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Chapter Text

Rituals followed to evoke one's talents are for hacks.

Wednesday has no use for such hokey, superstitious behaviors. 

Her visions have always come naturally, often with little more than the nudge of her laying her hand on something. She's honed it, used it, abused it since childhood. Her psychic abilities have gotten Wednesday in and out of more trouble than she cares to name.

Which further heightens the irony that she hadn't foreseen the renovations needed in the spare house behind the Addams Family home. At her own behest and her parents' eventual acquiescence, Wednesday decided to move out of the family home that still houses her parents, her brother Pugsley, her uncle Fester and his occasional live in girlfriends, Thing, Lurch, Wednesday's grandmother on occasion, and she's pretty sure she's seen her mother holding who Wednesday can only assume is another sibling of hers from time to time.

She drops a box in the center of the living room and looks around. Wall paper peels downward to make the walls look as if they're in tears. The fireplace is a beautiful black color tinged with spots of orange rust. Large rings of mold start at nearly every corner of the ceiling and work their way inward, and it only competes with the rot of the spongey floors. Wednesday's lips curl into a genuine smile at the aesthetic.

She picks the box back up to drop it in her closet in the living room. She stands to walk away, but doubles back to it curiously. The box is years old, and she rips it open in search of her candlestick holders on the off chance she desires to perform a seance later, when she sees it.

She comes across that damned...snood. It feels eons old now, the one her former roommate gifted her during their tenure at Nevermore. She hated it then and Wednesday hates it more now that she's come to the realization that she's kept it for over a decade. It will make perfect kindling for the arson Wednesday plans to commit in a number of hours. She reaches to grab it. Her fingers curl around it until it's crushed to her palm.

Then her head snaps back.

Her vision turns black for several seconds, then switches to a flash of images. One image is of a chipped and faded wooden sign that reads Amity Park. It's barely legible due to weather and age. Another image appears of multiple slain bodies, both Fur and non-Fur alike. Blood and entrails pool on top of the ground as if from heavy rainfall. The image is so acrid, Wednesday can nearly smell the coppery tang. The image flees, replaced by another. Furs of multiple colors and builds running together across a dying field. Two wolves appear more mature than the rest. Some of the wolves are a pale yellow color, nearly white. All of them have blood on their fur, around their muzzles. The biggest of the blonde wolves has a head streaked with colors. It trails behind the other wolves when walking, but turns back in Wednesday's mind's eye as if to look directly at her.

Wednesday gasps. Her head snaps back down and she drops the snood. She blinks slowly, the whites of her eyes clearly visible. She reaches for the snood again and strangles the black yarn infinity circle in her grasp. No other visions are forthcoming. 

Wednesday rolls her eyes. She can't very well throw the thing away now.

The wolves in her vision, one of them anyway, is so obviously Enid it's annoying. The confirmation is compounded by the fact that Wednesday only had the vision after touching an item gifted to her by none other than Enid Sinclair.

But what to make of the vision, especially after all this time. Wednesday rushes through the folds of her mind to recapture the images that are already beginning to fade. She uses context clues to piece a picture together. The flashes of images provided a possible location, Amity Park, a possible time of year, which is now, fall, judging by the barren field the Furs ran across. Enid is wolfed-out and seems to have company. A pack, perhaps. Which is illogical, as Enid's an alpha that remained wolfed-out, which generally leads to said wolf being ostracized.

Which would have happened to Enid, as Wednesday hadn't gotten to her in time to bring her back from the brink.

Wednesday blinks hard then exhales an audible breath. Her lips curl back into a sneer at the memory. She throws the snood back into the black box and nearly flings her body away from her closet. Her arson plans are off, as is the seance. So much for a night of relaxation. She paces the floor of her living room, bangs falling over her eyes to cast a sinister shadow.

Thing finds her like this when he walks in. He signs to her from the floor.

Wednesday continues to pace, undeterred. "I had a vision."

Of what, Thing signs.

"I'm...unsure," she replies vaguely.

Are you lying?

"I don't have all of the facts yet, but...it's Enid."

Thing appears to buzz with excitement, and Wednesday scoffs. How is she?

"I don't have all of the facts yet," she repeats tersely. Wednesday's eyes find the floor. "This would all be easier if Enid were available to speak with."

