one answers.

"Mama. I picked some strawberries for you. May I come in?" I ask through the wood. There's still no answer so I gently turn the knob and push the door open. I don't immediately step into the room, hovering just outside the doorway, my eyes searching the dark room. "Mama?"

My gaze goes right to the bed where Mama lays. The sheets are pulled up over her chest, her head sticking out like it normally would if she were sleeping. But she's not sleeping now. Even in the low light, I can see just fine thanks to my wolf vision, so I know her eyes are open and focused on the ceiling above her. She doesn't blink. She doesn't look over at me. She doesn't move hardly at all.

I take a step inside, frowning.

"Mama?" I ask again, my hands beginning to shake. The fear in Papa's eyes is starting to make sense now. Is that what he was worried about?

Her chest rises and falls slowly, her breathing sounding strained even to my young ears. She doesn't react to my entrance or my words, her eyes unseeing. She doesn't turn toward me and smile like she always does. She doesn't reassure me that she's okay. She doesn't do anything. She just stares at the ceiling, her lips just the barest tint of blue, her body stiff.

Someone grabs me from behind suddenly and jerks me back. The strawberries go tumbling onto the floor, no doubt bruising with the impact. The best strawberries! Now Mama won't have the best ones. I cry out as I'm jerked out of the room and Papa slams the door before me. Mama doesn't make a peep the entire time.

"I told you not to go in there!" Papa yells, his face twisted with anger. "Vilkas, I said not to go in there!"

"I'm sorry," I whimper. "I wanted to bring Mama some strawberries!"

I cower before him, afraid of his anger, afraid of what this means for Mama. My body shakes with that fear. I've always been afraid of pretend monsters, of the deep lakes in the forest, of the darkness. But I've never been afraid of Papa. Until now.

Papa's face softens at my fear when he realizes how he's acting, and he kneels down before me. He glances at the door to their bedroom and then back to me. "Mama. . . she's very, very sick, Vilkas," he explains. "And I. . . I don't know if it's contagious." At my wide-eyed look, he frowns. "Do you know what contagious means?"

I shake my head. "No."

"It means I don't know if we can catch her sickness or not and I don't want to risk you getting sick, too. I asked around town, but no one seems to know what it is."

"But how will Mama eat?" I whisper. "How will she sing?"

Papa blinks and moisture suddenly gathers in his eyes. He tugs me into a hug so I can't see, but I can still feel the tears drip onto my head as he squeezes me so tight, I can barely breathe. "I don't know, Vilkas. But we must be strong. For Mama. Okay?"

"Wolves must always be strong," I say, nodding. "I can be strong for Mama."

"That's right," he rasps. "That's right, my boy."

Within the week, Mama dies. Someone mentions Curse Sickness in town, but no one ever explains what that means. I go years wondering and then when I'm old enough, I try to research it, but there's never any information. No one else mentions the sickness again.

Papa cries. A lot. I do, too, but not where he sees. He pulls away and goes silent, sad, so I stop crying so I don't upset him further. He doesn't stop though, so I do better. I do my best even when we bury Mama under her favorite tree, even when I sing her favorite song as we stare at the mound of freshly dug dirt and her favorite birds come to watch.

After all, wolves must always be strong.

Even when the birds Mama used to sing to begin to die. . .