The sun rose in the east on the day the world

turned inside out.

Endings had to begin with mornings,

after all. Mornings happened to everyone.

Histories concluded. Futures began. The sun

rose, regardless of what kind of inside-out

world rose with it.

But no one noticed all the ways everything

could end. The sun was too routine, the

world too complex to see the many ways it

could twist. What could go wrong, everyone

thought, without thinking about thinking it.

Hundreds and thousands and millions didn't

blink as another night trundled into another

day.

The Holtzer family, of which there were

six, was no exception. They had no idea the

world was about to turn inside out. No clue

an ending was coming for them.

It was the way of things.

But things had a way of ending, and endings

had to begin with mornings.

There were three.

The first morning happened to a man in a

uniform.

The unitoorm

was biacK ana very, vey ed

O we old too

Ancient and soft. So well-worn, that even

wnen the man in a uior wasnt weang

the uniform, he was stil in it. He could never

take it oft.

The man in question woke before his alarm

id, a syptorn or his ehroric urnltormity. His

eyes opened without etort, his awareness

rame tast. 1The rain outside. The pins and

sprawled across him. The furry line of dust

on his ceiling fan. All of it was the same as

yesterday, and the day belore that, and the

day before that.

Police officer Hendrik Holtzer had,

Somehow, made it to another morring

The mornng ol September 17th.

So Hendrik did not Dnnk. NOT Y.

The st

Jstled as he freed his

ot pinned by Gail's head. her soft

hair, the sweet wrongness of her scent-

aru reached lor Ius old coluege alartr tlock

ot the lghtstand. The clock had sentries:

pictures, caged in scratched wooden rames.

e ndrik felr their

unblinkinga

stares, as he always did, hut he didn't look.

Ertairtcu pett as i

toothpaste and the spaghetti he'd made for

dinner the night before. It made his eyes

Dut Stl, ne duont Dunk. 50 t telt luke

minutes and months before 5:30 a.m, before

NCy OL AY S7:4 shouled, 'Go0d

NODOD0YTEg, St. LOU2

Hut they did. They did, and Hendrik

switched it off inunediately, like usual. Gail

with dhe weather in old Mr. Winslow's

apartment below. like usual. The pictures

on the nightstand watched, like sial. All

of it dhe sane, same, same. Like it wasn't

September1'th. Like the world deserved to

Like he deserved to wake up at al.

Although police officer Hendrik Holtzer was

in excellent physieal shape, one coua suy

at he was mussing soxe pieces. ere were

holes in him. And though he'd put them

there he hadn t filled them; that had once

Ja

But they wvere dead nOw. Retired and gone.

History had another name for September

00 ut to elu it wus Uhe ugt

ns peuple went trorm being people to being

pictures o a nightstand.

That was the night that Hendrik Holtzer

became just a man in a uniform. The night

he'd had to solder the fabric to his bones

to keep him upright. He buried his family

before burying himself into his job and

though he'd tried to work himself to death,

the Reaper wouldn't take him.

Their uniforms were much too heavy for

anyone else, it seemed.

So there he was, nine years later, Keeping

his eyes open as he got out of bed. He tossed

the covers over Gail as she adjusted to a bed

without a body, to the ghosts they brought

with them into the sheets. Her face contorted

and she squirmed. Nightmares, then. Despite

his urgency, an echo of concerm for her

forced him to sit. He watched as his hand

rubbed her shoulder until she calmed.

Normally Hendrik would get back in bed

with her, would wait until she woke so

they could lose themselves in their skin

for a while. Hendrik's demons may have

been vicious, but they weren't lonely. Gail

Rivera had her own nightstand pictures.

And though there wasn't much to the pair of

them, what was left fit well together. They

kept each other going. So Hendrik knew

Gail would understand why he needed to be

alone. She'd know the holes in him would be

hungry today.

He got up when he felthe couldn't take it

anymore. Kept the lights off as he walked to

the bathroom. The mirror was black, and his

face was dark as he brushed his teeth and

flossed. Combed his hair. Undressed. He still

did not blink. Not yet. Not yet. Almost.

His hands were steady as he wrenched the

knob of the shower with more force than

necessary. The jets, pressured. The water,

boiling. He stepped in anyway, knowing it

wouldn't hurt enough. The holes were too

deep to be cauterized. And so they gaped,

bloodless and yet bleeding.

It rained outside.

And the man in a uniform finally, finally

closed his eyes and let it rain inside, too.

It rained, and rained, and rained.