Thing settles with an air of defeat at her statement. He perks up just as quickly and signs, See if she still has active socials.

Wednesday goes eerily still. "Did you just suggest that I create, then access and utilize a social media account?" Her eyebrow rises a fraction. "Do you have a death wish?"

Thing shrugs. Detectives who are serious about their craft leave no stone unturned.

"Lucky for you and our dreary city, I am not a detective," she says with barely contained scorn. "Now get out."

Thing shrugs again and scurries away.

In his absence, Wednesday takes one look at her laptop then looks away. The fact that she even owns the thing is leaps backward despite everyone in her family assuring her she's stepping forward into the current century. She huffs to herself and folds her arms. Then she exits the room entirely.

She mulls over Thing's words and her vision as she strolls through the woods behind her family's home just after midnight. The moon is only a waxing crescent but shines brightly with potential. It bathes the forest canopy below in a white glow. Wednesday passes by yet another undead creature Pugsley's created. She sidesteps it easily as it lunges for her in slow motion, then she keeps walking with her back to it as its grunts of effort eventually fade into the background.

There are so many monsters in this world, but none scarier than her.

It's this thought that propels Wednesday out of the woods and back into her home. She flips open her laptop with force just shy of snapping it in two, and does the one thing she dreads most in this world: creating a social media account. It takes nearly an hour as she debates just volunteering personal information about herself that the platform will inevitably sell to the highest low bidder. Once she logs in, she's inundated with suggestions of people to digitally befriend. Wednesday's narrowed glare floats from photo to photo on the screen. Most are curated from her locale. Wednesday is baffled by the fact that even Nevermore classmates are listed. Baffled further by the fact that former school gossip extraordinaire, Enid Sinclair, doesn’t appear to have a profile at all.

People claim to change over the duration of their lives, but Wednesday understands humans to be predictably dreadful and one note, claiming to change to fool others and themselves out of self-loathing.

It doesn’t work, and the idea of Enid suddenly becoming a recluse in ten years’ time is not only unlikely, it’s improbable, a near impossibility.

She sees Yoko’s picture and clicks on her profile. She’s wearing a dark pair of sunglasses, a half open linen shirt that suggests she may have taken this photo over the summer on or near a beach. She throws up the peace sign in the photo with a lopsided smile on her face. Most of her information is redacted with the promise that all will be revealed when Wednesday submits a friend request. Her mouse hovers over the button until she spies a small envelope in the upper corner of the screen. Wednesday clicks on it and a blank text box opens with the Yoko listed as the recipient. Wednesday begins typing and hits send confidently without proofreading when she's done.

Yoko,

I trust this message finds you alive, as I require your assistance.

Days ago, I received a vision involving an old abandoned park, cult or feral pack-like activities, and a pack of ravenous werewolves. My initial thought was Enid. I have not remained in contact with her, and was curious to see if you had. If so, do you suspect she could be a part of a feral Fur pack?

Respond immediately.

Coldly,

Wednesday

The message sits, unread, for days.

Wednesday doesn't have another vision.

But it does little to quell her curiosity. She’d have been a detective had she passed the psych exam. But she's never had an affinity for authority, so counts failing as a win. As it is, Wednesday is a psychic Raven with an unusual propensity for uncovering.

She takes a trip to her local library for copies of dated primary sources of firsthand accounts from survivors of cults of various forms, including lupin cults, of which feral packs are considered a subtype when there is a distinct leader or figurehead. The books covers are threadbare. The pages have yellowed with age and carry a sour stench. Pockets of mold blot along the spines of the books. Wednesday's sigh is a little whimsical with each gross detail.

She reads several books cover to cover by the time the library closes for the evening. She learns that, depending on the temperament of the leader, wolf packs can quickly devolve into cults with a figure head and devotees. Lupin cults were outlawed decades after secular and non-secular cults due to primitive beliefs that pack structures tend to lend themselves to these kinds of behaviors anyway.

Wednesday returns home that evening with a clearer understanding that does little to cull her curiosity.

The following evening, she receives a response from Yoko.

yk i always thought if i heard from you again it'd be too soon

haven't seen enid in years. sucks

last i heard she was still wolfed out, her family wolfed out with her and they all just kinda ran away

don't contact me again xo

Wednesday smiles cruelly at the last line. Her fingers hover on the home-row of her keyboard before she begins to type furiously.

