Free Red Moon Rising by Peter Moore

ambiguous—whose eyes seemed to follow you when you walked by. Even though the paint is faded now, I can still make out the words:
    If You Know About a Wulf
Who Hasn’t Registered—Make a Report.
It’s the Right Thing to Do…And It’s the Law!
    I have to stop to get my bearings at the corner. I haven’t been here in a while, and I’m not sure whether to go left here or the block after.
    Across the street are two men wearing dark jackets with LPCB PATROL printed on the backs and down the sleeves, just in case anyone couldn’t tell from all their gear that they’re with the Lycanthrope Protection & Control Bureau. They have helmets and bulletproof vests, holstered pistols on their belts, and assault rifles slung over their shoulders. The shorter one keeps checking a small handheld computer in his palm. The taller guy is watching the pedestrians. Obviously, they’re looking for a moonrunner. If they find him, they’ll lock him up in the armored LPCB truck parked down the block. That is, if he doesn’t try to escape. If he tries and fails, he’ll leave in the coroner’s truck.
    The Last Chance Diner has good food and is open twenty-four hours, so you get a mix of humans, wulves, and even a few vamps. A wulf in a raincoat is sitting at the counter, hunched over a mug of coffee. His white hair is short, and his head is knotted with the worst cranial ridges and scars I’ve ever seen. I have to turn away.
    Dad is sitting in a booth across from the counter. He stands up when I get there.
    Awkward: handshake or hug? I put out my hand, and he does the same, then we both take a half step toward each other. It’s like a dance as we try to figure out what we’re going to do. I move closer, and we end up hugging with our clasped hands pressed between us. I remember that aftershave. Sandalwood. He pats me on the back, and we take seats across from each other.
    He looks me over, smiling. There are little crinkles at the corners of his eyes that I don’t remember him having. “You grew some,” he says.
    â€œYeah. A lot of people think I’m gruesome.”
    He laughs at the lame pun, then combs his fingers through his still-thick hair. There’s gray in there that I haven’t seen before.
    â€œWell, you look good,” I say. “You hitting the gym or what?”
    â€œMe? Are you kidding?” He pats his belly. “No gym for me. I’ve been trying to eat better, though. Cut out the steak and the beer. And I’m doing more work on the jobs, instead of playing foreman. Hard work; keeps me in some kind of shape.”
    â€œIt shows.”
    â€œHow you boys doing?” the waitress asks, appearing out of nowhere. She puts menus on the table. Her nose is flattened like a boxer’s. Wulf.
    â€œYou know what you want?” Dad asks.
    â€œUm. Do you?”
    â€œI’ll have a turkey club,” he says. “No fries, mashed if you got ’em. Thanks.”
    â€œAnd you?” she says. She smiles at me and I notice a finger-wide scar running from the edge of her mouth all the way down her neck.
    â€œOh. I’ll have the same as him. Thanks.”
    â€œSynHeme?” she asks. It sounds like there’s a little bit of extra politeness in there, but I could be imagining it.
    â€œSure. Thanks.”
    â€œTed?” the waitress asks.
    â€œJust water for me. Thanks, Jeannie,” he says.
    I nod a few times for no reason and take a look around the diner, mainly so I don’t have to look Dad in the eye. “Place looks exactly the same,” I say.
    â€œProbably hasn’t changed in fifty years.”
    â€œHuh. That’s good, I guess.”
    â€œSo…” he says.
    â€œSo.”
    He drums his fingers on the top of the table. “How’s Jessica?”
    â€œShe’s fine. Thinks she’s the greatest thing since SynHemesicles.”
    He laughs and cracks his knuckles. I