Through the woods. I’m trying to beat the moonrise.

I can barely stay on my feet—it feels like they’re being stretched, pulled apart.

I fall and yank off my sneakers, then pull off the gloves, hood, and goggles, too. The zipper on the running jacket is snagged so I tear the jacket open and throw it aside. Just the running pants and T-shirt now. Much better.

Now I can run.

Man, I can run so fast.

The woods are glowing orange, which means I’m in trouble; the sun is almost down.

My T-shirt catches on a branch. I can’t unhook it. I tear it off and keep running.

A darting rabbit catches my eye. And a raccoon staring at me.

Whoa!

I dive to the right and barely miss a tree, but fall and hit the ground hard. Need to keep my eyes to the front. Don’t look at the animals. Just ignore those tiny heartbeats.

My hands make cracking sounds. They’re lengthening.

There’s fur growing on my forearms. I touch my face. Different, but I can’t tell how. And my hair is longer.

I need to get up and run.

The woods are dark, but I can see okay.

I’m getting close to home. There’s a faster way, but I can’t remember it.

Don’t think. Just go. run run air in lungs good. run just run.

What the hell was that? Now I’m hearing voices in my head?

The bones in my face hurt.

There’s a tall chain-link fence ahead. No problem: I can climb that in a second.

I jump high and catch on with my fingers, then go stiff.

I hit the dirt—hard. I’m on my back, body buzzing, totally rigid.

That fence is electrified. I think I’m paralyzed.

I’m Changing. And now, not even one mile from home, I can’t move at all.