I move through the trees with the breathless speed of my fear, with the sharpness of my intentions, with the urgency of my need. The scent of pine is thick and raw, and it claws at me with every quick step. My body presses against the confines of my human shape, desperate for the release that is as imminent as the storm. I am quick in the darkness, too quick, and I can’t contain it, can’t contain myself, can’t contain the way I race against the sky. I am. I am. I am.
The ground blurs beneath me, an indecipherable rush of fallen leaves and shadows. My heart pounds a relentless, primal rhythm in my ears, and I am not ready for the pace of it, for the inevitability of it, for the inevitability of the change. I am not ready for how fast it will come, for how fast I will come undone. My breat
