Chapter 7 - Sera
"Can you read this handwriting?" Nurse Becky holds up a prescription form, squinting at the doctor's scrawl. "Is that a seven or a one?"
I lean closer, grateful for the distraction from endless supply organization. "Looks like a seven to me."
"That's what I thought too." She sighs, adding it to her pile. "Dr. Matthews writes like he's having a seizure. You'll get used to it."
It's been a week since Dylan and I arrived in Pinecrest, and somehow, I've managed to secure a temporary position at the town's only medical clinic. A fortunate combination of a genuine nursing shortage and my legitimate medical background made infiltration almost suspiciously easy.
"You're a godsend, Sera," Becky continues, her round face flushed from running between exam rooms all morning. "Ever since Tanya left, we've been drowning. Can't believe you just showed up when we needed someone most."
I smile, keeping my hands busy with inventory. "Lucky timing, I guess. My husband's job brought us here, but I was hoping to find something in healthcare."
"Well, Dr. Sanders did a happy dance when he saw your resume. Even if it's just for a few months while you 'decide if Pinecrest is your forever home’." She mimics my careful phrasing from the interview, grinning. "Though between us, I hope you stay. You're catching on quick."
The guilt of deception sits heavy in my stomach. Becky is genuinely kind—the first person in Pinecrest who's treated me with unguarded warmth. She doesn't deserve to be manipulated for information. But neither do shifters deserve to be hunted with silver bullets.
I push the guilt aside, focusing on the mission. "I'm just glad to be useful. It's been a lonely week, not knowing anyone in town."
"Which reminds me!" Becky brightens, checking that we're alone in the supply closet. "The annual spring barbecue is this Saturday at Riverside Park. The whole town turns out—food, games, music. You and Dylan should definitely come."
"That sounds great," I say, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. The perfect reconnaissance opportunity, wrapped in a friendly invitation. "I'll tell him tonight."
"Wonderful! I'll introduce you to everyone." Her pager beeps, and she glances at it with a groan. "Ugh, room three again. Mrs. Hargrove's convinced her arthritis is terminal cancer this week."
As she hurries off, I continue methodically counting gauze pads and antiseptic wipes, creating a mental map of the clinic's inventory. Silver-based products are surprisingly prevalent—not unusual in some medical settings, but the quantity raises questions.
The door to the supply closet remains partially open, allowing snippets of conversation to drift in from the nurses' station across the hall. I maintain my counting rhythm while tuning my enhanced hearing toward the voices.
"—another one last night, up near Miller's Creek." A male voice, probably Jeff, the paramedic who had brought in a patient with a broken ankle earlier.
"Animal attack?" Female, likely Diane, the head nurse.
"That's what the report says. But Dave—you know, my buddy in Search and Rescue—he says the tracks were weird. Too big for normal wolves."
"They're getting bolder. Coming closer to town."
"The hunting group is organizing extra patrols. Sheriff's deputizing volunteers."
Their voices lower, and I shift slightly to better hear without appearing to eavesdrop.
"Between us," Jeff continues, barely above a whisper, "Blackridge says they found fur samples that aren't normal. Lab results came back... inconclusive."
"You don't think...?" Diane leaves the question unfinished, but her meaning hangs in the air.
"I'm keeping silver rounds in my truck. Just in case."
The conversation shifts to scheduling matters as someone else approaches.
I resume my inventory, mind racing with implications.
These aren't just random hunters; there's organized surveillance, scientific testing, official involvement.
And the euphemisms—the careful avoidance of the word "shifter" while clearly discussing exactly that—suggests community-wide awareness beneath a veneer of plausible deniability.
This is worse than we thought.
Throughout the day, I catch more fragments of similar conversations.
Patients discussing unusual animal sightings.
Staff exchanging meaningful glances when wilderness safety is mentioned.
No one says "werewolf" or "shifter" outright, but the subtext is unmistakable to someone who knows what to listen for.
By the time my shift ends at six, I'm exhausted from maintaining my friendly newcomer persona while constantly filtering for useful intelligence. The weight of pretense—being human, being harmless, being ignorant of the danger surrounding us—presses down like a physical burden.
