The hum comes up.
Not on purpose. I don’t know how to do it on purpose. It drags itself out of my chest, deep enough that I feel it before I hear it, pressure building behind my ribs and pushing outward.
The air thickens.
The light through the window bends at the edges.
The tray slips from her hands and hits the floor. A bowl shatters. Something hot splashes across the boards.
The woman staggers back, one hand braced against the wall.
No.
I pull at the hum like it’s something I can grip. I clamp down on my jaw, my chest, my lungs. Nothing changes. It leaks through anyway, pressing into the walls, the floor, her body.
Her hand flies to her chest.
She can’t breathe.
I’m making her not breathe.
Stop.
Stop it.
She claps both hands over her ears and screams again.
The wolf lunges toward the sound.
Not the woman. The sound.
Stop the sound.
Her knees buckle.
She hits the floor.
That’s not what I meant.
I didn’t mean to do that.
But I can’t fucking stop it.
More footsteps. Running. A man’s voice. Words I can’t hold onto because the hum is still building and everything is too loud and too close.
I move, staggering down the corridor. Away. The screaming stops. My bare feet slap the wood. My shoulder drags the wall because my balance is gone, and the wolf is clawing for control. I can feel the pressure trailing behind me like a wake.
Doors on both sides. Closed. The corridor smells like lye soap and old wood, and underneath it, the layered scent of wolves, dozens of them, embedded in the walls, the floors, years of living soaked into the grain.
A door opens ahead of me.
A child steps into the corridor.
Small. Maybe five. Dark hair. Bare feet, like mine.
He sees me and goes still.
I go still too.
