"Yo, 'lil bro, can you get this tick off my back?" Yeller interrupted as he struggled to reach his hairy shoulder blade. "It's about to burst."

"What the—? Get away from me, you freak!" Rusty shoved him away, causing Yeller to whimper. "Just grab the turkey baster!"

"I'm not doin' that, you sicko!"

"I'm the sicko?" He rolled his eyes.

Welp, there goes my appetite. I hoped we wouldn't be eating turkey anytime soon.

"But it's really lodged in there! And I need make sure I pluck out the head."

"Shuddup! No one wants to hear it!"

Terry giggled on the floor as he drooled on his hamburger toy.

"Mooom! Can you get this tick off my back?!" Yeller shouted as he rushed outside.

Rusty looked completely mortified, but I burst out laughing.

"Ugh, we shoulda gone to Asher's house this weekend," he snarled. "Anything woulda been better than this."

"Asher? Is that a vampire name?" his mother interrogated as she entered the room with a steaming platter.

"Yeah, just some dweeb in class," he muttered. "Trust me, he's barely a vampire. I mean, he doesn't even . . ." He then glanced at his younger brother, who was happily squeezing his squeaky toy. "He's a vegetarian."

"Seriously? I'd die, man," Yeller remarked while chomping down on a piece of raw meat from the fridge.

"Yeller! What did I say about eating raw meat? And no spoiling your supper!" Lulu chided.

"Trust me, Mom. Nothing can spoil his supper," Rusty sighed.

She smacked Yeller upside the head and tossed the raw steak into the trash can. "That's not the point. Anyway, why are you letting this sweet little girl anywhere near those leeches, vegetarian or not?"

"Millie can be friends with whoever she wants," Rusty grumbled. "I'm not the boss of her."

"Oh, you're right, dear. I guess it's just in our nature to worry about what those parasites are truly thinking."

"Asher's really nice," I cut in. "Really. He wears a helmet with soup cans on his head. And he drinks them all day."

"Oh, dear." She touched her cheek.

"It's not what you think," Rusty assured. "It's some kind of concoction he makes. Probably booze."

"No, it's iron-fortified soup!" I clarified.

Lulu giggled. "Well, whatever you say. But I'd still advise you to keep a weary eye out just in case."

Rusty groaned. "Sorry, Mom reads too many paranormal romance novels written by humans."

"There's nothing wrong with staying informed, dear. Now, hush, hush. It's time to eat! Yeller, get your father out of the basement."

Yeller hurried down a flight of stairs that descended to the basement. Meanwhile, Lulu stacked the hickory table with paper plates of bacon-wrapped meat, loaded mashed potatoes, and a side of jerky bites. There was even a little bowl of peanut butter that served as a dip. Rusty swiped a root beer out of the fridge and sat down beside me.

Terry tried to climb onto my lap, but Lulu whisked him away and perched him on his own little chair. His head barely reached the table, but his ears perked up in delight at the smell of bacon. Rusty, as usual, looked completely ashamed.

"You don't have to eat the peanut butter, Millie," he reassured.

"Oh, but it's my special recipe," Lulu chirped. "It's not like that storebought junk loaded with sugar."

"Yeah, but humans don't use it as a sauce," Rusty garbled.

I just laughed. "Don't worry. I can just dip the brownies into it later."

"Oh, what a splendid idea!" she cheeped.

Before the conversation could continue, Yeller dashed out of the basement with a tired old man trudging behind him. His fur was slightly browner than the rest of his family, and his massive tail slid across the floor. A few grey strands speckled his hair and fur.

His ears flopped like the ones of a collie, and a bushy mustache fell over his mouth. For some reason, his posture was worse than the other werewolves at school.

"Took you long enough!" Lulu snapped.

"I wanted the young'uns to have a chance to eat first. You claim I take the best cuts of meat."

"Or you could just come when I call the first time and not take the best cuts."

"I can't help it. The vet says I got—"

"Hush! You will not talk about your diagnosis in front of this sweet young lady."

"If she doesn't wanna hear about dog things, then why is she with Rusty?"

"Ugh! Just let him eat in the basement!" Rusty snarled. "No one wants him around anyway."

Awkwardly, I sat there while sipping my water.

"What? What's wrong with it? If they're gonna be friends, whaddaya think's gonna happen to him when he visits her family in the human world? They might as well learn now that—"

"You're a grump?" Lulu chided. "Sorry about him. He hasn't been the same since I had him served after our first child."

Yeller proudly saluted himself.

"If you wanted a divorce that badly, you coulda said so before I bought the ring," his father huffed.

"Oh, you mean the one your brother dug out of the dirt on one of your treasure hunts?"

He winked. "Those are the best kind, sweetheart."

