My Mother Runs With Wolves

The acrid mix of sweat and that metallic, indefinable something that makes fear an almost palpable thing hung heavy in the air. Any other girl would probably wrinkle her nose at it. Then again, any other girl wouldn't have picked up the smell at all. Rounding the corner, I peeked into the alley, my eyes quickly assessing the scene.
Two teenage boys, one much younger, faced off. The younger boy, knife glinting, pushed the older against the wall. His hands were up, a placating gesture. Fear, sharp and undeniable, radiated from him. The younger boy looked nervous, determined.
"I need your wallet!" he demanded, his voice thin.
"Look, I already told you, I don't have anything on me. I'm out for a run," the older boy replied, a surprising calm in his voice, though the fear still edged it. I paused, Mom and Dad's warnings to keep a low profile echoing in my head. The knife looked sharp, but the young boy's hands trembled, like it was his first time.
And then I smelled wolf on him. He was a Shifter. My doubts vanished. I stepped into the alley.
