The omega. Always the last to feed, despite my part in the hunt. Always the butt of snickers, warning growls, scuffles—and the bites and flesh tearings that drive me apart. Always the omega. All because I run to my own heartbeat. Because my howl is my own. Because the pack would rule me when I…

First light arrives before five in the morning. The birdsongs arrive with it. A cacophony of twittering, and avian arias, shatter my sleep, and any hopes of returning to it. By afternoon, however, a scattering of songs—at well-spaced intervals—may arise. This abundance of radiance—so close to the end of the academic year. This longest day—followed…