Living on a Shift: Part Three

Instructions

I notice them the way coyote notices another predator. Not by sight—by absence. They sit two rows over in English. Quiet. Still. Not nervous like prey, not loud like someone trying to be seen. Their eyes track the room the way mine do, pausing on exits, windows, movement. Once, the fire alarm goes off. Everyone panics. They don’t. They flinch—sharp, controlled—and then they breathe through it, jaw tight, hands curled into fists like they’re holding something invisible. My heart stutters. You too? ___________________________________________________ It happens after school. I’m pacing the back hallway, trying to walk the shift out of my legs, when a voice says quietly, “You okay?” I spin too fast. They’ve learned not to approach from behind. “I—yeah,” I say automatically. They study me for a second too long. Their head tilts, just slightly. The wrong kind of familiar. “You move like you’re listening to more than one world at once,” they say. My pulse roars in my ears. That’s not something people say by accident. I swallow. “I just… get overwhelmed.” They nod. “Yeah. Me too.” A pause. Then, softer: “You don’t have to explain.” That’s when I know. ___________________________________________________ We’re in the library when it nearly happens. Too quiet. Too enclosed. The shift creeps in without warning—ears buzzing, senses stretching, thoughts thinning. I press my palms to the table, breathing hard. They notice instantly. “Hey,” they murmur, pulling their chair closer—not blocking, not touching. Guarding. A librarian frowns at us. “Is everything alright?” I open my mouth. What almost comes out isn’t words. It’s a whine. A sound that lives too close to my throat. They answer for me. “They’re having a panic episode. We’re good.” The librarian hesitates, then walks away. I sag back in my chair, shaking. “That was—” I whisper. “Too close,” they finish. “Yeah.” Their eyes meet mine. Steady. Knowing. They don’t ask what I am. They already know. ___________________________________________________ That night, I don’t resist. I let go. Human thoughts blur. Words fall away. The world becomes scent and space and meaning-without-language. Coyote is awake. Floor cool. Window open. Wind speaks. Night safe. Night honest. Body wrong-shape but workable. Legs long, balance strange, but the intent is right. Coyote stretches inside skin that doesn’t quite fit and decides it will do. Alert. Aware. Alive. No shame here. Only listening. Coyote remembers open land. Not memory-memory—knowing. Knows how to move between things. Knows survival is flexibility. Knows laughter can sound like screaming and still mean joy. Tail-that-isn’t-there flicks. Human worries fade. Coyote stays. ___________________________________________________ We sit together on the school steps a few days later. No one else around. Wind tugging at my hoodie. The shift humming under my skin like a held note. They say, “I’m… similar. Not same. But close.” I nod. That’s enough. “Fox,” they add, after a moment. “For me.” I smile—real this time. “Coyote.” They grin back. Sharp, bright. “Figures.” We don’t talk about details. We don’t need to. The understanding sits between us like shared territory. Not alone. Not hunted. ___________________________________________________ The shifts don’t stop. They probably never will. They still hit during class, in stores, on buses. My instincts still clash with my schedule. I still flinch at bells and loud laughter and sudden movement. But now— Someone notices when I go quiet. Someone walks with me when my legs want to run. Someone understands why some days I’m more teeth than words. I’m still human. I’m still coyote. Still too much for some places. Still not enough for others. But I’m learning this: I don’t have to disappear to survive. I can exist in the in-between. And when the howls come— I’m not answering them alone anymore.