Behind the school, past the playground and the chainlink fence dividing Surette Elementary from the surrounding neighborhood, there was a concrete drainage channel. On most days, that artificial waterway was nothing more than a trickle except for a few depressed spots where liquid tended to pool, but when it rained, the meandering ditch filled with a brief yet volatile torrent, washing any free-floating critters or bits of trash in a rush down into the bayou. Every few years, somebody's pet wound up dead when that channel surged, and once, a nine-year-old child had been caught in a flash flood and drowned. And though a sign or two had been pegged up where there was easy access to the channel, there'd been no other efforts to curtail children from wandering down into it. Seemed Surette expected a certain folk-knowledge to have permeated its people: don't channel-walk on a cloudy day! For the most part, everyone listened.

Not Eduardo Flores—he'd been in Surette only a few months, and he'd not made more than a couple of tenuous, shallow friendships at school, so nobody had told him to be careful in the drainage channel. As his mother's work schedule was relatively erratic, he often found himself with nothing to do for that hour or so between school ending and his brother picking him up. His mother hadn't paid for after-school care; it'd been too expensive. She'd instead relied on Tomás, and Tomás would help when he could, but sometimes, especially recently, he'd text his brother that he'd be late, that Eddie would just have to hang around or walk home. Some days the fourth-grader walked, and some days he waited; it really depended on his mood, and today, after being kept up by nightmares and whatever had been at the door last night, Eddie was tired. It was a waiting day.

The drainage channel, though industrial and lacking any plant life beyond sporadic weeds managing their way between cracks, offered enough foliage along its banks to keep him hidden from the aftercare teachers and enough intrigue to sate his curiosity as the time passed. He'd already explored it a bit whenever he'd found the time, knew the spots he liked best, the places he could use his Heely shoes and roll for a ways, the places where the concrete had cracked too deep and allowed water to collect for tadpoles. So, slipping past the warning signs, Eddie located the path of least resistance and descended into the channel to begin his mindless exploration.

At ten years, the boy's perception of the world was malleable, highly subject to his surroundings and the tone of whomever inhabited his space. So while the unsettling aura of the previous night's dreams of ghostly girls with shining axes remained, it'd begun to stale with the normalcy of the day, the hardness of worksheets and pencils, desks and swings, basketballs and lunch trays, and now that he was outside on his own, those solid edges carried over into his play. The boy was too distracted to be aware of any creeping uncertainties, any possible vulnerabilities he might be exposing to the world all alone in that secluded gash in the ground.

With his gentle nature and easy smile, Eddie Flores had quickly charmed his teachers and classmates, had endeared himself to even the janitorial and cafeteria staff; he'd made no enemies. And yet the hesitation within his own heart kept him from more than a surface attachment to anyone beyond his mother and his brother. He'd spent his short life in secluded contentment, kept innocent of his mother's work and his brother's extracurriculars. Tomás had always been a stable figure, some combination of a father and a friend, and though Eddie had sometimes been introduced to some controversial material through his older sibling (horror films that'd keep him up many nights or an indelicate explanation of how they'd ended up half-siblings, for example), he'd begun to grow more grateful for his brother, especially as adolescence approached and along with it, questions that might've been awkward to ask a mother.

Eddie occupied himself in that drainage channel for about twenty minutes, picking at weeds and running up and down the sloped concrete sides, splashing in any bit of standing water he could find, until he'd wandered nearly fifty yards and the ditch took a bend to the right. As he approached the turn, the boy made ready to stomp in a dark puddle but stopped himself when the color of the still liquid arrested his attention.

Black. It was pitch black except around the crimson edges, where the irregular rivulet thinned.

Though Eddie was an intelligent child, blood didn't cross his thoughts, not immediately, anyway, its incongruity against his entirely normal afternoon just not registering. But he did have sense enough to slow down, to quiet his steps as he followed the static trail first with his eyes and then with his feet, stepping around the bend to behold a disparate and perturbing sight.