"We get it! You're grossin' us out!" Rusty snapped.

Finally, his father sat down and tied a bib with a picture of a hungry wolf around his neck. He didn't even pick up the silverware. Instead, he dug into the mashed potatoes with his bare hands.

"Look, just because you were raised by wolves doesn't mean you can eat like a dog at the dinner table!" Lulu snapped.

"Why you puttin' on airs? You usually don't care what I do," he garbled through a mouthful of food.

"Do you want to sleep in the doghouse tonight?" she threatened.

"I don't care. I got it set up pretty cush in there now. I got a tunnel system goin' on under it. And a flatscreen TV."

"Not anymore," Yeller snorted under his breath as if he had done something terrible.

"What was that?"

Without a word, I stiffly picked up my fork and tasted the delicious filet mignon. Yeller just grinned without a care in the world while Rusty contemplated his life's decisions. Finally, I spoke up. "So, uh, Mr . . .?"

"Wulford," he answered.

"Mr. Wulford, you said you go on treasure hunts?" I asked, trying to be polite.

"Oh, yeah." He cleared his throat. "I'm a professional collector. And museum curator."

"Really? Wow."

"Well, yeah, I can stay involved in the human world without 'em seein' me. People send me stuff and I appraise it. And the best part is—they can't even tell if I switch it out with a forgery before mailing it back."

My jaw dropped in horror.

"Oh, don't listen to his yarns! He's just tryna get a rise out've you," Lulu cut in. "He actually digs around in the dirt all day and sells what he can find to the local junkshop."

"Exactly. The museum," he clarified. "A place full of somebody's junk covered in dust that nobody wants. But I can stay in wolf form when I go huntin'. So, win-win." He then dipped a jerky bite into the peanut butter and smacked loudly.

"Millie, lemme ask you a question," Rusty interrupted. "Does it count as buried treasure when you just dig your tunnel under somebody's house and steal stuff out of their living room?"

I blinked. "Uh, no . . . that's kind of illegal."

"I don't do that, son," Mr. Wulford insisted. "That's what Fido's dad does. And as soon as I realized that was what he was up to, I quit immediately."

I couldn't help but snicker, but soon, the whole table burst into laughter.

"Yeah, Fido's dad and my dad are brothers," Rusty explained.

"And the tales I could tell," Mr. Wulford chuckled.

"Was that a pun?" I smiled.

He looked at me strangely for a minute—then howled with laughter. "Hey, that's a good one! I gotta use that with the guys."

"Who? Your dumpster-divin' buddies?" Yeller quipped.

"No, my drinkin' buddies. It's a different crowd. Never drink and dive, kids. That's how I found your mom."

At that, Lulu hurled a tennis ball across the table at her husband—but he caught it with his mouth.

"You see, this is why she-wolves refuse to date the dogs anymore!" she yapped.

"It's okay, we're gainin' recruits." Mr. Wulford looked at me and grinned knowingly.

At that, Rusty shot out of his chair with his tail stiff in the air. "See, this is why I regret bringin' her over! 'Cuz you're an idiot! You act more like a dog than Millie's pet corgi! Now, apologize and get out."

"What'd I do? I was complimentin' the girl for havin' good taste. In my son, y'know." He popped another piece of jerky into his mouth.

Rusty facepalmed. "Millie, let's eat outside. Then we can talk seriously about goin' back to school early."

I didn't want to pass up the chance to eat alone with Rusty, so I picked up my plate, smiled at his family, and followed him outside. His backyard was actually very peaceful. A stream of water cascaded into a leaf-dusted spring from a mossy log. There was even a wooden swing dangling from a tree with fiery foliage.

The grass was littered with several pork bones, frisbees, and shredded tug toys. They must have belonged to Terry—or Yeller.

Rusty sat cross-legged by the spring, so I joined him and finished the rest of my plate.

"Sorry about my family," he muttered.

I giggled. "No, it's fine. It was nice to have a family dinner for once."

"Really? Didn't you eat dinner with your aunt?"

"Yeah, in front of the TV. Or upstairs."

"Hey, that sounds cool. Better than havin' food hurled at ya."

I playfully tilted my head. "They weren't hurling food at you."

"Not tonight. They were tryin' to act civilized, but their only example is what we see on cable. And you know how that is."

I laughed and put my plate aside. "Still, I really like your family." Suddenly, a funny thought made me chuckle. "So, your last name is Wulford?"

"Yeah, everything about our life is a joke. It's like we make fun of ourselves," he bitterly explained.

"Well, maybe that's how they handled it back then. They learned to laugh at themselves."

He pondered for a moment. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"So, do you have a middle name?"

"Yeah, Hunter."

"Oh, so it's Rusty Hunter?" I teased.

