I absently gnawed the top of my pen as I studied the sketch before me. How could I explain to CJ--the purple-haired tattoo artist sitting next to me--much less Matt that I’d waited a lifetime for this image to become real? I’d seen it in my dreams since I started shifting at thirteen. Maybe something like this was normal for our kind. I’d never asked my parents when the dreams first started. Now it was too late. All I could do was hope these two understood. At least CJ no longer looked at me with that patient “humor her” expression she’d worn when I first asked if she minded if I drew what I wanted her to do as my tattoo. I knew she thought she’d have to redo the image before making the stencil. I didn’t even blame her. She didn’t know me, so she didn’t know my one real talent was art. Unfortunately, it is next to impossible to make a living as an artist, especially if you’re on the run and likely to have to move without notice--or the chance to pack your belongings.
