History of Wolves

by Emily Fridlund

He was tired. I know that now. He was tired in a way that made him seem absent, slow, hauling up some viscous thought he couldn’t quite identify without putting everything else on hold for a moment. My mother and I waited for him.

“Sleep,” he told me, straightening the mattress creases with a wide red hand. “Get a good dream.” He patted an old jacket into a pillow-like shape. He was kind to objects. With people he was a little afraid.

And I knew that if I somehow got this visored woman inside, if I somehow got her past Leo and into Paul’s room, it would mean the end of Janet and Europa for good, the end of everything worthwhile.