The walk home gives me time to organize my thoughts before reporting to Dylan.
We've settled into an uneasy rhythm over the past week—professional during mission discussions, coldly polite during shared meals, and carefully distant at all other times.
The lottery match hangs between us, unacknowledged but ever-present, a future neither of us wants to face.
As I approach our cottage, something feels off. Dylan's car is in the driveway, but no lights shine from within. He's usually obsessively punctual about checking in when either of us returns home.
I unlock the door cautiously, senses alert. "Dylan?"
No response. The cottage is empty, his scent present but not fresh. He left at least an hour ago.
On the kitchen table, I find his laptop open, screen dark but still warm. I press a key, illuminating a detailed map of Pinecrest with locations marked in red—Blackridge Outfitters, the Sheriff's Office, and several residential addresses I don't recognize.
Next to the laptop lies a small notebook filled with Dylan's precise handwriting—names, dates, vehicle descriptions. Surveillance notes. And a plastic evidence bag containing what appears to be a clump of fur labeled "Sample #3—Miller's Creek."
He's been conducting his own investigation without telling me.
I'm still processing this discovery when the back door opens. Dylan freezes momentarily when he sees me standing over his materials, then continues inside, shutting the door with deliberate care.
"You're home early," he says, as if that's the issue here.
"And you're conducting investigations without informing me." I gesture to the evidence bag. "What is this?"
"Fur sample from the alleged attack site." He moves past me to the laptop, closing it without explanation. "I retrieved it before the Guardians' cleanup crew arrived. I’m almost certain it didn’t come from a shifter.”
"And when were you planning to share this information?"
"When I had something concrete to report." Dylan begins gathering his notes, movements efficient and unapologetic. "I've been tracking their patrol patterns. Three teams, rotating schedules. They're organized but not particularly subtle."
The casual dismissal ignites something in me. "We're supposed to be partners on this mission."
"We are partners."
"Partners share information. They don't run solo operations without backup."
Dylan finally looks at me directly, his expression impassive. "I didn't want to disturb your clinic infiltration. It's yielding valuable intelligence."
"That's not the point, and you know it." I step closer, frustrated by his deliberate obtuseness. "The point is you didn't trust me enough to include me."
"It's not about trust. It's about efficiency." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "You've been establishing your position at the clinic. I've been tracking the Guardians directly. Division of labor."
"Without consultation. Without coordination." My voice rises slightly. "What if you'd been caught? What if they'd followed you back here? I wouldn't have known anything was wrong until it was too late."
"I wasn't caught. I'm not amateur enough to lead them back to our location." The condescension in his tone makes my teeth clench.
"That's not—" I take a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "This isn't about your competence. It's about communication. Basic partnership protocol."
"My approach gets results." He holds up the evidence bag. "This could confirm whether they're targeting actual shifters or just normal wolves. That's critical intelligence."
"And my approach—building relationships, gathering context, understanding the community dynamics—that's not important?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. You made it clear by excluding me entirely from this aspect of the mission."
He sighs, a sound of barely contained impatience. "Look, surveillance and tracking is what I do. You're better at the social infiltration. We're playing to our strengths."
"Without coordination. Without a shared plan." I cross my arms. "That's not teamwork, Dylan. That's you doing whatever you want and expecting me to fall in line."
"I expected you to focus on your area of expertise while I focused on mine." His control slips slightly, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Not everything needs committee approval."
"This does! What if I'd mentioned Miller's Creek to someone at the clinic today? What if I'd unwittingly compromised your investigation because I didn't know it was happening?"
This finally seems to penetrate his stubborn certainty. A flicker of doubt crosses his features before he masks it. "You wouldn't have done that."
"I might have. That's the point. We can't function effectively if we're keeping secrets."
"It wasn't a secret. It was an ongoing investigation."
"That you deliberately hid from me."
His expression hardens. "Because I knew you'd object."
"To what, exactly?" I challenge, taking another step closer. "To gathering evidence? To tracking hunter movements?"
"To direct engagement." He meets my gaze unflinchingly. "To anything that doesn't involve your precious pacifist approach."
And there it is. The real issue. Not efficiency or expertise, but our fundamental philosophical divide.