I'm on "vacation" this week. Well, to be more specific, my hours were cut again. Considerably. My boss pitched it to me like it was some kind of reward for a job well done. Thanks, man, but if I wanted time off I could just quit. I work because I need the money.

Despite having the week off, I don't feel like going anywhere. I haven't left my apartment once in four days. What a coincidence; feels like something really big happened four days ago. If only I could recall what it was... oh, that's right, I remember now.

I lost my fucking shit and alienated half of my neighbors in one fell swoop.

What a perfect time for a vacation. Without any place to go, I'm stuck lurking here at home. I haven't dared to even poke my head outside my room since the fallout. I've been too worried that Al's going to split my skull like a watermelon if I do. Any delusion I had in my mind that things would blow over with time and distance is gone. I've been eating out of the fridge every meal. Delivery's been tempting, but now that I'm officially working part-time (which is describing the amount of work I'm getting rather generously) I have to make what little cash I have last. The boon I got from the tiger oil hustle went from being move-out money to survival scratch.

Too bad, too, because I've never wanted to move out as much as I do right now. So much for a townhouse in Savannah Central; I've got more pressing concerns like keeping my stomach filled and my lights on. And speaking of filling my stomach, I'm starving. I roll off of the couch and onto my hooves, but as soon as I stand up I feel lightheaded. My vision's blurry and the room's starting to spin. Before I know it, I'm doubled over on the floor, coughing as something nasty dribbles down my mouth and onto my shirt.

Lovely.

I reach for my bottle of water and uncap it to take a swig. Room temperature, but still better than nothing. My throat's burning, probably because of how parched I am. Despite downing almost the entire bottle, it does little to alleviate the soreness.

Sighing, I force myself into the kitchen to grab some paper towels to clean myself up.

What the fuck am I doing? I live in fear -- constant, endless fear that everyone's out to get me. I worry night and day about getting jumped or mauled. Yeah, the savage epidemic is terrible, and yes, mammals are getting hurt. But now I'm starting to wonder if I'm part of the problem. There's still no clue as to what the trigger is. The cops can't be everywhere, and Mayor Bellwether's trying but she clearly can't get a handle on it either.

Provoking a wolf built like a fucking tank during a period of unprecedented civil unrest may very well top the list of stupidest things I've ever done in my life. I'm not saying it's entirely my fault, but I'm legit surprised that Al didn't punch me into next month or worse. Not just Al, but the others as well. He had to physically restrain Avo, and even Ozzy's more than a match for me. And I kicked him while he was down, too.

Yeah, don't get me wrong, I'm not ready to go kiss Ozzy's ass. The giggling fucker threw me under the bus for his screw-up, which I now realize is a pattern with him. If the going gets rough, he's going to be watching out for himself every single time. And in that regard, well, I can't say I blame him. I'd do the same thing. Still, I said all that to say at least now I've got a reason for why he acts the way he does.

And he still did save my life. In hindsight, I probably owe him more than lunch and a handshake. I certainly owe him more than humiliating him in front of a bunch of people. Twice, if his accounting of what happened at Bug Burga was him being honest.

As I dab at the stain on my shirt, I can't help but feel like the worst part of the shitshow I took part in is the spread effect that my words had. Not only did everyone in the room get an eyeful of the ugliness I've been bottling up, but I'm sure Betty's gotten wind of it by now. Clearly I caused problems for Al, but I didn't even consider the effect it had on Betty. Beta or no beta, I almost fear her wrath more than his.

Truth is, I don't actually know for sure if Al's tapping her on the side or not. I'm sure he wouldn't pass up a ride like her if he was given the choice (what man would?), but implying that he was forcing sex out of her was a stupid assumption to make. Especially since I think he might have some kind of thing going on with Velvet, who's yet another victim of the Wrath of Cormo that I'm going to have to apologize to. Tossing the last of the paper towels aside, I collapse back on my couch only to remember I'm still hungry.

