Chapter 2: What the Moon Knows

I didn't move until the fire burned low and the logs collapsed into embers. Then I crept to the children's room. Eliza had kicked off her blanket, her small body curled around the stuffed rabbit. Jonas lay on his back, one arm flung over his head, his face slack. No nightmares tonight, thank God.

I pulled the blanket back over Eliza, kissed her forehead. Her skin was warm, soft. I wanted to scoop her up and hold her until the sun came, but that would only wake her. So I went back to the main room, stoked the fire, and sat in the chair facing the door. I didn't sleep. I listened.

The wolves stopped howling just before dawn, when the sky turned the color of bruised plums. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My hands were shaking. I wrapped them around a cold cup of tea and waited for the light.

Morning came gray and damp. The children woke slowly, shuffling out in their pajamas, hair mussed. Eliza climbed into my lap without a word, her head tucked under my chin. Jonas stood by the stove, rubbing his eyes.

"Did you hear them?" he asked. Not "the wolves." Just "them." Like we all knew what he meant.

"Yes."

"Were you scared?"

I wanted to say no. But he's thirteen. He can smell a lie the way the wolves smell the moon. "A little," I admitted. "But I'm not scared now. They're far away during the day."

"How do you know?"

"Because wolves are smart. They know daytime is for sleeping, hiding. Nighttime is for hunting."

Eliza lifted her head. "Are they hunting us, Mama?"

"No, baby. They're hunting rabbits, deer. We're not on their menu."

"What about the man?" Jonas said. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

"What man?"

"From my dream. The one in the bright vest. He was standing at the edge of the forest last night. I saw him."

My stomach dropped. "You were asleep."

"I woke up. I looked out the window. He was there, but then he wasn't. Like a shadow."

I wanted to tell him it was a trick of the moonlight, a branch moving in the wind. But I'd been at that window too. I hadn't seen anyone. Still, the cold in my chest spread. "Jonas, if you ever see someone out there, you wake me. Immediately. Promise me."

"I promise." He looked at me with those wide eyes, and I saw something in them I hadn't seen before. Not fear. Recognition. Like he knew something I didn't.

I made breakfast—oatmeal with dried apples, the last of the honey. We ate in silence. Eliza hummed the moon song under her breath. Jonas stared out the window, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth.

"Eat," I said.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need your strength."

"For what?"

I didn't have an answer. So I pushed his bowl closer and said, "For everything."

After breakfast, I sent them outside to play. The air was crisp, the sky a pale white-blue. I stood on the porch and watched them run through the clearing, Eliza chasing a butterfly that wasn't there, Jonas kicking at pinecones. The forest around us was quiet. No birdsong. No rustle of leaves. Just the soft crunch of their footsteps.

I walked the perimeter of the cabin, looking for tracks. Near the treeline, I found them: paw prints, bigger than any dog's, pressed deep into the damp earth. They circled the cabin, disappearing and reappearing, like the wolf had been pacing. Testing. I followed the trail to a spot where the prints stopped, replaced by something else. A boot print. Human. Fresh.

I stared at it for a long time. Then I scraped dirt over it with my shoe, erasing the evidence. I didn't want the children to see.

Back inside, I checked the locks—the simple iron bolt on the door, the wooden bar I'd wedged into the window frames. It wasn't enough. I knew it wasn't enough. But it was all I had.

That afternoon, Jonas sat on the floor with his sketchbook, drawing intently. Eliza played with her rabbit, making it hop across the rug. I sat at the table, pretending to read a book I'd read a hundred times. The words blurred.

"Mom," Jonas said, not looking up. "In my dream, the man in the vest is holding something. A box. It's heavy. He keeps trying to put it down, but he can't."

"What's in the box?"

"I don't know. But it makes a sound. Like music, but broken. And when he finally sets it down, the wolves come."

I closed the book. "Jonas, I don't want you to dwell on these dreams. They're just—"

"They're not just dreams." His voice cracked. He looked up, and his eyes were wet. "I can feel it, Mom. Something bad is coming. And the man in the vest—I think he's trying to warn us."

Eliza stopped playing. She looked from Jonas to me, her face serious. "Mama, is Jonas scared?"

"Yes," I said, because lying to her felt wrong. "But we're all scared sometimes. That's okay. We stick together."

She crawled over to Jonas and sat next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I'll protect you, Jonas."

He laughed, a broken sound. "You weigh like forty pounds."

"So? I bite."

I smiled despite myself. That's when I decided: we wouldn't stay in the cabin tonight. We'd go into town, stay at the old guesthouse where there were walls thicker than wood and people nearby. But as soon as the thought formed, I knew it was impossible. The car hadn't run in weeks, and the nearest neighbor was three miles through the forest. By the time we walked, it would be dark.

We were trapped.

Dusk came early, the sun sliding behind the pines. I lit every lamp we had, built the fire high. The children ate dinner in silence. Eliza fell asleep on the floor mid-bite, her cheek pressed against the rug. I carried her to bed, and Jonas followed me, his sketchbook tucked under his arm.

"Can I sleep in your room tonight?" he asked.

"Of course."

I set up blankets on the floor beside my bed. He didn't complain. He lay down, staring at the ceiling. I sat on the edge of the mattress, watching him.

"Sing the song," he whispered.

I started humming. The same tune, the same made-up words. "Even in the darkest night, the moon watches over us..."

Outside, the first howl rose. Low, long, hungry. Jonas's hand found mine. I held it tight.

Another howl joined, closer. Then another. The chorus swelled until the air itself seemed to vibrate. And then, beneath it, I heard something else. A footstep on the porch. A creak of wood.

I froze. Jonas's grip tightened.

The footsteps stopped at the door. I heard breathing—slow, deliberate, human.

A knock.

Three solid raps.

And a voice, rough and tired: "Please. Open the door. I need to come inside."

I didn't move. I didn't breathe. The moon was full. The wolves were singing. And someone was asking to be let in.

Jonas looked at me, his eyes huge in the lamplight. "Mom," he whispered. "It's him. The man from my dream."