There’s a sound somewhere. The neighbors rolling their garbage bins down the driveway.

It distracts me from the moon. I shake her off.

I hit my vape pen again, then head back inside. I stand at the kitchen sink, drinking water straight from the tap. I don’t know why. I should really get a glass.

I’m too thirsty. I drink and drink.

I pull away and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

I notice my phone charging on the counter. I have no idea how it got there. I guess someone recovered it from my car. Maybe the cops? I’m not happy to see it. We’re fighting. If it hadn’t distracted me, none of this would have happened. Why accept any responsibility when I can blame this evil pocket computer?

I flip it over and see I’ve got too many messages. From Ash, from Seth, from my mother, whom Scarlett must have informed about last night’s misadventure. From Ian.

I offered to drive, his first message says.

How does he know?

Thinking of you. Heard you’re okay but let me know if you need anything.

Heard from whom? I always hated this small-town-grapevine nonsense. That’s something I love about the city. The anonymity. No one knows who you are, and no one gives a shit about your business. It’s a beautiful thing.

Thanks, I respond.

I want to add something clever, maybe vaguely flirtatious, but my side is aching so badly, I can’t think straight.

I unplug my phone and take it upstairs with me. I drop it on the bed and get a pair of pajamas out of the dresser, then head into the bathroom.

I slip out of my rain-damp clothes and kick them into a wet heap behind the door. I flip on the fan. Its dull, melancholy hum seems an appropriate soundtrack. I begin to pull at the gauze on my forehead. The tape is stuck to my hair, and its apparent there’s no removing it without scalping myself.

I move on to my side. It’s a pain I don’t understand. A pain consistent with what I experienced last night, not what I saw this morning. In the stark hospital light, it was just a scrape. An anonymous pink smear. I’ve had nastier carpet burns. Even Seth said it wasn’t that bad, and he’s a doctor, so I should trust him and let that be that. Only I can’t get away from the memory, or vision, or whatever.

I was bitten. I was chewed through.

I get my nails under the tape at the top of the dressing and yank it back.

“Ow, fuck!” I mutter into my neck.

I let the gauze hang there like a dead petal, the tape on the bottom still adhered to me.

My heart stops at the color. Against the white of the gauze is a mess of silver. Iridescent silver puss. It oozes from my side, from what previously appeared to be ordinary, innocuous cuts. My skin is discolored, unlike any bruise I’ve ever seen. It’s an alarmingly vibrant purple.