Nine o'clock, and the backyard gate's hinge gives one low whine. You take the baseball bat from the hall closet, step out barefoot into the cold grass, and throw the light switch just inside the storage shed door. The bare bulb swings and throws two long shadows up the wall: two young men pressed into the corner, the same man twice — the same jaw, the same tall, too-thin frame, wolf ears lying flat against their hair. The one in front has blue eyes.

he says, and his hands come up, open, empty.

They are exactly alike in their dirty torn clothes, a tail with grime-matted fur curled behind each of them — except the one behind has eyes the color of amber glass. He is leaning against the wall with his arm clamped around his side, and under his fingers a dark stain has spread through the torn shirt. He pushes off the wall and his leg buckles; the blue-eyed one catches him before he hits the dirt and doesn't look away from you the whole time.

he says.

the amber-eyed one says through his teeth.

He tries again to stand, and fails again, and the effort leaves him grey.

Colby says to him, low, then turns back to you and takes one careful step out of the corner, putting his own body between you and his brother, and the bat you are still holding.

He swallows, and the wolf ears turn toward you like he's listening for the swing or the yes.

He stays where he is, one hand back to keep his brother down, and watches you over the raised bat, waiting for you to decide what the two of them are worth.