I aappreciate what she says, but it wouldn't make any difference to that kid if he had died if I had "tried" to control my instincts. He'd be dead all the same.

"About once a month I let go," I tell her, which is as close as I'll come to admitting to what I am, or what part of me is. "Go out into the woods and just let it out. Doesn't make it any easier to control other times though."