"Yeah. We all got dumb names. So, what's yours?"

"What's my dumb name?"

His face erupted with blush. "No! Your middle name."

I giggled into my hand. "Blythe."

"Blythe? That's different."

"It means happy."

"I know what it means. It suits you." He cracked a smile.

My heart fluttered at his compliment. "Well, Hunter suits you, too."

"Really? Thanks."

Just as I opened my mouth to respond, Terry yelled at us from the backdoor.

"Bubba!" He dashed toward Rusty on all fours and picked up a dirty tug toy with his tiny fangs, his tail wagging feverishly.

"Ugh! Get that outta your mouth!" Rusty scolded. "It's filthy."

Terry's eyes widened with a droopy look of desperation. "Pway," was all he whimpered.

"He wants you to play with him," I teased.

He rolled his eyes. "I'll play with ya, but we're gonna have to play human games. Like, tag. Or monopoly."

I could tell he was desperately trying to think of human games, so I suggested, "Hey, why not tennis?"

"Oh, yeah. I've seen that on the boring sport channel. In the middle of the night." Rusty tried to sound relevant.

"It's actually pretty fun. Besides, you have plenty of tennis balls. And it's kinda like fetch, just with rackets and a net."

He sighed. "We don't have stuff like that."

"Well, you can buy that kind of stuff at the store."

"Not our store. Bark-Mart only sells the balls and frisbees."

Bark-Mart? I snickered. "Hmm. Well, we can always play frisbee but just catch it with our hands," I suggested.

"Hey, no way!" Yeller cut in as he dug his hand into a bag of milk bones. "Tennis sounds fun! Plus, I can beat Rusty over the head with the paddle."

"It's not a paddle; it's a racket!" Rusty educated with his newfound knowledge. "And it doesn't matter anyway 'cause we can't get the rackets."

"Trust me, bro. My tunnels lead all the way to the human towns," Yeller assured. "I can get us the rackets and a net."

"Wait, really?" I gasped.

"Yeah, I was actually sniffin' for garbage and ended up at a human restaurant called 'Squishy Burger.' You wouldn't believe the stuff people throw away there. It's great. But there's, like, stores all over that town."

"But wait, how would you get the box through the tunnels?" I questioned.

"The tunnels are big. I mean, you could go with me if you want. I'll show you the way."

Rusty's ears pinned back. "No way! She's not goin' into your filthy maze that could cave in at any moment!"

"Hey, Dad and Uncle Toto started the mazes in this town, and he taught me how. So, shut up. And besides, what's so great about being on the surface? There's a whole world down below."

I envisioned slugs, rats, and snakes . . . but maybe those counted as his snacks along the way.

"I wanna go!" Terry piped up.

"Sorry, kid. But you're a deadweight. I can't have ya ridin' on my back while fightin' sludge monsters," Yeller weirdly remarked.

At that, Terry burst into tears and retreated to the house.

"You're so mean to him. Like you were to me when we were kids," Rusty muttered. "And why're you still livin' here? You said you were gonna be a sniffer for the cops. Y'know, bustin' drugs."

"Yeah, that got boring. They claimed I had to 'work' my way up, so they forced me to sniff people's garbage to see who was throwin' away evidence. So, I quit."

Rusty rolled his eyes. "Ugh, you're such a loser."

"Hey, it was either that or workin' at the pound. But that place was brutal. There's some pretty messed up strays in there."

Did he mean werewolves? Or actual dogs?

"Anyway, I better hit the store." He then looked at me. "You payin'?"

"Leave Millie outta this!" Rusty growled. "What a freeloader. Here." He reached into his pocket and shoved a pile of balled-up bills and coins into his brother's hand.

"Great. Thanks." Yeller scurried back to the cedar doghouse and disappeared.

"Don't you have a credit card?" I questioned.

"No, why?"

I blinked. "Everyone has one where I'm from."

"Oh, werewolves don't trust plastic. They claim if somebody robs 'em, they can sniff out which bills belong to them. And we're tryin' to protect our identities."

"So, are you guys hiding from the government or something . . .?"

"No, the government knows we're here, but they want us off the grid so we can't be spotted from satellite by some five-year-old in Canada."

He obviously had no idea what he was talking about most of the time. But honestly, it was kind of cute.

"Then what about cell phones?" I asked.

"Oh, we got these G.I. phones."

"You mean, like, G.I. Joe?"

He looked perplexed, but then just shrugged it off. "Here, I'll show ya." He pulled out his phone and handed it to me, which was surprisingly heavy. "It's all plastic parts and fiberoptics that can't be picked up by X-ray or satellite. Basically, we use the President's internet or something so we aren't connected to the rest of the world. It's like being incognito, apparently."

