The Immortal Howl

three.

"Ow, can you not kick me?" I whispered from inside a black duffel bag, clutching onto my bruised elbow.

My brother, fresh into seven-years-old, cleared his throat obnoxiously as he pushed me across the floor. Every five steps, he'd kick me accidentally and mutter and apology, which I was sure my father thought was the strangest thing at the time.

Vince tried to convince him he was being nice to the bag, though my father never got a straight answer on what exactly the bag was for.

The answer was me. I was what the bag was for.

Every month, the designated pack would host an Alpha conference, and each Alpha would take his son, or whoever was next in line, to teach him the way of negotiation and leadership. At least that's what they called it.

I saw it as a bring-your-child-to-work-day to try to one-up everyone else's kid. Also, only boys were allowed.

So, there we were, with Vince dragging me through the halls zipped inside his suspicious duffel bag.

To this day, I wasn't sure why no one checked what was inside. Maybe after a while, no one cared anymore since he was just some kid to them. They probably thought it was toys to keep him busy. I bet they would have rather him play with some blocks on the floor than actually get involved and tell them how he really felt.

Alphas hated opinions.

He snuck me into their meetings, and I'd listen and make mental notes of what made sense and what didn't. Then, later at home, we'd compare notes.

Unfortunately, that day, Mom had checked the front, backyard, then my room. She had called my father and put the entire pack on alert that I was missing. Dad dragged Vince out of that meeting, apparently not telling him why until they had reached the car, and they just so happened to have forgotten me.

All while claiming to be looking for me.

Zipped up inside a sketchy black bag.

I had to sit through the entire meeting, praying to the Moon Goddess that I didn't get hungry or picked up and tossed somewhere, and I waited until everyone left to jam my finger above the zipper and tear it down.

My legs instantly collapsed.

"Wait, Father, I forgot—"

And then this boy, not even a year older than me, waltzed back into the conference room and stared at the puddle of me spread across the floor next to evidence number one, the unzipped and now empty black duffel bag.

His eyes switched between me and the bag a couple times before he stared only at me. I had no idea what to do, so I just sat there and blinked at him. He blinked back, and then he smiled and laughed.

"My father can't know."

He put his finger up to his lips and shushed me, ushering me back into the bag. He zipped it up, and then I was on the move again. I was terrified.

"Why do you have that? It's not yours." That must have been his father.

"It's Vince's. He forgot it. Can we bring it to him?"

He struggled through labored breaths. I wasn't that heavy...

"Next month, we'll—"

"Father, if this was my bag, I'd want it as soon as possible."

"What's in it?"

"I don't know."

"You seem to be convinced it's important."

"Because it is important. It's the most importantest."

"Son—"

"Please?"