The wind had dropped, and the landscape held itself as still as the moon. As they pressed on, Tom’s senses kicked into overdrive. He drank in the sweet scent of the damp earth and dewy grass. Upwind, a loaded trashcan was brimming over with bad smells.

Further up the path they were taking he heard a twig snap, and caught a tang of sweat and desperation. Tom could almost picture the figure: some crackhead, turned animal by his need for a fix, shivering in the foliage and psyching himself up to strike should someone pass by.

The moon seemed to shine brighter, and as its light needled Tom with greater strength, he felt a moment’s kinship with the crackhead. The animal inside him was desperate for release, to strike out and taste blood, to bring on the change.

‘Tom?’ Kate was looking at him, concerned.

‘Not this way,’ he whispered.

They changed direction.

For several minutes they pressed on quietly, searching for somewhere to bed down.

‘How about here?’ Kate suggested, gesturing to a small huddle of trees and bushes.

But as she started to explore, cracking and rustling through the foliage, Tom hushed her. He could hear footfalls on the wet grass, distant shouts and ragged breaths, getting closer. ‘People are coming,’ he hissed.

Kate looked around, but it was too dark to make out anything clearly. ‘Should we get out of here?’ she asked.

Tom peered more deeply into the gloom. Across the open parkland he could see a kid no older than himself, who seemed to be running for his life. A gang of about ten people was tearing along after him, jeering and calling. Tom could smell the fear on the boy, felt his own heart start to pound faster, matching the rhythm of the kid’s footfalls.

‘Tom?’ Kate tugged on his sleeve.

‘They’re chasing him down. Like it’s a hunt or something.’ He turned to her, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, his breaths coming fast and shallow as though it was him running.

Kate hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Leave it, Tom. It’s not our fight.’

‘I –I can scare them off,’ he said, staggering like a drunk, his voice slurring as the change crept closer. ‘Just scare them, that’s all …’

‘Tom?’ Kate grabbed hold of his sweaty face with both hands, tried to make him look into her eyes. ‘Tom, no. Don’t do this.’

But a familiar heat was coursing through Tom’s body. He knew there was no turning back now. He saw the desperation in Kate’s eyes turn to resignation. Then she moved forward to yank his jacket off from his back. He fell to his knees, fumbling feverishly with the buttons on his brushed cotton shirt. Too late. His torso was already swelling up, and the heavy fabric splitting at the seams.