As a kid, I knew that there were wolves in the dark. Scrawny wolves walking naked on their hind legs. Wolves that talk to you before eating you, but wolves nonetheless. Wolves you forget as soon as they leave your field of vision.

At night, I would turn the lights on, progressively, carefully, as I went from my bedroom, through a corridor, down the stairs, by the underground cellar, to the toilets.

On the way back, I would turn the lights off as I got to the stairs and a long stretch that would soon be plunged into darkness, and make a mad dash for it: running up the stairs and into my bed, covering myself with a blanket, trying not to breathe. Fully aware that the protection it provided me was purely symbolic, but hoping that years of sleep there unharmed were a sign that it did provide some protection.

I would know what the wolves looked like, pale, gray skinned, tall, and very thin… famished. I would remember the sound of their voice, remember running away from them, then remember I forgot about them and ran to safety without a reason, but deeply convinced that I should not slow down or look behind me. Looking back would be acknowledging that I remember they exist. Letting them know I should be a prey, and not just a toy.

I still know about the wolves. I sometimes remember seeing one by the side of a dark road minutes after the fact. So, I make sure to walk in well-lit areas. My home has good lights, no cellar, and locking doors. And I make sure that, as far as anyone is concerned, I forgot about the wolves.