As Sheila sat in one of the stools present in the kitchen, her mind drifted to thoughts of her absent daughter, Emma, who was far away in another country, in another continent.
She hadn't met Emma yet, as she had been in a coma for all these years, but she couldn't help but worry about her. She couldn't help the motherly twinge of anxiousness that filled her heart even for a child she hadn't known.
By morning, Emma would be undergoing her shift, and Sheila couldn't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at her.
Would Prescott do his job well?
The ancients had sung the squirrel's praises and all, but she couldn't help the unease buckling up her heart.
What kind of shift would Emma undergo?
Her daughter wasn't a normal werewolf after all. She was a combination of sorts, a combination they still hadn't a clue about. So, would Prescott handle it?
Sheila sighed.
