I don’t hear most of what the doctor is saying.
Her mouth moves. Words come out. They sound calm, practiced, reassuring—things people say when they want you to believe everything is under control. But none of it sticks. It all slides past me like water over stone.
My focus keeps drifting back to the feeling in my throat.
The tightness is gone now, replaced by a dull soreness and the faint sting of antiseptic. Gauze brushes my skin every time I swallow. My hands rest on my knees, fingers curled too tightly, nails pressing into my palms hard enough that it should hurt.
It doesn’t.
That alone should scare me.
My thoughts spiral, looping back on themselves no matter how hard I try to slow them down.
They’re werewolves.
They didn’t tell me.
They could have taken me anytime.
My chest t
