Five: Wren

I wake up to the smell of my own sweat and the feeling that someone’s poured acid into my arm and then duct-taped it back onto my body. The mattress underneath me is doing its best impression of a sponge, soaking through my shirt and the thermal layer beneath. Every time I try to turn over, I peel myself away from the damp in slow-motion, like I’m molting.

First conscious thought: Not dead. Second thought: Could be an improvement.

The room is dark, but the kind of dark that just exaggerates how shitty the lighting is during the day. My window’s cracked, letting in the wind that never actually leaves Pinecrest, and the draft needles my skin in a way that makes the sweat freeze to a chill. I don’t remember undressing, but there’s a scattered pile of clothes on the floor that suggests I made at least one good decision before passing out.

The next wave of pain crashes through, sharper now that my body’s caught up to reality. The attack comes back in flashes—teeth, fur, the burn of adrenaline. I try to flex my hand, but only the fingers on my left respond. My right arm is bandaged and braced against my chest with what looks like a cut-up bedsheet and a lot of hope. The wound throbs in time with my heartbeat, every pulse a little aftershock that threatens to split me open again.

I try to sit up and the world immediately disagrees. Everything tilts forty-five degrees and the walls slide sideways before snapping back. I manage to wedge myself upright, bracing against the headboard, which is just two planks nailed to the wall and a sticker that says “Suck Less.” The room is exactly as I left it: cramped, ugly, and somehow smaller than it was yesterday.

There’s a mug of water on the nightstand, probably from before the shift. The condensation on the side is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I reach for it, but my hand is shaking so bad I barely touch the handle before knocking the whole thing over. It lands with a wet thunk on the floor, water pooling instantly, wicking into the layer of old dust and beer labels beneath my bed.

“Fuck,” I croak, but it comes out more like a hiss.

My throat feels like it’s been sandblasted. I would kill for a whiskey, but I know that’s the last thing that would help right now. The pain in my arm is blurring into my skull, a headache so intense it might be trying to break out through my eye sockets.

I flop back onto the pillow. The ceiling stares down, covered in nicotine stains and a Rorschach of mold that’s slowly colonizing the edges of the drywall. The peeling wallpaper, never properly stuck in the first place, is alive at the corners, shifting in the draft, breathing in and out with every pulse of my fever. I watch it crawl for a while, letting the room swim. Time gets weird—one second I’m counting the cracks in the plaster, the next I’m blinking through whole minutes, maybe hours.

At some point, I realize my phone is lying on my chest, screen smeared with sweat and fingerprints. I thumb it awake and check the time, but the numbers mean nothing. Two missed calls from Dana, a text that just says “???” and then another, all caps: ANSWER ME OR I’M CALLING THE COPS.

I consider texting back, but my hand isn’t cooperating. I let the phone slide off and hit the blanket with a thud. The motion nearly sends me off the bed, but I grab for the frame and manage to hold on. The pain almost makes me laugh. Almost.

My eyes drift to the window. Outside, the night’s gone blue-black, the kind of color that means morning is either hours away or will never come. I listen, trying to pick out the sounds that usually fill this part of town. Instead, I catch something else—low and distant at first, but getting closer. It’s the same howl I heard before, only this time it’s not alone. The sound splits and multiplies, a thread of voices winding through the trees at the edge of town.

I shouldn’t be able to hear it from here. The window’s shut, the insulation in the walls is thick as shit, and the only reason I could ever hear a pack of wolves at this distance is if they wanted me to. Or if I was already half feral myself.

My pulse spikes, but the fear isn’t as clean as it should be. There’s a shadow of excitement under the panic, something that feels a lot like wanting to answer back.

The draft from the window sharpens, and for a second I smell pine—real, sharp, sappy pine, not the air freshener kind. My head is full of static and the ghost memory of teeth in my skin. I press my left hand to the bandage on my arm, feeling the heat of infection radiate outward. It doesn’t scare me like it should.

Another howl. Closer now, and this time I hear it inside my chest.

I let myself fall back into the mattress, letting the sweat and the fever have me. The room breathes, the wallpaper peels, and the world narrows to the sound of my own blood, running hot and fast, trying to keep up with whatever’s coming next.