You should really capitalize proper nouns, to include names, as well as the first letter of a sentence. Punctuation only aids clarity, including the Oxford comma you forgot, she types and hits send before exiting the app.

She's satisfied by the fact that she and Yoko appear to be on the same page about never contacting one another again. Even better, Yoko's given her a lead, no matter how small. At some point, it seems the Sinclair family went full-time Furs and haven't looked back. 

Which could mean Enid has spent a decade wolfed-out and out of touch with what it means to be human.

She thinks of this and this alone for the remainder of the evening, and turns her thoughts over like a snow globe masking as a crystal ball. Enid's family lived in San Francisco as recent as ten years ago. When Enid wolfed-out, she ran north, past the Canadian border into oft frozen territory. A quick cursory glance of deeds and property records online shows the Sinclair household was sold approximately nine years ago. Wednesday quickly concludes that Enid's family sold the home and ventured north to reunite with the lone alpha wolf that was their child and sibling. 

Surface level, it can sound like a touching story. But between what Wednesday remembers of Esther Sinclair, Enid's mother, and her disturbing visions, she has reason to believe that this story doesn't tie off into a neat bow.

Dinner is tasteless and a chore as she sits at the black dining room table that evening, surrounded by family. Pugsley is loudly laughing, engaged with his newest undead plaything. Morticia and Gomez are enthralled with each other as always. She sits at the head of the table and, unconventionally, Gomez, sits at her side rather than at the other end. Toward the opposite end of the table, Fester and Thing are having yet another arm wrestling match. The flatware clangs when Fester's hand falls against the table.

"Your wrist is stronger!" Fester cries once the third round concludes. "That's the only way you always win."

Perched on the dining room table, Thing wags a finger in disagreement.

Wednesday glowers at each of them individually and collectively. She pushes aside her plate of road kill. Her voice refuses to rise above the fray as she announces, "I will be leaving."

Everyone settles anyway.

Pugsley looks to her briefly before quietly playing with his undead creature again.

Morticia smiles indulgently.

"And where will you be going, my little barracuda?" Gomez asks.

"North," Wednesday says simply. "I've had a vision and I intend to see it through."

At that, Morticia pauses and gives Wednesday her undivided attention. "What happened in your vision?"

"Unclear," Wednesday grouses in irritation at the reminder. "Nevertheless, it is of the utmost importance and I must attend to it immediately."

Trepidation causes the lines of age to carve deeper into Morticia's countenance. "Do keep in mind what happened the time you overused your psychic abilities, dear."

"That was over a decade ago."

Ironically, it also involved Enid. Wednesday drove herself to exhaustion trying to see anything that could help save Enid's life during a time when her death was imminent.

She knows no difference between then and now, but has no trouble reminding herself this isn't necessarily about Enid. It's about a possible harmful feral cult that may be indiscriminately killing others, whether for food, sport, or sacrifice.

She has Lurch load the car, and wastes an extra five minutes turning down an eager Fester who had packed his suitcase with the assumption he'd come along. It takes several hours to traverse through traffic and nature to arrive at the location of her vision. Wednesday bids Lurch a terrible evening and steps out of the car.

He drives away, leaving her alone. Dust kicks up under his tires then stills again.

Dressed in a black sweater, black pants, and black boots, with a black backpack slung over her shoulders, Wednesday surveys her surroundings. Lurch has pulled down a dirt road rendered nearly invisible with green overgrowth. They came to a clearing past several rows of trees that stretched for nearly a mile. Several feet away from where she was dropped off, Wednesday approaches a sign that stands before another overgrown path. The sign is old and faded. Wednesday can barely make out what it says, but she knows from her research that this location was a state park until it lost funding. The sign's come unscrewed on one side and hangs lopsidedly in a way that appears foreboding, just as it had in her vision.

She continues onward down the overgrown path of the abandoned park, pack strapped to her back. Sooner than she'd like, crepuscular animals will begin to wake from their slumber. Wednesday had planned for more daylight, but Lurch refused to obliterate traffic the way she instructed. She doesn't have much sunlight left, but refuses to hasten her pace. About a mile and a half in, she sees it: tracks. Wednesday stares down at them and puts her foot in one to compare size. The tracks appear canine, much larger than a domesticated dog, and larger than a typical Canis lupus. She observes where the tracks continue forward with her eyes before her body sets in motion to follow it.

