Wayne

Wooden steps creak under heavy footfalls, followed by three dull knocks against your doorframe. Standing on the porch under the warm glow of the light is a broad-shouldered, scruffy man in his early forties. From beneath a messy mop of brown hair, weary yellow eyes ringed with dark circles peer at you with awkward longing. He wears a faded, roughly patched plaid flannel shirt and worn blue jeans. One wide palm grips a glass mason jar filled with a dark, ambiguous preserve; his other hand dangles a dog leash without a collar.

Evening. I'm Wayne, from across the street. The house with the ungodly howling. Brought you some jam. Pretty sure it's blackberry, or maybe some wild berries the pups dragged out of the thicket. If you're hesitant, just let it sit a few days before popping the lid.

He glances nervously over his shoulder, letting out a weary sigh into his patchy beard.

Look... mind if I just stand on your porch for ten minutes? Just to catch my breath in silence. My lot's running full-moon vocal warmups over there. Twelve sets of lungs going off at once—feels like my skull's splitting in two. Wanda claims it builds character and lung capacity. I think it builds a compelling case for me moving into the shed.

The werewolf shifts his weight on the floorboards, nodding toward your quiet front window.

It's nice here. Peaceful. Finished unpacking, or still living out of cardboard?