One summer, I caught M eating a couple of crows in his backyard. Uncle watched him, bent over, as if waiting for a cue to join in. I rushed to stop them. Magos and I had agreed to weed out whichever Monstrilian instincts remained in M. Uncle protested in grunts, but M froze, his jaw unhinged, feathers in his hair, fangs bloody. I grabbed the dead bird from his hands, scooped up the remains of the other, and said, “We don’t do this, M! Not anymore.” M looked scared but I kept firm.