The terrain becomes rough, giant rocks with unending edges stab through the soles of her feet. Twigs snap underfoot, and autumn leaves crinkle under her feet with nearly every step. Wednesday follows the tracks for several miles until they appear to split off. Two sets of tracks go in one direction, four in another. After weighing her options, Wednesday decides to side with probability and follow the path taken by the most number of Furs. She readjusts to a lighter gait that's nearly soundless as she ambles down the path until she starts to hear rustling in the distance.

Wednesday stops, though the tracks continue onward toward a pack of seven full grown wolves grazing in a clearing. She crouches to better hide, but it further obscures her vision in the setting sun. A closer vantage point from a higher altitude would be ideal, but a risk. If she has any chance of observing the pack, she has to do it from afar.

Two blonde wolves wrestle over a giant leg covered in brown fur, likely a buck, though could be a moose this far north. Were Wednesday any closer, she wouldn't have to waste time comparing two different looking animals. She spies two older wolves, one black, one brown, both displaying graying fur around their muzzles and eyes. Wednesday can guess which one of the seven wolves is Enid, but the streaks of blue and pink fur certainly help. Enid licks her paw then rubs it along her head to groom. Wednesday resists the urge to roll her eyes. Even as a wolf, Enid is prissy.

She's also bigger than she used to be. Once a lanky, gangly, nearly eight foot puppy, Enid now looks wider like a mature tree that's earned a lifetime worth of rings. Only, Enid's bulk appears all muscle, Wednesday notes, as she watches the sleek coils of strength beneath her fur.

Wednesday watches her take several steps forward then pause. Enid sits. Her nose tips upward to scent the air. Then her head lowers and her neck cranes slowly to look directly at Wednesday through a thicket of trees.

In a rare display of surprise, Wednesday gasps when those eyes land on her.

Those aquamarine eyes that used to appear like warm ocean waves have now iced over into something unrecognizable. An unfamiliar sensation of discomfort akin to fear lances down Wednesday's spine as Enid looks at her. She licks her mouth, and only then does Wednesday notice Enid's jowls smeared in blood. Wednesday remains perfectly still and stops breathing all together. Perhaps Enid will think she's something already dead.

Chapter Text

Rows of trees and a plot of grass separates them. Quietly, Wednesday crouches lower. Enid pauses for a second, and the notion that she's safe saturates Wednesday's mind. In a swift motion, Enid rises onto all fours and starts walking toward her. Her alert gaze faces forward and appears to stare directly into onyx eyes. Wednesday's heart starts and slams against her rib cage, and she's sure Enid can hear it as she nears. A low growl emanating from Enid's chest shakes the ground all the way to where Wednesday stands. Her fangs are long daggers protruding from her muzzle, eyes narrowed into a glare that rivals Wednesday’s. 

One of the smaller blond wolves perks up at the sound of Enid's growl. It meanders over. If possible, Wednesday's heart beats twice as fast. Adrenaline pours through her veins. Silently, she reaches behind her to grab an actual dagger from a side pocket on her backpack.

Enid's head whips around as the other wolf approaches. She twists abruptly to stand over it and barks loudly once, then growls again. The wolf before her growls back at her, even as it retreats several steps. It's voice breaks into a whimper as it joins the other two wolves it had trotted over from. Each wolf now turns to Enid. She huffs with a shake of her head then she gives a full body shake. Then, she lowers her head to the ground. Wednesday frowns at the gesture. Enid pops back up and walks toward the pack. The brown wolf barks once, and everyone begins to follow it east.

Wednesday soundlessly takes retreating steps of her own. Enid pauses again as the other wolves walk away and casts one last look at Wednesday as she stands to her feet and runs away. Even as her feet pound into the earth below her at the quickest pace she can muster, Wednesday has the wherewithal to tell herself she isn't afraid. Engaging in self-preservation via escaping a predator is just logical. She runs until she's winded, until she has no choice but to double over, hands to knees to catch her breath. A rattle of noise behind her catches her attention, and she turns to see a squirrel scampering on the ground. Wednesday grabs her phone from her bag and phones Lurch for a ride back home as she quickly makes her way back to the dropoff point.

