Maybe I'm manipulating you. Or maybe this is how it has to be, and we're both trapped here. But don't try to blame me: I'm not the one narrating your life. It just feels that way. I close my shining blue eyes, open them slowly. The air smells like ozone. I'm trying to change things, Marquis Martinez. I just don't think it will work. Have you ever imagined what it's like, to see what's coming, and know that you can't change it? I've done this a thousand thousand times, and it never works. But here we are again.
The cops reach the door and start knocking. Your bow is in the van, you realize. You can't get to it now. You look around—maybe Scarper brought it inside?—but no.
"If those cops come in here, they'll die." I'd prefer people didn't get torn to shreds, all things considered, especially if it exposes what we are.
"These are my people, cat! Clay and Scarper hate me, fine, but I belong here. The Garou have lost so much. We can't lose another pack."
These losers are doomed. I hope they and the cops kill each other. "Don't get yourself killed, cat." I leave.
This is hopeless and pathetic. I don't have much more hope about going east, but it's better than a last stand here.
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