The black liquid led to a mound of thick, matted charcoal fur—some kind of animal—and it was lying still, probably dead or close to it. Eduardo thought he could make out legs, perhaps something like a tail . . . but the creature was difficult to make out, and had it not been for the person hunched over it, running white hands through its shaggy coat, the boy might have gone closer. Instead, Eddie stopped and froze in place, only about fifteen feet from the man, who'd spotted him as well. Eyes twitching ever so slightly as he took in the stranger's affect, Eddie ran through scenarios in his head without realizing he was doing so: turn and run, or stay and talk, or walk on by, or climb up out of the channel right there. But then the man broke the stillness.

"It's all right," the grown-up said. "It's dead."

Eddie's lower lip fell slightly, trembled as if with a word unripe for the speaking.

"The wolf," the man clarified, his own head of peppery hair as thick as that of the deceased animal's. If Eddie had been asked, he'd have guessed the man's age to be somewhere older than his mother, maybe grandpa-age, though truthfully most older people looked the same to him; he was too young to know better. "It won't hurt you," the man added.

The boy nodded, and then he swallowed and inched back slightly as the man stood. Eddie found his attire odd—all black, black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt and jacket and glossy black shoes, except for a small square of white beneath his chin, in his collar. And worse were the man's hands, which were revealed as he rose; the palms were coated in scarlet, dripping onto the concrete ground.

"I d-didn't know there were wolves, here . . ."

"There aren't. Not this kind, anyway."

Silence crept between them. Even the birds in the growth on the upper bank had ceased their noise.

Beardless but leather-skinned, the man narrowed his gaze keenly at Eduardo before catching sight of his own hands, startling, and wiping them gracelessly on his pants. "Will you help me? I need to move it."

Eddie's brow darkened.

"Father Becerra, son. My name. It's Father Becerra. I'm no stranger."

Shuffling through his thoughts, Eddie looked askance. Father Becerra. Yes, that did sound familiar. His mother had taken him and Tomás to church—the Catholic church—a few times when they'd first arrived in Surette. After Tomás had complained, reminded her they'd not even been baptized, Elena had given up on the boys and left them at home, decided to just go by herself. But now that Eddie thought of it, this man did spark some small recognition.

"Ah," Father Becerra remarked, taking advantage of his moment. "I see you do remember. Come now, son. There's nothing to be afraid of."

Eddie thought. It was the right thing to do, wasn't it? Help a priest? And a poor dead wolf? Without thinking much more, the boy closed the distance between them and, reaching the animal, indulged his curiosity with a thorough scrutinization of it.

The thing's snout protruded from the bloodied fur, close to the priest; Eddie recognized it only for the dog-like nose at the end because the flesh was otherwise skinned right off, raw pink and cream weeping over its black lips and the saw-jagged points of its teeth. Flies, thick and buzzing, filled the space between the dead thing's jaw, settled on the soft, angry red flesh of its tongue and also in the moist sockets that still contained remnants of eye. Those flies . . . something struck Eddie about them, and yet he couldn't quite source his unease. Not yet.

He did, however, have second thoughts. His fingers twitching in anticipation of what they'd promised, Eddie quietly asked, "Why do you h-have to move it?"

Rather than respond in some rational manner, the priest remained as unmoving as the dead animal over which he stood, his unblinkng gaze and stolid countenance impossible for the child to comprehend. The uncanny quiet became all the more obvious when Eddie recognized between his ears the sound of his own lungs and heart going about their business.

"Some things . . . are meant to be reminders . . ." Father Becerra at last remarked, his words indicative of a searching mind.

Eddie's brain tried to work out what the man meant but ultimately pushed it all aside as discomfort began to well up in his throat.

"Will you help me, Eddie?"

The boy hardly heard the man's repeated question, couldn't focus for the sudden pressure behind his left eye, the simultaneous sensation that something was swelling within his esophagus.

The priest reached out his hands toward Eduardo, then caught himself, pulled back. "Child?"

But though Eddie saw the older man standing before him, though he'd noticed Father's hesitation in making contact, his entire world narrowed to the desperate attempt he now made to dislodge whatever it was that'd incomprehebsibly found its way into his airway. Eddie began to heave, like a feline engrossed in hacking up a hairball. His legs trembled for lack of breath, and he dropped to his knees. At the same moment his purpling lips dripped bile and saliva while his lungs strove for air, the throbbing behind his strained eye intensified so that he had to press his palms against it for fear the thing was about to burst out. Father Becerra hovered over the boy, waiting, watching, his red hands raised as if in blessing, when all at once a writhing, buzzing black mass erupted from between the child's teeth and scattered, mingling with the streams of insects that had begun to spew from beneath the bubbling lids of the boy's left eye.