I lay here for a while, staring at the ceiling and ignoring the gurgling noises my stomach's making and the blistering pain in the back of my throat. I'm not really sure of what went wrong, but I'm going to have to start putting things right. If for no other reason than my safety's sake, anyway. I can't keep living on Pack Street, constantly at war with everyone around me. Like Rex said, it's not good for my health -- physical or mental. I'm surrounded on all sides by potential maulers and I've got to get some of these folks in my corner.

With a sigh, I close my eyes to rest until I'm feeling well enough to get back up, then it's onto dinner. Just for a few minutes, though. Just until the dizziness passes.

A sudden, jarring pounding noise at my front door startles me awake. Looking around in a panic, I catch sight of my clock -- shit, I was out for over four hours. The banging at the door continues in another short, loud burst. I try to quiet my raspy breathing. I plan on making amends with everyone I lambasted, I really do... but not right now. Right now, I just want to hide from the world for a little longer. I'm not feeling up to it just yet. Whoever it is can wait until I--

"Your little disappearing act didn't work last time, yarn ball, I don't know what makes you think it will now," Betty calls out from the other side of the door. "Knock the shit off and open up."

Oh, perfect. It's only the grim reaper, come to collect. Who am I to keep death waiting?

I slide off the couch and onto my hooves, but they feel like jelly underneath me. I must still be tired. I stagger over to the front door and unhook the non-functional, decorative latches. They're starting to swim before my eyes; it takes me two tries just to get the last one unlocked, and another three tries to locate the real doorknob. Bracing myself for impact, I slowly open the door.

Betty's standing in the hall, cigarette in her maw and fire in her eyes. In her arms is a small laundry basket covered with a blanket. I look up at her, and for the second time in so many days I'm completely at a loss for words in front of a wolf. She shifts her bundle around in her arms, glaring down at me.

"You look like shit."

I swallow again, grimacing at the itching sensation in my throat. "I st-- Betty, l-look, I just..."

"Shut up and let me in. I've been standing here holding this thing for ten fucking minutes."

I quickly step aside as she makes her way into my apartment. It's only once she's out of my doorway that I can see Marty and the twins standing out in the hallway, all three wearing wide-eyed expressions. Betty sets the basket down on my kitchen counter, tosses a look over her shoulder, and the peanut gallery scatters in seconds, Anneke practically tripping over her brother to get inside their apartment first.

Closing the door, I meekly toddle over to the couch, pressing my hooves together. Even though it's taking all my energy to stay standing, I don't dare sit down while she's here. Betty turns to look at me, arms folded in disgust.

"You have no idea what kind of hornet's nest you've just stirred up, do you," she says, her tone like ice.

"Actually, I, I -- ahhh, aaaa-aaahhsscchhooooo!!" Without warning I abruptly, violently sneeze into my hoof mid-sentence, leaving a disgusting trail of mucus and snot dangling from my muzzle. The back of my throat's on fire and my eyes are watering. I waddle over to the counter, grabbing another paper towel from the roll and wiping my face clean. Betty sighs, shaking her head as she watches me.

"You're a fucking mess."

"I think there's something in the air," I groan. She tosses the blanket over the back of my couch and begins digging through her basket, pulling out a countertop pressure cooker and a brown grocery bag.

"Yeah, the stench of a sick fucking sheep. Now quit hovering and sit down. I don't want to catch whatever you've got while I'm here."

"I'm not sick," I retort, scrunching my face up to stifle another sneeze. "Just a little tired and run-down, s'all."

She pulls a thermometer out of her bag, walks over to me, and leans down, wagging it in my face. "Say 'ahh'."

I scrunch my eyes closed and shake my head. "What? No. Betty, you don't--"

She rolls the thermometer between her fingers, still leaning down. "I wasn't asking."

I know better than to argue with her when she insists. If it didn't work during the shearing, it sure won't work now. I open wide and she roughly shoves it into my mouth with one paw while she presses the other to my forehead. I bleat out in panic as she shifts the thermometer around in my mouth, scraping the plastic handle against my teeth and positioning the reader end under my tongue.

"Be glad I had the mercy to put it in this end, lambchop," she quips. What the hell is it with Betty wanting to stick things in my ass?

