Andrew walked down the lonely avenue leading from his pack's apartment complex to their preferred outing for such nights, Sam's Bar and Tavern, his trademark beige jacket flapping in the breezy Northern California wind. The aforementioned street, the only paved one in town, whose mud-caked surface was dimly light by the surrounding street lights, saw little action, mostly due to character of the community in which it laid. With a meager population just above 200 people, Mountain Creek is little more than a quaint little cluster of clapboard cabins, unkempt yards, and weather brick storefronts rising humbly from the immensity of the surrounding forests, seemingly stuck in the 19th century. Somewhat orderly rows of cottonwoods line a grid of streets seldom disturbed by vehicles of any sort. There's one grocery store, a single bank, and a lone gas station, all sandwiched together on the town's short main street. Over 75 miles away from the nearest town with a populace of over a thousand people, it was deemed perfect for the remaining werewolves in California, thanks not only to its seclusion but the isolation of each resident, with most houses over half a mile away from each other. 

As Andrew entered the tavern, it was nearly nine, meaning most of the other members of the pack were already there, and it turned out he was right: over a dozen werewolves crowded around the bar, all lazily ordering drinks. Much like the usual crowd, the establishment hadn't changed since Andrew first came to Mountain Creek almost a year ago, its signature thick, beer laden air still clinging to his nostrils every time he entered while the plywood-paneled walls hung with deer antlers, aged Midwestern beer promos, and mawkish paintings of game birds in flight groaned and wailed with every gust of wind. He slid into the nearest booth, away from the quiet commotion of his brethren, and waited for someone to serve him.