AN: This is a much-requested flashback into Kat's past, namely what happened when she was bitten. It's said that she doesn't remember any of it, and that's still true in the current time: Kat DOES NOT know how she became a werewolf; she doesn't remember it at all. She barely remembers NOT being a werewolf. That's because I'm going to be using her past in my story, so I can't reveal all just yet! 

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, Kit-Kat?"

"Is IT real?" The child, age nine, curled into her father's lap like a dog.

"What's IT, hon?"

"IT. You know, from the book." The man cocked his head, staring at his daughter.

"As in Stephen King's book? You read that?!"

"No, I saw it in the liberry." Kat looked up at her father, tilting her head. "Is IT real?"

"No, baby," he assured her. "Monsters aren't real."

Two years ago

"See, saw, marjory daw," sang the little girl. "Hey, ho, jeremy snow." She held her bag, a yellow cloth purse, close to her side. Inside it, a few coins, a comb and a stick of Strawberry Flavor chapstick jostled against each other. The purse was a bright little thing, out of place against the girl's blue jeans and checkered shirt. Out of place against the woodsy backdrop.

Coal Mountain, eastern California. Summer. A nice, family vacation. Daddy was back at the camp, and Mommy was asleep in the big tent. She'd go back soon, just as soon as she found the prettiest flowers to pick for Mommy. Surely Mommy would like flowers, right? Didn't everyone like flowers?

"Me, my, ollie-ollie-" There was a soft noise from the bushes nearby, a kind of whispery rustle. She broke off. "Hello?" It suddenly occurred to her that it was getting dark, and that, just maybe, she was scared.

She didn't even have time to turn around when it came.

A flash of fur, cold eyes, sharp teeth, and the yellow purse dropped to the ground.

When Daddy arrived, drawn by the screams, she was curled on the path, clutching her arm. Blood speckled the ground.

"Kat? Kit-Kat? What happened?!"

It took two hours for her to open her eyes, and three hours for her to speak. When she did speak, it became apparent, to her parents' shock and confusion, that she did not recall the incident at all.

The yellow purse lay forgotten in the woods, and eventually, a particularly resilient strand of ivy would grow over it, and it would be as if nothing had happened there at all.

"They aren't?"

"No, Furball, not real at all." Silent, pensive, the child turned her head away from her father and watched a lonesome cloud pass across the moon through the open window.

It was the first time she did not believe him.