I sit there for a long, quiet moment, trying not to make eye contact, but I can feel her looming over me. I'd give anything to break this awkward silence.

"So I'm a bitch, huh."

I gulp uncomfortably and nearly swallow the thermometer.

"Beddy. I shwea, I wazh--"

"Shaddup." She yanks the thermometer out of my mouth before returning to the kitchen. "Yeah, that's a fever if I've ever seen one. I'm surprised you don't have the chills."

"Why are you here?" I ask warily as she sets the thermometer in the sink and begins unpacking the rest of the grocery bag. "If it's to chew me out or whatever for what I called you, then fine, I understand. I deserve it. But why all this? Surely you didn't come over here just to take care of a sick asshole everyone hates."

"Betty. Not Shirley." She continues scrounging, not even looking up from the bag. "And what, you think everyone hates you? God, you've either got a really fuckin' high or a really fuckin' low opinion of yourself. I ain't sure which."

"Wh-what do you mean?" I croak.

"I mean that the world doesn't go revolving around you. Yes, you shot your fuckin' mouth off the other day. Good job, you confirmed what everyone already knows: you're a fuckin' dumbass." She pulls out a couple of cans from her bag, setting them on the counter with a frown. "But life doesn't stop because some upstart grazer makes a fool of himself on Pack Street. You got this picture in your brain that you're like, some kind of rare treat for us to 'ooh' and 'aah' over. Like we've never seen prey before."

I lower my head, saying nothing. Whatever she's going to lecture me about, I've probably got coming.

"Al was right about one thing. You really don't know shit about how things work around here."

"That's because nobody tells me shit," I mutter bitterly. "I'm just expected to know everything."

To my surprise, however, she nods. "Yup. And for once, you're right. So let me clue you in on some things. Consider this a, hmm -- a crash course. Pack 101." Sighing, she dumps the last of the paper bag's contents onto the counter -- a few more cans and a few loose vegetables -- before crumpling it up and tossing it aside.

"S-sure. Uh, you need a can opener for all those?" I interject. Betty rolls her eyes and picks up a can of peas, pressing it against her jaw. With a single bite, she punctures the metal and begins unscrewing the top using just one of her sizeable claws, half-wrenching the tin lid off. "Okay then. N-nevermind."

"First and foremost, you need to get somethin' through your head now." Betty pauses, turning to glare at me. "I'm nobody's bitch. You understand me?"

I hastily nod, wiping my nose against the back of my sleeve. "Y-yes, right. It was inappropriate. I'm sorry."

"Inappropriate's for using the wrong fork at some fancy dinner. What you did starts fights. You're lucky I wasn't there at the time."

I swallow painfully, staring at her, and nod.

"That ain't your word to use. You got that?"

"I'm really sorry," I repeat, emphasizing it. "Won't happen again."

She tilts her head at me for a few seconds, holding my gaze before reluctantly turning back to the pressure cooker. "And we weren't 'kissing', just so you understand. I was licking his teeth. It's a wolf thing, a check-in. Shows submission and respect for authority."

I sit up, wincing visibly. "Licking his teeth? Really? Isn't that kinda... gross?"

She snickers in return, shaking her head.

"I -- this'll probably sound ignorant, but you guys don't exactly strike me as the whole... respecting authority types." I try to point in the vague direction of Al's apartment but only gesture weakly at my own door. "So I kind of assumed... something was going on there."

Betty snorts as she resumes opening cans using the same method as before. "Yeah, well, assuming is what started that mess the other day."

"So there's nothing going on between--" I start, and she glances up at me with a suspicious look that makes me want to rewind this sentence. Instead, I just bumble through it. "Uh, I mean, if you've got some kind of... romantic thing, uh, with Al -- or, well, with anyone? Just so I know for the future."

She props herself against the counter with one paw, side-eyeing me. "Are you asking if I'm single?"

A sudden sneeze buys me a much-needed pause to clarify my words. "I'm just trying to make sure I have the situation straight."

"Al's a sweet guy, but no, we're not like that." Sweet?! Are we talking about the same Al here? "And anyway, we have plenty of respect for authority. Place like this would devolve into anarchy if we didn't."

