The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group Read Online Free PDF Page A

there was a picture of what was probably Father Ramon’s house – St Agatha’s presbytery – with its phone and fax numbers listed underneath. When I saw that he lived in Sydney’s inner west, I realised that Fergus had been right. I must have been all over the news.
    ‘Toby? What are you doing?’ a puzzled voice said. With a start, I looked up.
    Mum was standing on the threshold.
    ‘Oh. Hi,’ I muttered. There must have been something weird about my expression, because she asked, ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Yeah. Course.’
    ‘I brought your clothes and your toothbrush,’ she announced, dumping her bags on the floor. ‘And your Nintendo, naturally. What’s that, a get-well card?’
    ‘Uh – no.’ I held out the letter. ‘I think it’s for you.’
    ‘For me?’
    I had a feeling that she wasn’t going to like that letter. As a matter of fact, I didn’t really know how I felt about it myself.
    All this talk about my so-called ‘condition’ was freaking me out. I didn’t have a condition. I didn’t want a condition.
    ‘What on earth . . .?’ Mum’s eyes widened as they travelled down the page, finally coming to rest on Father Ramon’s signature. She blinked, then raised her head. ‘Where did this come from?’
    I gave a shrug. ‘It was on my pillow. Someone left it.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘I dunno.’
    ‘But you must have seen. Weren’t you here?’
    Ouch. I tried not to wince.
    ‘I had to go to the toilet,’ was my lame excuse. Talk about feeble! But Mum seemed to buy it. She frowned, her gaze dropping to the letter again.
    ‘This really isn’t appropriate,’ she said. ‘I don’t care if he is a priest, he shouldn’t be writing letters like this. And how does he know who you are? Who could have told him your name?’
    I didn’t bother answering, because I couldn’t. Instead I snatched up a bag full of clothes and retreated into the bathroom, where Pneumonia Boy had left his Thomas-the-Tank-Engine toothbrush. At that point I was beginning to wonder if there might be something wrong with me after all. My heart was racing. My skin was clammy. Surely it had to mean that I was sick?
    It’s only now, when I look back, that I realise how scared I must have been. If Fergus wasn’t to blame for what had happened, then my life had suddenly become way more ominous. I mean, it’s not easy to accept that you have a ‘condition’. Not when you’re thirteen years old. The whole idea is just too much to cope with.
    That’s probably why I let myself get distracted. As I pulled on my baggy old jeans (trying not to snag them on any gauze dressings), I was suddenly struck by a terrible thought.
    Had Mum been poking around in my stuff?
    My heart sank at the possibility. Where had she found my Nintendo, for instance? It might have been sitting on my desk or in my schoolbag, but what if it had become tangled up with a whole lot of other things – things that I didn’t want her to see? Like that length of pvc pipe? Or that wiring diagram? Or that bottle of vinegar? Could I tell her I needed the vinegar to clean my windows?
    Nup. Not a hope. I knew she’d never believe it.
    I was still trying to remember what I’d done with the padlock shim that I’d made out of a soft-drink can (using instructions from the Internet) when I opened the bathroom door again. To my surprise, I found that Mum had been joined by Dr Passlow. He was parked by the bed, looking creased and puffy. The priest’s letter was in his hand.
    ‘Hello, there,’ he said, glancing in my direction. ‘I see you’re ready to go.’ Before I could reply, he added, ‘How’s the stomach?’
    ‘Okay.’ It wasn’t a lie. Though I was pouring sweat and my heart was racing, I didn’t feel nauseous.
    ‘You’ve been eating all right,’ he remarked, jerking his chin at the breakfast tray still sitting on my bedside cabinet.
    ‘Yeah.’ I could have made some joke about the food (which was bad enough to make anyone feel sick) but I