Lurch merely grunts with a grimace when he arrives. The door shuts with finality once Wednesday enters. Her neat twisted plaits are askew with several strands hanging loose and free. Her throat is dry from dehydration that's squeezed her entire body like an empty juice box. She pants from effort, exertion. Adrenaline drains from her body and leaves her slumped against the black backseat.

Neither speaks a word for hours until Lurch pulls up to the Addams family mansion.

It's only when Wednesday gets home that she realizes she'd focused an inappropriate amount of time on Enid. The other wolves were mere periphery, when the entire pack should be the focal point.

She takes a reprieve from the world by returning to her cabin and shutting the door behind her. A giant weight tethers Wednesday to her desk in front of her typewriter. Thoughts of Nevermore slither from the recesses of her mind and take root. Her teeth grit against the assault of thoughts, memories, emotions.

Her fingers work against the keys before Wednesday’s even conscious she’s typing. Each black word bleeds heavy weight onto white paper in neat rows from the top of the sheet to the bottom, then Wednesday feeds more parchment into the device and begins anew.

Her hands ache by the time she pulls away. But every pound sitting like ghosts on each shoulder has poured through her fingertips into seven consecutive pages non-stop.

Wednesday breathes clean air into her lungs. She rises from the table. With a clearer head, she pores over the books she took from the library. One glare at the librarian, and Thing’s filthy hand covering her mouth, silenced any of her protests as Wednesday walked out with as many books as she could carry.

One in particular is an old leather-bound journal that was deemed too valuable to even check out of the library. 

Wednesday unwraps the leather tie secured around it to reveal the cover uncovered. A large wolf’s head rests in the center. The details of its pelt and features have smoothed away with age and wear. She peels it back to the first pages of the book. Wednesday briefly delights in the author's cursive scrawl on every page. A dying art. She reads the first several pages to discover the journal's an account of a feral pack cult survivor.

Details written into each page add dimensions to Wednesday's vision that solidify what were first mere hunches that sent her stumbling into the woods to find Enid and answers. The author spares no one's sensibilities as they describe the utter desolate isolation of transitioning from a lifetime in a social human environment to living permanently on all fours in rough terrain with only four to eight other people for the rest of their life.

The text only grows more tenebrous with each page turn. The author describes wintry weather rendering the land barren. Then tensions within the group led to in-fighting. Someone rose through the ranks to declare themselves the Supreme Alpha of the group, and it only took one or two other wolves to fall in line to influence the entire pack. With nothing but cold snow caked to the tender pads of their paws, and empty stomachs that nearly touched their spines, the pack was easily swayed to begin killing people. At once, they were drunk on satiation and pliable enough for the Supreme Alpha to declare that, whether rain, snow, or sunshine, people were the one food source that required little hunting and skill to devour.

A footnote at the end of the journal describes how anyone proclaiming to be a Supreme Alpha is likely a cult leader who tricks otherwise unsuspecting wolves into thinking killing humans maintains their health and power. To kill is to venerate, protect, and honor the Supreme Alpha.

Wednesday closes the book when she hears a knock.

Her gaze flicks up to the door across the room. "You may enter," she says.

The door offers a long, low creak when it opens. Morticia steps inside. She smiles at Wednesday. "You're here."

"I have returned," she says flatly.

Soft eyes regard her. "You seem even more dour than usual, dahlia."

The comment is verbal arsenic. Wednesday composes her expression to neutrality. "I saw Enid."

"Oh?" Morticia steps further into the room. "How is she?"

"She's a dog."

A small wrinkle of confusion sets into her forehead. "Hasn't she always been a Fur?"

The same wrinkle of confusion settles onto Wednesday's features. "Yes, but she's been in her Fur form for quite some time now."

"Hmm." Morticia perches at the edge of a couch cushion. Her hands fold neatly in her lap while she regards Wednesday with concern. "Admittedly, my understanding of Furs is limited, but if I remember correctly, this can be detrimental. That is, if the wolves desire to integrate into society again."

"Yes, but the situation is more dire than that. If I'm correct, Enid and her family are a part of a feral Fur cult that indiscriminately kills humans."

Morticia hums again and shrugs a single shoulder. "The world is overpopulated," she says. "Besides, you love a little bloodsport. Why does this trouble you, mija?"