"So is Al like your leader, or king, or what? I mean, what's it mean to be the 'alpha' and 'beta' and all that sh-- stuff?" I ask.

"Honestly, it's not that complicated," She shrugs. "A lot of it's formalities, tradition. Business. Al's the alpha, but that doesn't extend to like, everything. So like, he has a territory, but there's limits to it."

"Wait, seriously?" I lean against the armrest of the couch, pressing a hoof to my throbbing head as I look at her. "Like an actual -- like what, a gang thing? Like the mob? I thought he was just joking when he meant he had a territory."

She gives me an incredulous look, laughing as she begins dumping the contents of the cans into the pressure cooker. "Ahah! Haha, wow, no. No, he's -- he's not joking. His influence is a pretty fuckin' big net, fluff. At least for around here." Placing the lid on the pot, she wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and walks over to the couch.

"Look, we ain't all angels who walk the straight and narrow, but this isn't a gang. That's prey stuff, it came from herds. I know some folks watch 'Clem and the Trashbangers' on the big screen and think that's what it's like in a place like this, but packs are for looking out and staking lines, not starting wars. And they're sure not organized crime. That shit stays over in Tundratown."

"O-okay." Never had any idea Tundratown was the crime capital of Zootopia. That puts it in a completely different perspective.

She scratches her neck, thinking. "A pack's more like a family. Hell, in the old days that's what it actually was. The 'alphas' were just the parents. Now, though, it works a little differently. Mammals don't live around blood so much."

"Yeah," I nod quietly, "living with your folks isn't for everyone."

"Now take some of this shit and lay your ass down while your dinner cooks," Betty says, thrusting a packet of cold medication into my hooves. "It'll be about thirty minutes."

"Wh-what are you making? It smells good."

"No it doesn't, you liar. It doesn't smell like anything yet," she says as I tear the packet open and toss two of the pills into my mouth. "It's chicken soup."

I cough at the sudden shock, gagging on the pills. "Ggkk! Wh-where the fffuck did you get--"

"Relax, I'm just joking." Betty snorts a little as I struggle to clear my throat. "Vegetable soup. If I actually HAD chicken, there's no way I'd have been able to smuggle it over here without everyone on Pack Street knowing about it. And I sure wouldn't waste it on your ass."

Swallowing, I head over to my bed and collapse on top of it, pulling my comforter over myself. My apartment's pretty wide open; I've got a clear view of the kitchen even piled up in bed. Betty unfolds the blanket she brought, draping it over me. I'm not really sure why but maybe she feels like I need the extra layer. I didn't really realize how cold I was, but now that I'm under the blankets I'm beginning to shiver despite the fact that it's warm outside.

I guess I really am sick.

"Thanks," I manage.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Betty pulls her cigarette butt out of her muzzle, crushing it out against a coaster on my nightstand. "Anyway, the alpha's the leader of the pack and the beta's the second-in-command," she says, holding one paw up and another paw slightly lower like some kind of a visual aid, as if I don't understand how ranks work. "It's not like a king or a mayor where he gives orders and everyone else follows. The Alpha fights for what he's got. Gotta struggle and show he's strong enough to keep it. That's what that little 'fight' you saw was about."

That makes sense. They explained it sparingly at the time, but I think I understand it better now. So he wasn't keeping her down, just flexing his muscles a little. And I guess in a way, she was encouraging it. I quietly nod to let her know I'm following along. Or trying to, anyway. My sinuses feel like I've been snorting lines of gravel.

"So Al's got power, respect. When he talks, we listen," Betty continues. "But he earns it. Stands for something. He's gotta be the kinda wolf that deserves it. He watches everyone's backs, makes sure needs are taken care of."

"Needs?" I reach a hoof up to my throat to massage it. "Like, like what kind of... needs?"

"Like the kind that life kicks you in the ass with. If the law comes knocking, the Alpha's the one who tries to settle things while they can still be salvaged, but he also does his best to keep his pack in line. Someone's kid getting shit at school and the faculty won't get their paws dirty? The alpha puts a stop to that. Some mama wolf in the pack whose deadbeat husband fucked off doesn't have money for formula or diapers for her pup? Alpha makes it work." She fumbles around in her pocket for another cigarette, but stops just short of lighting it after looking at my face. "He can't be everywhere at once, and obviously he's not everyone's provider, but when he's really needed, Al finds a way."

