Mongrels

by Stephen Graham Jones

I pushed the gas pedal of the LeSabre hard, stabbed us deeper into the night.

Part of being deathly allergic to silver is a deep-seated hatred of the Lone Ranger.

In town, though, in the city, on the front stoop of a gas station in the daytime, it was a different story. A worse story.

“Do werewolves do that, just leave?” I added, when Libby wasn’t answering. Her eyes when she looked up to me, they were ancient and tired and sad and mad all at once. “Men do that,” she said.

Damn the future, right? It’s right now that matters. When you don’t have a future, it’s always right now that means everything.