The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group by Catherine Jinks

afternoon, when Amin asked if we could wander down to the reserve for a little while. This was after the three of us had spent most of the morning shut up in his room making a werewolf paw out of modelling clay. The result was pretty good, I thought, even though it was pink and shiny. (We’d had to borrow the modelling clay from Amin’s little sister, so we’d ended up with a paw full of sparkly bits, like glitter-glue.) We’d then run a few tests, leaving some paw-shaped impressions in various substances around the house: cocoa, washing powder, margarine. Only when we were satisfied that the paw really worked did we feel ready to head for the park.
    ‘Yes! Good idea!’ Mrs Kairouz said, as usual. ‘It’s a nice day – go and run around!’
    So we did. We took our phones, some money, Amin’s sister’s digital camera, and the pretty pink paw wrapped up in a plastic shopping bag. On our way to Nurragingy, we discussed certain technical challenges, like sound recording. Fergus didn’t think that the camera would be able to pick up Reuben’s voice from a distance. He was wondering if I could use myphone as well.
    ‘I don’t see how,’ was my opinion. ‘There’s no way Reuben’s gunna let me take pictures of him – why should he?’
    ‘It’s not the pictures I’m worried about. It’s the audio,’ said Fergus. ‘We’ve gotta have audio.’
    ‘Maybe Toby could take shots of the paw prints,’ Amin suggested. ‘ That would look normal.’
    ‘You’re right.’ Fergus favoured Amin with an approving nod. ‘It’s what most people would do. They’d whip out their phones and start filming.’ As we trudged along the side of the road, he turned to address me again. ‘You should ask questions while you’re at it. Get him to talk about werewolves. Then we’ll have a soundtrack of him lying.’
    ‘I guess so.’ Though the prospect didn’t exactly thrill me, I could offer no alternative plan. ‘But how will I make sure he finds the paw prints?’
    ‘By putting ’em everywhere,’ Fergus replied. ‘The more there are, the easier it’ll be.’
    There was no arguing with logic like that. It made perfect sense. When we reached the park, however, we soon realised how difficult it would be to stamp any paw prints into the dry, sunbaked earth. Nurragingy isn’t too lush in the middle of summer. Where the ground isn’t covered with mulch or tarmac or yellow grass, it’s often as hard and unyielding as concrete. We tried (and failed) in various spots: near the blacksmith’s shed, around the Memorial Garden, under the windmill. There wasn’t even a sandpit where we could leave our werewolf tracks.
    Finally we were forced into some of the boggier areas – like Lorikeet Marsh, for instance. Lorikeet Marsh was tricky. There’s a boardwalk built across it, and you’re not supposed to step off that boardwalk. (We used to pretend that if we did fall off, we’d be swallowed up by a tar-pit, or a lava-flow, or a swamp full of acid.) But now we didn’t have a choice. One of us had to leave the boardwalk and break the rules.
    That’s why Fergus volunteered to plant werewolf tracks in the mud. He’s good at breaking rules – and he also doesn’t weigh a lot. By the time he’d finished, there were only a few shallow, indistinct human footprints scattered around. You could hardly see them. They weren’t nearly as noticeable as the paw prints, which were deep and regular, though probably not quite far enough apart.
    ‘We should have spread them out more,’ I lamented, as I stood with Amin, gazing down at Fergus’s handiwork. ‘Those feet are really big, but the stride’s really small. Like the werewolf’s got tiny legs.’
    ‘Maybe it’s got a limp,’ Amin replied. ‘Or maybe it’s stalking its prey. You know . . . stopping and listening. Stopping and listening.’
    ‘You guys .’ It was Fergus. He hadn’t retraced his steps across the swamp, in case he left more footprints. Instead he had come