On the ground, the wolf's corpse lifted its head, observed, and dropped into dust and bone.

*

Tomás Flores arrived at Surette Elementary nearly an hour after his brother's school day had concluded, but he was unsurprised that Eddie had chosen to wait for him rather than walk home. They'd made this arrangement before (without telling their mother, of course, who'd unnecessarily worry). Elena expected Tomás to drop everything to pick up his sibling, but sometimes the teen had to stay at the high school a bit late. His mother wouldn't understand that once in a while, Tomás needed to place personal obligations before family obligations, and "once in a while" had become more frequent in the last few weeks. Yes, Tomás had found it necessary to stay late in the school library, lately. Sure, he had home access to the internet and technology with his school-issued laptop, but what he didn't have access to was the new assistant librarian—Miss Maggie, as she had the students refer to her.

Miss Maggie had stepped into her role only a few weeks prior, when the regular in the position had gone on maternity leave, and Tomás hadn't realized the switch (having little reason to be in the library except to pass through it on the way to class) until by fortune, his English teacher had chosen him to pick up some books she'd requested for a lesson.

Tomás had lost his words when he'd approached the desk and Miss Maggie had unexpectedly been there, smiled at him. The woman couldn't have been beyond her twenties; in fact, he'd mistaken her for a student aid at first. And . . . well, it didn't matter what he'd thought, what he'd said. He couldn't remember his words, now, for as stupid as he must have sounded. That'd been a few weeks ago, and so Eddie had been forced to wait a little more often than usual, even if all Tomás had managed to do was inhabit the same space as Miss Maggie for thirty minutes after the day's end a few times.

And so it was with a light head that Tomás parked and crossed the playground of the school, where the aftercare kids were still running amok. He knew Eddie liked to wander off and play in the drainage channel or in the fields beyond, where the others wouldn't spot him. In fact, it'd been Tomás who'd suggested Eddie stay out of sight in the first place, fearing some teacher might call their mother if the boy were spotted unattended for too long. The teen had tried more than once to call his brother—Eddie had an old cell just for calls and texts, no internet access—but he'd not had any luck. Most likely the boy was too absorbed in his play to hear the phone, but Tomás would be sure to scold him anway; it was irritating to be stuck looking for the kid when Eddie could've easily met him in the parking lot.

As Tomás approached the concrete channel, looked side to side in the hope of seeing his brother and avoiding a climb down into the waterway, he sighed in frustration. Eschewing caution, he called Eddie's name, tried the kid's cell a few more times, to no avail. Irritated, Tomás at last slid down into the drainage ditch and, taking a chance, set off to his left, knowing that to the right led back behind a row of duplexes, where Eddie would likely not have wanted to risk being seen.

Walking several moments, cotinuning to yell for his brother, to dial his number, Tomás was near giving up and turning back (swearing he'd give Eddie a stern talking-to whenever he did find him) when a sound reached his ears: Eddie's cell. The stupid jingle the kid had chosen as his ringtone was unmistakable, and it was just a short distance ahead, probably right around that bend in the channel.

Suddenly ill at ease, Tomás stiffened, hastened his pace, and when he did round the corner he was at first relieved to find his little brother's backpack resting on the concrete before he understood that Eddie himself was most definitely not with it. The phone continued to ring from within the bag, but Tomás ended his call, and the channel fell silent, eerily so. He scanned the area, could see quite a distance ahead . . . no sign of Eddie. He looked up to the sky, which had begun to darken. Rain was in the forecast, again, would be there within the hour. But where was his brother?

Something stung Tomás's cheek; instinct caused him to slap the spot. When he withdrew his hand, the young man saw that he'd killed a fly. One of those big ones, the biting kind.

"Eddie!" Tomás tried again, knowing he'd hear no reply. A breeze lifted his hair, prickled the back of his neck. Turning slowly, Tomás felt his stomach drop; a dripping red message met him, artlessly grafittied on the opposite wall of the concrete channel: Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?