Page 95 of Such Sharp Teeth

She peels the crust off her bread. “You didn’t go to your appointment.”

“If you still want me to go after tomorrow, I promise I’ll go,” I say, crossing my heart.

“What’s tomorrow?”

“The day you start believing in unicorns.”

She gives me a look.

—

The sun sets so early this time of year. I leave at four just to be safe. I drive out to the distillery with my handcuffs, the meat, and my fully charged brand-new phone.

When I get there, I find the ruins of the crate inside, along with some scratch marks and faded bloodstains on the concrete.

I use what’s left of the crate to prop up my phone at the right angle; then I set the meat out in front of me. Then I handcuff myself to a loop of exposed pipe.

Then I wait, watching the sky.

I’d wondered if it was possible to just stay out of the moonlight, but there’s too much conflicting lore. And it’s not like I could test it at Scarlett’s. I’d need to find somewhere remote. A cabin in the woods. Sit in a closet all night or something. An underground bunker.

I look up in anticipation, scan the looming mist.

How long do I have left?

“Three-three-three,” I say to myself.

When you’re anxious, if you name three things you see, three sounds you hear, and then move three parts of your body, it’s supposed to help calm you down. The 3-3-3 rule.

“I see the sky. I see the distillery. I see . . . meat.”

The saliva leaks from my mouth before I can swallow it down.

“I hear . . .” I hear my heart beating itself up. It’s the only sound.

“My, my . . . head . . .” I shake it back and forth, back and forth. Only now I can’t stop. I can’t stop.

“My . . . tongue . . .” I run it over my teeth.

“My . . .”

Fuck. I need to focus. I need to breathe.

I burrow my face into my shoulder and inhale the scent of Ian’s shirt. It’s a sanctuary, his smell. A brief, happy peace. A peace invaded by another smell. The meat.

I’m hungry.

I reach for the chicken. I knock it over. It goes tumbling out of the plastic container onto the ground.

I want, very badly, for this to bother me. I want to be disgusted by it, by this chicken now coated in dirt and dust and animal waste. I want not to want it anymore.

But I’m so hungry, it’s all I can think about.

It’s a maddening ache.

I’m the hungriest I’ve ever been.

My stomach is eating itself. It hurts.