I'm having a hard time imagining much of anything right now, least of all Al being some selfless saint. Further investigation's needed when I don't feel like I'm at death's door.

"So it's a two-way street. The Alpha works hard to help, but he needs his pack to follow him. Needs respect to keep order. That includes breaking up fights, keeping his pack from fighting amongst itself." She wags a claw at me, accusingly. "That's where you really fucked up. You start a fight in a pack, you answer to the Alpha. You start a fight WITH the Alpha, you're in deep shit."

"I kinda gathered as much, yeah," I sigh.

"That's why even Avo wanted to punch your face in. It wasn't even that she was pissed at you. Not only, anyway. She wanted to defend Al, the way he defends us. So if you learn one thing from this chat, learn this: you don't disrespect the Alpha. Not over petty shit. Not in front of the whole pack. And definitely not in front of outsiders."

We sit in silence for a while, and even through my haze I digest the advice. Respect's something anyone understands, but here, it's like a way of life.

"Him and Velvet, then?" I venture quietly as she gets up from the bed, heading back into my kitchen. "They some... some kind of...?"

"That ain't my business to say shit about," Betty replies, rattling around in my kitchen drawers until she finds a plastic grocery bag. Reaching into my freezer, she pulls out a scoop of ice cubes from the tray inside, pouring them into the bag before tying its handles off in a knot. "And it ain't yours to ask about, either. If either of 'em want to volunteer that info, I'm sure they'll let you know."

"Okaay. Sss... sorrrry," I mumble. My head's beginning to pound, so I close my eyes for just a few seconds. Crossing the room, she lays the makeshift ice bag onto my forehead before clicking my nightstand light off. "...the beta?"

"Pretty much the kind of shit I'm doing right now. Assessing the needs of the pack. Now sit there and count yourself for a little while," she snorts, taking a seat in the living room. "I'll let you know when it's dinnertime."

She's taking care of me. "Assessing the needs of the pack" -- does that mean I'm part of the pack? No, I can't be. I'm a sheep. Sheep aren't wolves. Not me.

It's dark out, and cold. I feel like we should be in Tundratown, but I can't see any buildings nearby. There's snow crunching beneath my paws, but I don't mind. My thick fur keeps me warm.

The sky's clear and open tonight. No clouds. No city lights to drown out the natural stars. They say on a clear night you can see forever. Turns out 'forever' is damn beautiful. In the center of the stars is the moon, tucked into the swirl like an egg in a nest. Smooth and round and perfect. I don't feel like I've got the words to explain it, but looking at it, I want to be there. I want to reach out and touch it and pull it close and run with it like a ball tucked under my arms. I've never loved something the way I love the moon in this very moment, but I need it. I want it.

Most importantly, I want to share this feeling with the world, but there's nobody around to tell. I slide down off of my snow-covered rock onto all fours, looking around for someone to tell. Anyone to communicate with. I have to get it out.

But no matter where I look, I'm alone.

I have nobody to share this wonderful feeling with. I have nobody to share anything I have with. I've been on my own for a while. I like being alone, but for the first time realize I don't like being lonely. My heart hurts. In my chest, my heart hurts. I hurt. I collapse in the snow, body shivering. My eyes close. I roll onto my side, raising my paws to the sides of my head.

I'm singled out in this corner of Zootopia. Isolated. By myself, in an endless stretch of white. White everywhere, far as the eye can see. Like an endless sea of wool, but it hurts to the touch. It's so cold it's burning me.

They say the lone wolf dies. I wonder if that counts for me too. I throw my head back and let loose a cry, a scream at the moon. A desperate plea of anguish and misery. A lonely cry from the pit of my belly that lasts and lasts, crescendoing. Someone, anyone. Send help. I feel like there should be a word for this feeling, this noise I'm trying to make, this essence I'm pouring out.

