The alarm went off at five-thirty, and for a few seconds I lay there, staring at the shadowed ceiling, wondering if it was worth moving at all. The mansion was silent except for the faint thump of my mother’s heels somewhere downstairs and the muted murmur of my father’s voice on a call. Even before sunrise, they were already living in a different world than mine.
By the time I stepped outside, the air had the sharp bite of ocean wind, damp enough to cling to my hoodie. The driver waited in the black SUV at the bottom of the steps, engine idling. He didn’t say anything as I got in — just pulled away from the house and toward the docks, tires crunching over the crushed-shell driveway.
The streets of Nantucket were still half-asleep. Porch lights burned against the fog, and shop windows reflected only the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps. The docks rose out of the mist, silhouettes of masts swaying gently. A line of commuters stood at the ferry ramp, clutching coffee cups like they were all that kept them alive.
The driver eased to a stop. “Six-thirty ferry,” he said without looking at me.
“Yeah,” I muttered, stepping out into the salt-heavy air. The wolf in me didn’t like the crush of people, but it listened — alert, watchful. It could feel that pull again, a faint tension under the skin, though I couldn’t place why.
Boarding was slow, the crowd shuffling up the metal ramp. I found a spot near the stern rail, keeping my back to the bulk of the passengers. The engines roared to life, vibrating through the deck as the island slid away into the mist.
The crossing took just under an hour. I spent most of it staring at the horizon, the wolf restless but not hostile, like it was waiting for something it knew I wouldn’t recognize until it happened.
When we docked in Hyannis, I followed the herd of commuters toward the waiting buses. One was marked for Cape Cod Regional Technical High School. I climbed aboard, claiming a seat by the window, watching the mainland roll by — clapboard houses, diners, stretches of pine forest cut by cracked asphalt roads.
By the time the bus pulled into the school lot, the sun was trying to burn through the fog, turning the low buildings and shop bays into a haze of pale gold. Students milled around the entrance — some leaning on cars, some clustered in tight groups, their voices a steady hum.
That’s when I saw him.
He was standing near the side door of the main building, a black guitar case slung over one shoulder. Hood up, hands shoved in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he was listening to something only he could hear. He wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t part of the clusters of friends — just there, apart, like the air around him was a little quieter than everywhere else.
The wolf in me went still. Not cautious. Not hostile. Just… focused. I didn’t know his name. Didn’t know where he fit in this place. But I knew one thing: that strange pull I’d been feeling since stepping onto the mainland had just found its source.