How does this sound?
“I need to talk to them,” Agent Something-or-other said, eyes locked to his notepad.
“Should be easy to find, the homeless camp is just by the road to the lake.” Anderson gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Good luck getting anything useful out of them, though. They don’t like to talk with us.”
It was more that they didn’t like to talk with Anderson. I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t like talking with him, either. And it was usually Keogh who dealt with the issues in the camp for a reason.
The agent nodded and kept writing in his notepad, not looking up. “Is there a big homeless problem here?”
“Yes,” Anderson said; at the same time, Keogh said “no”.
The agent looked at them. “You’ll have to explain that one.”
Keogh glared at Anderson for a good measure, and then answered gruffly. “We have homeless, yes. Sometimes drifters come in and don’t leave again—”
The agent looked dubious, but the facts remained. The hows and whys of it were one of those things that make your head hurt the more you think about it, so I mostly didn’t, but the facts remained.
Whatever the reason, people kept flocking in, even after the lumber industry died out and the traffic dried off, and Lindwurm welcomed them all. Some were lost and dazed, like they didn’t know who or where they were. Others came with hollow voices and thousand-yard stares, or with the haunted eyes of prey who’s tired of running. Some wanted a place where they could belong, or just be themselves, others a place to hide.
Some became sheriff’s deputies.
“—but,” Keogh continued, voice like liquid nitrogen, “it’s not a problem. The county provides housing for everyone who needs it. We take care of our own here, Agent. Lindwurm takes care of her own.”
“But,” the agent gestured to Keogh with his pen, “why is there a camp, then?”
Keogh sighed. “Some people like to stay in the woods when the weather permits. It’s more roomy there, and more space for the kids to run.”
What he didn’t say was that most of those people were werewolves. Werewolves who just preferred the woods, period.
“Wait, hold on.” The agent was just gesturing wildly with his pen, now. “There are children living in the woods?”
“It’s not like that,” I interjected. “It used to be a campground, back when there was tourism. There’s electricity and running water and phone lines and supervision. They’re fine. It’s like a late summer camp.”
Can’t argue with that, I’d just prefer it to happen in a way that doesn’t ruin the story for me!
Now I’m hungry.
I’m picturing working part-time as a videogame NPC now.