It was morning, after all. It was mourning.

But not for long.

The world was due to turn inside out.

The second morning happened to a female.

She was a female because she wasn't a girl.

She wasn't a woman. She'd barely been a

teen. She was her, and herself, and that was

all there was to it.

She was a Wolf

Hers was the second morning because she'd

woken up moments after Hendrik, though

she didn't know it. There were state lines

and storms and years between them, but

mornings happened to everyone and they

were very similar to each other. They both

woke before they knew it. They both stared

and listened. They both quietly endured

their missing pieces.

The Wolf was just like her father, though

she didn't remember. It was one of the many

things she'd forgotten about the girl.

It did not rain on this morning of September

17th. There were no cars. No furnaces. No

Gails. There was the Wolf and the trees

she'd been born in. The mountain she'd

congquered. Her eyes opened and the sky

was softly waking while the was earth was a

carcass: trees rattled like bones, the breeze

heaved like a death rattle, the leaves fell like

flakes of dried blood.

The land was as starved as she was.

The creature was always hungry. Always,

and it wasn't just for food. But she ignored

the other hungers. Other hungers came from

the Old Skin. Not her. Not the Wolf.

She blinked once and stood. Shook the leaves

off and put her nose in the air, annoyed

to find there was nothing in it. No scent of

bears or cougars. No humans or Hunters.

No food, either.

A growl filled her throat.

The Wolf was far from the Old Skin's home.

Very, very far. Maybe farther than she'd

ever been before. And yet she'd have to go

farther to get any food. The Wolf knew it.

Deep down, the Old Skin knew it too. It was a

symptom of September. Prey got scarce and

she had a mouth-

mouths three of them please go backplease

I need to see them are theyalrightplease let

me outletmeplease-

NO, the creature snarled silently. Snarled

and shook and growled.

Then she was running and her body

followed. She weaved like a snake through

the bones of her home, uphill and downhill

and over fallen trees. Lesser animals

scattered and hid from the forest's Own

Reaper, the uniformed monster that boasted

swift death. They could sense their end in

her mood. She would not kill kindly today.

Little did they know the creature had a

predator of her own. One she could not

kill;: one she could only run from. Her

helplessness was infuriating. She was the

predator. It was her instincts that had kept

them both alive, kept the little ones alive.

Didn't the Old skin realize? Couldn't she see

how much better they were now, with four

legs instead of two?

Wasn't she more whole? Now that they'd

been halved?

But even these thoughts pushed the Wolf

into a deeper rage. She didn't have to explain

herself. Pandering was for others. Words

were for humans. The Wolf was an animal.

Just an animal. Just her, and herself.

So the Wolf kept running. Running and

running and running. Her and her paws.

Her lungs, heavy. Her blood, a chorus.

Strong and fast and heavy. The pale sun

rose higher. Then, a smell. A scent. Prey.

Rabbits. A family. One male, one female, one

young male. Three. She can taste them. A

full stomach. So hungry, so hungy. Three is

plenty. Three is a lot. Thre

just like them themthem they are mine

there arethree I have three and they

makemewhole they makemeinto one they are

mineplease

-she pounced.

Oh, the rage. The rage in her bones, in her

gut, in her throat. The Wolf snapped. The

rabbit's bones, snapped, the twigs under

her feet, snapped. The rabbits cried. The

branches shivered. The Wolf saw red. Red

fur, red blood, red leaves, red pieces. Not

eating. She wasn't eating them. Her teeth,

her claws. Just killkillkill. The rage, so red.

Oh, the rage. She howled and the leaves

shook.

This was when the world turned inside out.

The Wolf, so consumed by her selves, didn't

notice immediately.

But the world didn't wait for her. The sun

stopped for nobody. It sat heavy and alone in

the sky by the time she came to grips, by the

time she noticed what the sun had brought

with it. Her bloody nose pointed to the birds

overhead as she sniffed. And stopped. Her

body stilled, her mind quleted.

Because there was a smell.

A warm, wonderful, ancient smell.

A smell like...home.

But that was strange because her home was

a forest. A mountain, a valley. The old home

betore the cave. The cave where the little

ones lived now. 'Home' was a million scents,

a thousand smells. What was it about this

scent-

-home homehome fatherdaddy it smells

likehimlikedad he's here he's here tosaveme

daddyplease-

that made it smell like her?

Why did the world turning inside out smell

like Wolf?

Suddenly she was boneless, dropping to

the ground to hide from what she didn't

understand. There was something here

now, in this scent. Something beyond her.