My knee is wrong. It grinds. It clicks. It is a small, dry sound inside the bone. Like a stone rolling in a tin can. I am running. The wind is in my face. It is cold. It is sharp. I can hear my breath. It is ragged. It is my own. I am not human. I am a shape in the fog. I am the thing they fear.

My name is Elias. Or it was. The name is a shell. I have outgrown it. I am wearing my brother’s coat. It is too big. The sleeves hang down. They are empty. My hands are tucked away. I am hiding them. They are wrong. They are too many joints. They are grey.

I run through the cornfield. The stalks are dead. They whisper. They do not care. The moon is high. It is a white eye. It watches. I do not look up. I look at the road. The road is straight. It goes to the town. It goes to the house. It goes to her.

She is my sister. Clara. She is safe. I hope she is safe. I left her in the house. I told her to stay. I told her not to open the door. I told her I was going to get the medicine. I lied. I was going to leave. I was going to disappear into the dark. But my legs moved. They have a mind of their own. They walked me back. They always walk me back.

I see the lights of the town. They are yellow. They are warm. They are lies. People are there. They are afraid of me. They have guns. They have stones. They have hate. They see a monster. They do not see the pain. They do not see the grinding in the knee. They do not see the blood that is not blood. It is ink. It is black. It stains my skin.

I reach the edge of the woods. The trees are black. They are teeth. I step into the clearing. There is a man there. He is tall. He is wearing a coat. It is my coat. Wait. No. It is a similar coat. It is grey. He is holding a flashlight. The beam is bright. It hits my face. I squint. I cannot see. I can only feel the heat.

"Halt," he says. His voice is low. It is rough. It is like gravel. I know that voice. I do not want to know that voice. I freeze. My feet stop. My heart stops. The knee clicks. *Click.*

"Who are you?" he asks.

I do not answer. I cannot. My throat is tight. My jaw is locked. I am trying to pull my hands out of the sleeves. I am trying to show him they are human. But they will not come out. They are stuck. The skin is fused.

"Step forward," he says. "Slowly."

I move. One step. Two steps. The ground is hard. It is frozen. I am close now. I can see him. He is older. He has grey hair. His face is tired. His eyes are red. He is crying. He is not afraid. He is sad. He holds the flashlight down. He looks at my feet. He looks at my hands.

"Elias," he says.

My name. It is a knife. It cuts me. I flinch. I back up.

"Stay there," he says. "Don't run. Please. Don't run."

I stop. I am shaking. The wind is colder now. I can feel the cold in my bones. It is a deep cold. It is old.

"Who are you?" I whisper. The words are small. They are dry.

He does not answer. He takes a step forward. He puts the flashlight in his pocket. He raises his hands. They are open. They are empty. He is showing me he is unarmed. He is showing me he is weak.

"I am Thomas," he says. "Your uncle."

I do not know an uncle. I do not have an uncle. I have a father. I have a mother. I have a sister. I do not have an uncle. But the name feels right. It feels like a key in a lock. It fits.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"I want to take you home," he says.

"I am not human," I say. "I am a beast. I will hurt you. I will hurt her."

"You are not a beast," he says. His voice is gentle. It is soft. "You are my son. You are my son who ran away."

I stare at him. The fog is thick. It is swallowing the trees. It is swallowing the road. It is swallowing the past.

"You lie," I say. "My father was dead. My mother was dead. I was alone."

"They are gone," Thomas says. "Yes. But you were not alone. You were with us. You were part of us. You just... changed. You forgot. You ran. And we followed. We have followed for years. We have followed for so long. We are tired, Elias. We are so tired."

I look at his hands. They are shaking. They are old. They are human. I look at his face. There is a scar on his cheek. I remember that scar. I remember the day it happened. I remember the blood. I remember the fear. I remember the name.

Elias.

It is not a shell. It is my skin. I am not a monster. I am a boy. I am a boy who is broken. I am a boy who is running. I am running because I am afraid. I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of the pain. I am afraid of the truth.

The truth is simple. I am sick. I have always been sick. The doctors said it was a curse. The neighbors said it was a demon. My parents said it was a mistake. I was a mistake. I was the thing that did not fit. So I ran. I ran into the wild. I ran into the dark. And the dark took me. It ate my mind. It ate my memory. It left only the fear. It left only the run.

Thomas steps closer. He is close enough to touch. I can smell him. He smells like tobacco. He smells like rain. He smells like home. I want to touch him. I want to hold him. I want to die in his arms. But I am afraid. I am afraid I will bite him. I am afraid I will scratch him. I am afraid I will break him.

"Let me go," I say. "Let me go away. I will not hurt her. I will not hurt you. Just let me go."

Thomas shakes his head. "No. You cannot go. You have to come back. You have to face it. You have to face who you are. Not the monster. The boy. The boy who is afraid."

"I am not a boy," I say. "I am the thing in the dark."

"You are my son," he says. "And I am your father. And I am here. I am not going anywhere. I will stay with you. I will stay until you remember. I will stay until you stop running."

I look at him. I see the sadness in his eyes. I see the love. It is a heavy love. It is a tired love. It is a love that has been waiting for a long time. It is a love that does not give up.

I want to run. My legs are ready. They are coiled. They are springing. The wind is in my ears. It is screaming. It is calling me. It is calling me to the wild. It is calling me to the freedom. It is calling me to the pain.

But I stop.

I stop because I am tired. I am so tired. I am tired of running. I am tired of being afraid. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of the click in my knee. I am tired of the dark.

I look at Thomas. I do not move. I do not run. I stand still. The fog rolls in. It surrounds us. It is cold. It is silent.

"Come with me," Thomas says.

I nod. I do not speak. I cannot speak. My mouth is dry. My throat is closed. But I nod.

He takes my hand. His hand is warm. It is rough. It is real. I let him take it. I let him hold it. I let him lead me.

We walk. We walk slowly. We walk back to the town. We walk back to the house. We walk back to Clara.

My knee clicks. *Click.* It is a small sound. It is a dry sound. It is a sound that says I am here. It is a sound that says I am alive. It is a sound that says I am not a monster. I am a boy. I am a boy who is coming home.

The road is long. The night is deep. But I am not alone. I am with him. I am with my father. I am with the truth.

The truth is heavy. The truth is hard. The truth is that I am sick. The truth is that I am afraid. The truth is that I am loved.

I walk. I walk. I walk.

The moon sets. The stars come out. They are cold. They are distant. They do not care.

But Thomas holds my hand. And that is enough.

I am Elias. I am here. I am home.