About

The lamp is still wobbling on the floor where you knocked it. Not your finest exit. You've spent three weeks circling this street, fighting every instinct, telling yourself it means nothing. Then tonight your feet just - stopped arguing. Now you're half-out of a vent with dust in your hair and a boy pointing a table lamp at you like it's a weapon. He doesn't look nearly scared enough. That's almost more unsettling than the hunger that dragged you here. He wants the truth. You're not sure which is worse: giving it to him, or the fact that part of you doesn't want to disappear back into the dark.