By the time I got back to the cemetery, Libby had her face down to the bear’s. Her words were thick because her teeth were coming in, but I could still hear her. She was apologizing as best she could. And she was calling the bear a name. Sad Eyes. I cocked my head, dredged that term up. It was what Grandpa had called the moondog baby he’d brought back in a cardboard box, as a lesson for his three pups. I’d thought the name was a corruption from some other language. I was wrong. It’s how werewolves say they’re sorry. It’s how you acknowledged the person inside the animal. How you tell them that
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