Nathan's Beast Mode

You've been in beast mode since you were four.

That was the year you climbed the water tower on a dare from nobody — there was no dare, you just looked at it one morning and decided. The town watched from below. Your grandmother watched from the porch. She didn't call out to you. She just crossed her arms and waited, because she already knew what you were.

You've held a wolf by the jaw. Not long. Just long enough.

You once walked forty miles in the wrong direction because turning around felt like an opinion you weren't ready to have. You slept in a ditch. It was fine. The stars were good that night. Something small and warm curled against your back and was gone by morning and you never found out what it was and you think about it more than you'd like to admit.

There's a scar on your left forearm you can't fully account for. You've looked at it enough times that it stopped meaning anything, which is its own kind of meaning. You know it wasn't the alley cat. The alley cat fight was a separate incident and you'd rather not rank them.

The cat on this shirt is not a metaphor. Or maybe it is. You're not doing that right now.

You don't cry at things. Except once. You know which time. So does the cat.

Beast mode isn't about being hard. It's about being the last one still standing in the field after everyone else went inside. Rain optional. Usually not optional.

The shirt. You've earned it. You've always been earning it.