At thirteen, Jonah wished he was like all the other kids, worrying about pimples or spilt milk on his shirt during lunch. But he had a much worse problem . . .

God, I hate this, he would mumble to himself, looking up at the ceiling. I know this is just whining, but come on, why me? What is the purpose of me being this? If there were more like me, I could understand, but just me? Why, God, why does it have to hurt so much? Why every time? Maybe just once, just once, God, maybe I could black out or something, please? I could understand if something good came out of this, but come on. This just bites.

And then, he did the one thing he dreaded more than anything else in his life—he became a monster, a werewolf . . .