Jim sniffed. “Smell the sweetness?”
“Yes. Lovely,” Sam said. “I like the ones that have just fallen.” He studied the plump morsel, the nectar inside straining against its skin. “A real peach.”
Jim took a bite and licked his muzzle. “It’s werewolf heaven, all these humans dying from sun stroke.”
Barb Ettridge is totally bemused by life, but enjoying all the randomness.