I’m so strong. I snap it like twigs. I crush it.

There’s movement. I’ve got a rat in my jaws. I clamp down. It ruptures. I swallow it mostly whole.

It makes me only hungrier.

I scale the walls of the distillery until I’m standing on what’s left of the roof. The moon is so close to me, I feel like I can touch it. I feel . . .

I feel fucking incredible.

I let my head fall back and howl.

Then the night goes black.

—

I come to, shivering in a ditch.

I’m naked, and my head is pounding so badly, it’s unreal.

I climb barefoot out of the ditch, still in a daze. I see the distillery through the trees and am able to orient myself and get back to it. I put on my coat, my shoes. Find my keys. I follow the path to my car. I blast the heat and sit for a moment before opening the car door and vomiting out of it. It’s a brutal puke. I blink when it’s over. My vomit is red. I see fur. And teeth.

I vomit more.

I find an old water bottle in the backseat and drink from it. Then I vomit that up, too.

I wonder if I’ll ever stop vomiting.

I search for Advil in my bag and swallow three. I wait another few minutes to make sure I don’t puke those up. I pull down the sun visor and check my reflection in the mirror. I look like myself. A little dirty, but otherwise fine. I curl my lips back. My teeth look like my teeth, though my gums are red. I prod them with my tongue. They hurt.

I speed home. It’s seven o’clock in the morning. I sneak into the house. Luckily Scarlett’s in her bathroom showering, so she can’t see the state I’m in.

Reaper, on the other hand, lunges at me. He gets me. Latches onto my ankle. Weirdly, I can’t feel it. He seems disappointed by my indifference and lets go.

I start the shower and take off my coat. I drink some water from the faucet, then turn around to vomit it up. I spy a few tiny teeth in the bottom of the toilet bowl before I flush.

I’m so nauseous, I don’t want to exist.

I smell so bad. So bad.

I scrub myself in the shower, trying not to pass out as the night comes back to me in flashes.

I remember seeing myself transform. I remember it was painful. I remember the horror of my screaming, of writhing there in the crate, hearing myself scream like I’ve never screamed, but I can’t summon any of the sensations. They’re elusive.

My body carries no trace of the gruesome transformation. My skin is smooth. No fresh cuts. No bruises. Nothing except the faint array of marks at my side, the tomb of the bite that devoured my body, my life.

When I get out of the shower, I wait for the steam to dissipate and take a quick, cautious look at my reflection.