And yet the moon doesn't answer me back. I'm going to die out here.

This is what I get for straying too far from the pack.

Something nudges me awake. My eyes feel like they're weighted down, almost like my eyelids have been clamped shut. Betty presses her paw against me as I carefully try to shift to a sitting position.

"No. You're fine like you are," she says gruffly. "Alright, lambchop -- open up."

"Yhhhhmn," I groan, trying to blink the cobwebs away. I feel like I'm underwater. "You're not spoon-feeding me."

She taps the spoon against the bowl, idly. "It kinda looks like I am. Now c'mon, open up. You need this."

I can't even focus enough to remember why I protested, so I let my muzzle kind of fall open. She dips a spoon into the bowl in her paws, poking a warm serving of broth and soft vegetables into my mouth.

It's delicious.

I gulp down spoonful after spoonful of the liquid as she serves it to me. At one point Betty stops to chide me, insisting that it's not a race and that I should take my time. I nod deliriously, my fever-fried brain working overtime just to keep the rest of my body functional. All I know is food's good, I'm starving, and someone's here with me. That's enough for now.

Once I've finished the soup, she sets the empty bowl aside before picking up a water bottle with a straw poking out of the top. "Fluids will help with the fever, and you don't want to get dehydrated."

"Why are you -- mff -- helping me?" I moan as she pokes the straw into my mouth. "Helping an outsider?"

She tilts her head at me with a weird look on her face. It's not really a frown but far from a smile. "Oh, you're not an outsider."

I suck down half the bottle in just a few slurps. So thirsty. "So like, what, I'm one of the pack then?"

Letting loose a short bark of a laugh, Betty sets the bottle aside. "Don't flatter yourself."

Groaning, I lay my head back against the pillow. "Betty, about Al... what -- what should I do to, y'know..."

"Apologize?"

"Not get my ass kicked," I mumble as she readjusts the ice bag on top of my pompadour.

Betty gathers up the empty dish and spoon to dump off in the kitchen sink. "Al hates stupidity and he probably wants to make an example out of your dumb ass for disrespecting him, but he'll be patient with anyone willing to learn our customs and pay the right respects. Show him you're willing to play ball and it'll go a long way."

"Any tips on how to, uh..."

She looks up at the ceiling, then taps her neck, emphasizing that she's exposing her throat to the open air. "This is always a good one."

Every instinct in me screams not to bare my neck like that, especially to an angry wolf. But I'm too tired to disagree. At least it'll be easy to remember. Worst case scenario, at least I'll be dead quick, right?

"I'm going to take care of some laundry to kill time," Betty remarks flippantly, carrying her empty laundry basket to my front door. "You're going to rest. I'll be back to check on you before the end of the night."

"Yes'm," I call out weakly before nestling myself in and leaning back on my pillow.

"Looks like your fever's broken. Took it long enough," Betty says as she looks the digital readout on the thermometer over. Walking to the kitchen, she rinses it off under the tap.

Yawning, I slide out of bed with a tired nod. "Did you get your, uh... laundry done already?"

"Yesterday, actually. You were out the entire night."

Testing my weight on my feet, at least my legs don't feel like gelatin anymore. I'm able to hobble to the bathroom door to relieve myself before stepping back outside into the living room. As Betty gathers up her pressure cooker and the extra blanket, I prop myself against the wall, fumbling for something to say.

"The, um... the soup you made was delicious."

"Good, because you've got about six more bowls of it in the fridge. I also had Marty go get you a couple bottles of Superade and a box of popsicles. Hope you like grape."

"What is it with Marty and fuckin' grape," I chuckle tiredly, extending a hoof to her for a shake. "Really though, thanks for everything."

"Yeah... I ain't shakin' your hoof, fluff," she remarks bluntly. Flinching, I lower my arm to my side. Guess I can't really blame her after everything that happened. "Some of us still got work, last thing I need is to be laid up a fuckin' week."

"Oh... right," I reply, feeling more than a little stupid.

"Well, at this point, you can fend for yourself." Betty trots toward the door, clicking it open. "And... you're welcome."

She steps out, closing the door behind her.