Wednesday straightens. "Do not be mistaken, mother," she says firmly. "I do not care about a few deaths. It makes the world go 'round." She smiles grimly at her own joke. "But Enid—" Her lips thin into a line. "Enid's mother was problematic, and I simply won't rest in misery until I know the truth about her. I don't have a lot of evidence yet, but...if she is running a cult, I will uncover it."

"If anyone can, it's you, my little wrecking ball."

Wednesday rolls her eyes. "I'm an adult, mother."

Morticia doesn't respond. She touches her fingers to her chin in thought. "Why ever did you stop looking for her, Wednesday?"

Wednesday's permanent frown becomes even more chiseled in place.

"I do not wish to discuss this any longer."

Night bleeds into day and night again. For a full twenty-four hour cycle, Wednesday reads every word of every page in every book she stole from the library. Once her eyes start to cross, she rises from her desk. Wednesday steps onto the porch then out into the clearing she’s turned into her back yard. Grass stretches out from her feet and all around her to the woods several yards away.

There’s a chill to the air, amplified by occasional winds, but it compares little to the tundra inside of her.

Which is why, when Wednesday feels goosebumps line her extremities, she knows something’s off. Adrenaline rises to the surface of skin before she has the chance to deep breathe and change course. She checks her peripheral vision, aided by the waxing moonshine. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.

Still, Wednesday loudly says, "Face me, dog," as she steps from the porch into the yard.

Silence continues to chase at her back. Wednesday looks out into the dark of night, but sees nothing. Fallen leaves tumble by on a gentle breeze. Just to her left, a knot of trees begin to shake back and forth, then split to reveal Enid emerging from the shadows. The more she stalks forward, the taller she looks. Her sand colored fur is darkened with dampness.

Wednesday folds her arms across her chest as Enid comes to stop before her. She looks down at Wednesday with an unreadable canine expression. Likewise, Wednesday looks up at her with an even glare and otherwise lax features, save for the firm line of her mouth.

The wind whistles around them, plays through the longer strands of fur on Enid’s head and cuts through Wednesday’s bangs. A long muzzle tilts upward as Enid scents the air.

"You’ve hunted me here," Wednesday says. "Color me black and unsurprised." She gives Enid a once over one too many times that betrays the state of her nerves. "If you're here to kill me, get in line. As I've told every enemy I've ever had, I get first claim to myself when I say so. Shall I fail, perhaps you’ll be a worthy second."

Enid stares at her. Not that Wednesday expects words, but she receives nothing at all. Enid’s a statue; not a single muscle on her body moves. Wednesday can't even tell she's breathing.

Her teeth clench. "Change," Wednesday instructs. "Transform, so that I can speak with you." She's unused to being the more verbose one, with anyone, but especially Enid.

Enid remains still.

Wednesday's voice hardens. Her hands drop to balled fists at her side. "I know you're still capable. I've done my research."

She's met with more silence. They continue to stare in stalemate at one another until Enid shifts uncomfortably. Wednesday catches a hushed gurgling sound. She eyes the wolf before her with renewed interest.

"You're hungry."

Enid remains silent, though her eyes narrow to glare at Wednesday.

A vicious grin of victory splits Wednesday's face. "That's what I thought." She folds her arms again. "Well, you can’t eat me. If you desire food, you'll change."

Her body sways forward at even the mention of food. Her stomach growls again. Then Enid huffs and walks away.

Wednesday calls to her, unable to allow this beast to think she’s gotten the best of her, not even for the sake of her own life. "Enid."

The wolf stops moving. Rapidly, Enid rounds on Wednesday and roars loudly in her face, hungry and unsatisfied. Her teeth are sharp and plentiful and her mouth is still stained with blood from earlier.

Wednesday doesn’t flinch, but she can hardly speak around the lump that lodges in her throat. Enid watches her throat work with a swallow.

She breathes until her breath is even then says, "What are you doing? What have you been doing?"

Enid turns wooden, stiff and lifeless. As quick as lighting striking through a thicket of trees, she bolts for the woods and keeps going. She’s out of sight within seconds, large paws thundering against the ground. Leaves continue to rustle under her disturbance until even that ceases.

Wednesday stands alone. Her fingers contract and relax, scowl elongating her face. Her tongue is a whip in her mouth, once poised to crack against Enid. She shakes her head, and turns to walk inside.

The hairs on Wednesday's nape stand on end when she catches a loud, long howl before she shuts the door behind her.