I sensed a presence. I wasn't psychic, magical, or anything else besides plain old human—but even humans had instincts, and mine were screaming at me.
It didn't feel like Colin.
"Colin? If that's you, just answer me, okay? Or give me a sign?" My voice spread out into the air, thin and scattered.
No answer.
Panic blinded me, and I ran, tripping over branches and with pine needles whipping at my eyes, nearly falling face-first into a clutch of mushrooms. I caught myself on my hands, mud and detritus sticking to my palms, and pushed to my feet, stumbling on again.
I panted, my breath rasping, needing water again but unable to stop.
The growl sounded from off to the side, louder this time, and more menacing. "Colin, if that's you, cut it out!"
Another growl, this time with more of a snarl: a direct threat.
I could almost feel sharp teeth ripping into my throat, the gush of hot blood down my shoulder, the lightheadedness and chill of imminent exsanguination.
