A silver bullet is enough to kill any werewolf. One shot and their rampage is over forever. My sister carries her rifle with her everywhere she goes, reminding us that at any moment she might be called on to take down another wolf.

After I moved out I hardly saw her any more. Every time she came to visit my apartment, after all the work I'd gone through to make it look presentable, she'd get a call and she would leave in a hurry. Sorry sis, it's a big one. Sorry sis, it's out in the streets, I gotta go. I couldn't blame her though. She was protecting us, protecting me too. It was a dangerous, glorious job.

My job on the other hand was much less glamorous. I worked in the sewers. I unclogged blockages and smacked machines with a wrench when they stopped working. And I was registered as a contractor, somehow. My hours made no sense and my pay was a pittance. I lived by myself in a dingy apartment block in the dustiest part of the city. My neighbours were immigrant workers, single mothers, and shut-ins. Some were all three. There were more wolves than evictions, with a rifle shot every week. And the tap water tasted like shit.

I asked my boss about it one day. If he could get someone to take a look at the filters, maybe install a new one. I was worried about contamination, I told him. "Why? We've done plenty of checks and the numbers are fine," he told me. "Because the water tastes like shit," I said. "What do you mean?" he grimaced. "I live up there," I said, pointing up at the ceiling. He just grimaced even further. "Can't you at least run some tests?" I asked him. And eventually he caved.

When I got my hands on the report it was just like I'd suspected. The water was contaminated with human waste. Blood. Chemicals I'd never heard of before. I was disgusted. I begged him to install another filter, but he insisted that it was all within acceptable bounds. I was causing a scene. And even if he took it to his superiors, they'd never get the funding for it. "Only leeches live here anyway," he said, before catching himself. "Not that you're a leech. You know who I'm talking about."

A week later my neighbour turned, a retired old captain who was basically bed-bound. He'd always asked me to get his mail for him, lest he fall down the stairs. I cheered when they dragged the wolf pelt out, relieved to have been saved. Then it was my turn. It was weird. She'd always told me that werewolves were feral. That the first thing to go was the mind. But when I looked at my claws I couldn't feel any anger, no bloodlust. Just cold sweat and lucid fear. Knowing any moment now I'd hear the rumble of her car out in the parking lot.