Wolf Song |✅

Chapter 11

Zoë walked through the front door of her house, her school bag slung over one shoulder. Her mom looked up from the couch with her bass in her lap and what looked like a thousand notebooks all around her. She smiled, "Hey menyuam," she said, using the Hmong nickname she'd assigned Zoë long ago. It meant baby. Zoë kissed her cheek, "Hey niam."

"How was school?"

Zoë made a rude sound as though it were some kind of answer. Her mom chuckled and told her to relax. Zoë didn't have any objec­tions that that idea. Today was the day Luke said he would send someone to get her, so he could start showing her how to hunt. As excited as she had been before, after talking with Keenan last week she had mixed feelings. She had to be careful now. Dammit, she thought, how did everything get so complicated all of a sudden?

She let her bag drop next to a chair in the living room and head­ed for the kitchen, rummaging for something to eat. She decided on some ramen since the fridge was void of anything worthwhile and she was too lazy to make anything else. She had just enough time to put some water on to boil before there was a knock at the door. Her mom cocked her head to the side, confused. "You expect­ing anyone?" she asked as Zoë crossed over to the door.

"Friends," she lied.

Zoë opened the door to reveal an Indian boy standing on her porch, wearing a black and white striped hooded sweater, jeans, and Converse. He had the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and there was a red string around his left wrist. He was golden skinned, with a pronounced widow's peak and perfectly round silver framed glasses that reminded Zoë of an old professor. His features were soft and young, but handsome—he looked around twenty-two maybe older. He was tall but his build was hard to determine under his baggy clothes. His thick, black, shoulder length hair was pulled into a ponytail behind his head.

"You must be Zoë," he said in a British accent that took Zoë by surprise.

"Uh, yeah," Zoë said, catching herself, "Luke sent you?"

The boy—well, he was older than her, so she didn't know if she should really call him a boy—nodded once and introduced himself, "My name is Farrell Kapoor."

Zoë looked him up and down once more and then asked him to wait there. She left the door open since there wasn't any air condi­tioning on anyway, and strode into the kitchen where she took the kettle off the burner, left her chopsticks on the counter, then went into the living room where she kissed her mom good-bye and was about to leave when her mom called, "Hey, don't leave your things in the living room."

Zoë sighed and backpedaled, grabbing her messenger bag and art case and heading up stairs to put them away. She shrugged her hoodie on upstairs and grabbed her pocketknife, phone, and wallet before heading back downstairs, said good-bye to her mom again, and walked out the door with Farrell.

He tried to make small talk as he led her to his van. Pedo-van would have been too kind a word for this vehicle. It was old, with no windows in the back, and a chocolate brown paint job that was fading fast. There was evidence of a fender bender in the back, and she could see some paint chipping here and there. It was a bad joke waiting to happen.

"Nice car," she said in her sweetest voice.

She couldn't tell if Farrell knew she was teasing or not because he just gave an embarrassed smile and climbed into the driver's seat. She followed suit and tried to look unassuming as the clunky old engine had to be coaxed into life. After a few failed attempts, the engine finally turned over and Farrell gave the dashboard a lov­ing pat before taking off.

As they puttered down the road, Zoë felt like she should say something to break the silence, "So...you're British?" she asked, finding it hard to think of anything that didn't involve killing mon­sters. Farrell nodded, "My sister and I are from Liverpool. Our grandparents are from Durgapur, though."