Puss oozed out of the dog bite on Kristi’s ankle as she walked home from her girlfriend’s house. Why did her girlfriend’s neighbor have to have a little dog? The littler they are, the meaner they are.

Ahead of Kristi the sky was deep blue. Behind her it was still pale yellow. If my girlfriend fixed her car like I told her to, I wouldn’t be limping home.

Kristi pulled her beanie over her blonde hair and zipped her coat up. Even without wind, the winter air sliced through her. She was nearly a block from home when pain stabbed her stomach. Her dinner reappeared into the street.

Shaking, she sank onto the sidewalk and pulled her phone from her pocket. Her fingers fumbled over the numbers. Pain shot through her foot, curling her toes together. Her phone slipped, shattering on the concrete. “Damn it.”

Plastic and glass shone in the streetlight. She tried to pick up the big pieces, but the screen refused to light up. Shifting onto her knees, her legs locked up. Her shoulders tightened. Her fingers convulsed. She lost her balance, falling face first in the grass. The moist dirt smell filled her nose as her body twitched and tingled. Her heartrate spiked. Sweat dampened her face. Then cold spread through her, inside and out. Fur pushed out of Kristi’s pores. This isn’t possible. Do I have rabies? Am I hallucinating?   

Her eyes scanned the sky, locking on the waxy moon as it inched its way up. It was full. 




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