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in my head because his voice is hard and curt. “I’m taking bigger shapes,” he says briefly. “I need the extra room. If you’re always turning into something that’s the same size, you could make it shorter.”
    William sits back, satisfied. “I think I’ll try it.”
    “I’ve got two extra keys,” Christina says. “I’ll give one to each of you.”
    William is nodding, but Dante is shaking his head. “I don’t need to confuse the issue,” he says. “I’ll stick with this one.”
    And your buried cell phone
, I think, but do not say aloud.
    “So who wants cake?” Christina says.
    I’m the only one who has dessert, and then I’m the only one who helps Christina clear the table when we’re done eating. William hasdisappeared again, and this time I think he might have shifted shapes and slipped back into the wild; the house suddenly feels empty of his presence. I would like to hold Lizzie again before we leave, but she’s still sleeping when we’re done in the kitchen and it’s clear Dante is growing restless.
    “We better go,” I say to Christina, and she nods and escorts us out the door. On the front porch, I pause and hug her, something I cannot remember ever doing before.
    “I’m serious,” I say. “Call me if you need help.”
    “I will,” she says. “Thanks for coming.”
    F or the first twenty minutes of the drive home, Dante rants about Christina’s stupidity and selfishness and sheer wanton stubbornness. “She
knows
, we’ve
talked
about it, she realizes
none
of us should ever have children,” he says in that fast, angry voice.
    I mostly don’t listen; I’ve heard this diatribe before. Dante and I had been lovers for a couple of years when I made some offhand comment about having a baby one day. He was very clear on that point: No children. Ever. Not if I wanted him as the father. I had hastily agreed (I was only twenty-three at the time, and not seriously interested in becoming a mother any time soon), but during the last ten years, I’ve grown more and more wistful at the notion of remaining childless my entire life.
    I haven’t said so to Dante, but on this subject, he’s eerily sensitive, and he’s picked up on my unspoken longing for a baby of my own. Five years ago, when he was still human for more than half the month, he had a vasectomy, not telling me about it until afterward. He has no health insurance, of course, so he’d found a city clinic that performs operations for cash or for free, depending on the patient. Then he lay around the house for the next day making self-pitying jokes about beingneutered and complaining that the pain was worse than he’d anticipated.
    Unexpectedly, I’d been sharply, bitterly disappointed when he told me what he had done. I would never have the chance to change his mind; I would never be able to hold in my arms a small, fragile, enchanted creature who was half me and half the man I loved. It was impossible to explain to him my sense of loss, so I had commiserated and teased him and made bright jokes in reply.
    “You could have waited till you were in dog shape and let me take you to the vet,” I’d said. “I imagine that would have been even worse, don’t you?”
    “Cut my balls right
off
,” he’d replied. “I don’t think
you’d
have liked it, either.”
    What makes you think I like this?
“Well, you’ll be feeling better in a day or two. Let me get you more ice.”
    I am so lost in memories that at first I don’t realize Dante has fallen silent. When I do, I assume that he’s simply brooding over Christina’s sins, maybe remembering all the times in her childhood she showed a similarly disastrous lack of judgment. I’m astonished when he abruptly says, “I’m sorry.”
    Dante rarely apologizes, and usually only after I’ve been crying for three hours. “For what?” I ask cautiously.
    “I know you want children. I know it—it hurts you to think you’ll never have any.”
    I’ve relaxed back against