His explanation was pretty cool . . . but also sad. They really had to hide their identities that much? Their Wi-Fi was probably awfully. "That's . . . really impressive."

"No, it's not. It stinks. No company makes a case that fits this stupid thing. Plus, I'm pretty sure the President is readin' my texts, even in the bathtub."

 Poor Rusty. He was so paranoid. "I seriously doubt he has that much time."

He scoffed and looked down. "Whatever. It's not like I have any friends anyway."

At that, I took his hand. "Hey, I'm your friend, remember?"

He blushed. "I meant before. But I definitely don't want the President listenin' in on our conversations."

"Don't worry, I think you're safe."

"Hello, our birth certificates come from Area 61."

Area 61? Was this classified information that would get me in trouble? Either way, I didn't really care. "You mean Area 51?"

"Naw, that's for the aliens," he explained, dead-serious. "Area 61's so secret, nobody knows it exists."

I couldn't tell if he was pulling my leg, but I had to admit it, it was pretty funny.

"So, what about hybrids?" I randomly asked. "Like, uh, if a satyr married a werewolf. Would their kid be acknowledged by Area 61?"

"Satyrs are 71. So, they'd have a dual certificate, I think, as a . . . freak."

"So, what about humans?" I tried to remain as casual as possible. I mean, it wasn't like I was blatantly asking about werewolf-human hybrids . . . right?

His eyes widened in shock. "Well, I mean, I guess their kids could protest for their rights or something. But the good thing about us is we don't have to pay taxes. So, if the kid wants to be seen as legit, then he has to pay the government for that privilege."

Obviously, that was the best I was going to get out of him. But around that time, Yeller returned with a very dirty coat and a beat-up box, grinning from ear to ear . . . to ear to ear. He must have transformed into his wolf form to make the journey easier because the box was full of bite marks.

"Geez, man! You probably broke 'em, didn't ya?" Rusty hissed.

"What kinda wolf do you take me for? I've been doin' this since diapers and haven't broken a thing yet." He then proudly opened the box to reveal a net and a six rackets.

"Well, new rule, nobody plays as a wolf, so phase out or you're disqualified," Rusty ordered.

"Seriously?! That's stupid! Mooom!" yelled Yeller.

"What's all the commotion?!" Lulu stormed out of the house, still in her frilly apron.

"We're not playin' against a wolf, so tell him to phase back!" Rusty shouted. "Or he sits out."

"Oh, we're playing a game?" She completely ignored him and rushed over to admire the tennis rackets. "Wait! Is this what royalty plays with the birdie?"

"No, that's bad mitts," Rusty badly mispronounced. "But it's the same rackets."

"Actually . . ." I hated to correct them, but they all gawked at me and anticipated my wisdom. "The rackets are similar, but a badminton racket is more lightweight. But it's the same kind of game, just with tennis balls."

"Well, we can bad mints next weekend," Lulu tweeted. "I'll have Yeller get the equipment. So, what do we need? Lighter rackets and birdies?"

Terry's eyes bulged at the word "birdie." Then, chaos ensued.

"Birdie . . .?! I get birdie now!"

"Noooo!" we all shouted as the toddler zoomed in the direction of an unsuspecting sparrow next to the spring. He barked and yapped as he lunged for the terrified creature, but Lulu whisked him away just as the bird soared into the sky.

"Sorry, buddy," Yeller chuckled. "Wrong birdie." He then pulled out his phone and showed a picture of the real thing to Terry. His eyes widened with wondered.

"Pet!" he squeaked.

Yeller scoffed. "Pet? It's not real. It's made outta plastic."

"Pet! Pet!" Terry's smile twisted into a scowl and then a frown.

"Now, now," Lulu hushed. "We'll get you a pet bird, but only if you walk on your hind legs for the rest of the day."

"Ouchie!" he whined.

Terry was such a cute toddler . . . but in a way, I was kind of disturbed. If, hypothetically, I married a werewolf, would my kids be running on all fours and covered in heaps of fur?

"Now, now. You need to promise to walk on your hind legs," his mother insisted. "Especially if you want a pet bird."

She placed him down, and finally, Terry clumsily shuffled to his feet. He then waddled toward me and beamed. "I walk like you!"

I cheerfully clapped. "Aww, good job!"

Although I wore a smile on the outside, my heart ached for these poor people. Just because they had ears and tails didn't make it fair for the world to shun them . . . or not even know about them at all. There were still so many places I wanted to go to with Rusty. Like a carnival, or a movie theater, or even a bookstore. But I didn't want him to feel like he had to conceal who he was constantly. I didn't have to hide myself here just because I was human.

But most importantly, what would happen after high school? How could I just go off to college and forget about this place forever? I couldn't abandon my friends . . . especially Rusty.