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I studied his face. “You said your body felt like it knew what it was supposed to become. That sounds like you believe him a little.”

“Maybe.”

I wanted to ask a hundred questions. Whether his senses had changed immediately. Whether the bear instincts frightened him. Whether he’d ever mourned his human face.

But Barrett had trusted me with something, and I was learning that trust wasn’t a specimen to dissect simply because it was interesting.

“What about your family?” I asked instead. “Were your parents still here when it happened?”

“My mom was. Dad died a few years before.”

“How did she take it?”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Told me I’d always eaten like a bear, so it explained a lot.”

I laughed softly. “I think I would’ve liked your mother.”

“Yeah.” His smile lingered for another second. “She would’ve liked you.”

That caught me off guard. I looked down at our joined hands, suddenly imagining a version of Barrett’s life I’d never seen—his mother in this kitchen, teasing him about how much he ate, knowing the man he’d been before the fur and claws. And, absurdly, imagining myself fitting somewhere inside that picture.

“Is she...?”

“Gone. Twelve years now. Heart gave out.”

“I’m sorry.”

Barrett squeezed my hand. “She had a good life.”

I hesitated. “Brothers? Sisters?”

He shook his head. “Just me.”

And there it was. Not some terrible story of abandonment or rejection. Just time doing what time did, until the family Barrett had belonged to had slowly dwindled down to one.

“People helped,” he added, as though he needed to make the distinction. “The whole town was trying to figure itself out. Xander had wings he didn’t know how to fold without taking out a doorframe. Galina had a dragon tail she kept forgetting was there. Gordy turned people to stone twice before Karloff figured out the glasses.”

I smiled at the images.

“One guy spent six months sleeping upside down because he couldn’t get comfortable any other way,” Barrett continued.

“What about you? When did the plant instincts start?” I asked.

He looked toward the seedling trays by the window. “After the change, my senses were sharper. I could tell when a tree was unstable without seeing the crack. Knew when roots were stressed. Animals stopped being afraid of me after a while.”

“And the plants?”

“Came later. I’d be walking and something would catch my attention. Not because it looked unusual. Just...” He frowned. “Like being called.”

I thought about the jars above his stove. Years of leaves, bark, seeds, and roots gathered because something in him had insisted they mattered. “What did you do with the first one?”

“Brought it home. Put it on the shelf.”

“And then?”

“Found another.”

I smiled. “And another. Did you ever wonder why?”