The time is exactly 10:39 PM. The dental instruments are clean; the sterilizer shut down. Each switch is switched off and the magazines are organized back onto the magazine rack, new issues in the front while the May 2005’s are pushed in the back. Paperwork is done, and the office is ready for sleep.

And so is Chloe Gilbert, but Chloe’s been ready for rest seven hours ago. The dentist’s dressed in her navy-blue scrubs, a gray sweater jacket – friend’s souvenir from Disney – being the only, extra barrier against the February chill. Her breaths wisp across the faded lipstick of her chapped lips; her hand, dusty with clinic gloves’ powder, turn the clinking keys of the office’s front door.

She follows the Routine, which is one word to sum up her life.

Turn once, turn twice, check the lock, withdraw, shoulder the bag, walk to the car – go home.

She’s at step five, her sneakers ready to follow the path from the sidewalk across the parking lot to her gray sedan.

The only difference is that the full moon's out, but where's the danger in the sky?

The danger is not in the sky. Not tonight, at least.

No, the danger lies a little closer to earth.

hungry

You'd be hungry too, if you were only able to eat once a month.

There was a scent. Someone. Someone tired, someone stressed, someone who had a salad for lunch.

There, in the shadows, a wolf sat. Larger than a wolf should be, larger than a canine should be. It slunk, slowly, getting closer and closer.

wait

The wolf knew. It knew that the closer it was to the prey, the less energy it would have to expend.

Wait until you see the whites of their eyes. Except...

Except wolves don't have retractable claws.

click click click click

How dramatic.

Chloe doesn't notice the clicks at first. It's probably something in the wind, a discarded newspaper or broken bottle-glass or something.

But it's Chloe's Womanly Intuition that warns her -- something that's not as impressive as the Spidey-sense, but it sure helps in business. And with family, if she has one.

She frowns a bit, skin on edge at the hiccup in the night's usual speech.

Carefully -- but not slowly -- she makes her way towards the car.

The prey. It's getting away.

The wolf decided to get closer faster. It broke in an easy lope, the the streetlights illuminating the wolf's shape every few meters.

clickclick clickclick clickclick

None of that howling before the chase; it just let the intended victim you were there.

It darted in front of the woman, stopping and letting out an appropriately threatening growl.

Chloe doesn't scream because the air's too thin for a good, long scream.

What she does, though, is freeze -- limbs locked and body tense like a tightened, wire string.

What do you do when a big, ferocious bear-dog-thing is between you and your car?

Chloe doesn't know. But what she does know, is that this thing isn't your neighbor-friendly Benji.

Slowly, cautiously, she backs back, heel skidding the cement.

Good dog. Nice dog. Going away, now, yeah?

The wolf advances. Slowly, menacingly, sniffing at her.

Healthy, yes. Scared, yes. He can smell it and it aggravates him. The adrenaline flooding her system; it sets off an instinct of kill.

It snapped at her, getting even closer.

It wanted a chase. It wanted the fun. It wanted to earn this meal.

run

Run. And Chloe wants to; she knows she should and there's a fear-stricken deer in her that's kicking at her joints to move.

But she's crushing the voice -- hers? -- and flinches at the jaws, stepping backwards slowly, moving slowly. You move slowly when you're dealing with strange, wild animals.

Her grip's skeletal-white on her bag's strap.

"Good doggy," she rasps out, voice dry with fear. "Good dog..."

Where the fuck is the police?

Oh, Cort's dealt with police before. So has the wolf. Police would be of no help.

With a snarl, the wolf has had it and leaps.

It hits her, paws on her shoulders, knocking her to the ground.

It's on top, inches from her face, growling low, breathing its sour breath.

A bit of saliva drips from its jaws.

And Chloe's vocal chords work, tearing a ragged shriek out of her that tightens her chest and chokes.

She knows she shouldn't close her eyes, but she's flinching at the onslaught, knees pulling up to kick the wolf off and fingernails scraping at the pavement for her bag, only to realize that it never left her rigor-mortis grip.

She swings her bag, the stiff bulk thumping soundly into the wolf's ribs.

Had the wolf been human, it would have made a sound very much like "huuugh!" and rolled off. But now? A few bruised ribs were nothing. Let that boy deal with them, they were not a problem now.

Instead of going "huuugh!" and rolling off, the wolf snapped its jaws again and jumped off. Prey that attacked had to be dealt with carefully.

It circled.

Chloe scrabbles to her feet, and when she can't, rolls to her knees. Her styled hair's a mess, tangling in her face and clinging to her open, grimacing mouth.

The streets are being paradoxical; it's empty of help and full of a big, snarling, rabid dog. Chloe feels the urge to cry and the pounding headache that thumps against the sting of fear makes her world spin.

Fucking God, where the hell is everyone?

On her hands and knees, she watches the wolf encircle her, both hands gripping the bag and feet stumbling to lapse back into running position.

Everyone is being smart and staying away. They don't want to mess with a hungry werewolf.

The hugry werewolf realized that it is hungry and decides to attack again. It lunged, a vicious bark leading the way.

It latched onto her shoulder, biting down hard.

Hard.

It didn't let go, but brought her down again.

Chloe goes down with a strangled whimper, her teeth biting into her lips in a grimace of pain; the taste of pennies fills her mouth.

The world's now swimming in tears and she's beating at the wolf with her hands -- at his back, his head, his eyes -- trying to forcibly and physically push him off.

Her bag lies forgotten beside her, cumbersome and useless.

The wolf stays clamped on her shoulder, worrying it, trying its best to ger her to keep still.

And then she hits it in the eye.

With a yelp, it lets go, rolling off of her. It shakes it's head, trying to get rid of the pain of being hit in the eye.

See, Cort has this thing about his eyes. He doesn't like things getting near them, let along hitting them. And as in control as the wolf is, Cort is still in there, too. And he doesn't like getting hit in the eye.

Maybe the wolf will just leave her to be turned, find something else to eat.

It'd be sad to say that tonight's the most action she ever got (and most likely ever will) in her entire life. Too bad beastality and sadomasochism isn't her thing.

Bleeding at the shoulder with seething-hot pain lancing up and down her right side, Chloe gropes for her fallen bag and drags it close to her. With an energy leeched solely from momentum, she swings her bag up and crashes it onto the wolf's head.

Repeatedly. Which, given the pain and exhaustion, leads to a grand total of two swings.

She's working on the third.

With a yelp, the wolf jumped back.

Why was such a weak looking prey able to fight it off so easily?

because she hit us in the fucking eye came a faint thought. The wolf, while not understanding the words, understood the general meaning.

The wolf hated competition, and hated even more to create it, but it didn't have much of a choice. She was able, and Cort was bitching. It slunk away, off to find a small child, or even a homeless person; something easier.

With a final snarl, it was gone.

When the wolf's gone, Chloe crumples down onto the pavement, hair beyond repair and left shoulder in bleeding, bloody shreds of skin, scrub, and flesh. She couldn't cry, even if she wanted to; the pain's caging her sobs and the tears had to be wheezed out of her eyes.

And in her mind's eye, she sees daylight-gray washed streets and hazy brown; intangible scents of oranges and violets and some sort of Mediterranean food -- and moon.

My life's flashing before my eyes, she thinks, too tired and too much in pain to think of anything beyond clichés.

She lays there, wanting to pass out but knowing it'd be stupid to do so.

In an hour, she does that anyway.