When I woke, the sun was already high overhead. Midday. I was tangled in a branch jutting out into the river, the current tugging at me. With aching limbs, I pulled myself onto the branch and climbed out of the water.
Whatever had attacked me last night—I prayed it was gone.
I decided to follow the river upstream, back toward my campsite. Maybe I could recover some of my belongings. The walk took hours, and when I finally arrived, the sight made my stomach sink. My camp looked like it had been hit by a tornado. The tent was shredded. My gear scattered everywhere.
I gathered what I could. The ruined pieces I stuffed into a trash bag—couldn't just leave them behind. Even out here, littering felt wrong.
Before heading home, I stopped at a clinic. "Better safe than sorry," I told myself. The doctor cleaned the gashes on my back, said they weren't deep enough to need stitches. After bandaging me up, he gave me a rabies shot. It wasn't much, but it made me feel better knowing I'd done the responsible thing.
With another five days of leave left, I decided to stay home. I dug out old DVDs, lay on the couch, and let relief wash over me. Thankful to be alive. Shaken, but alive. That night, in the safety of my own home, I fell asleep early.
---
The next morning I woke at ten, made myself breakfast, and let the comfort of my house settle over me. This house had been my safe place for twenty years. I bought it with the money I'd once saved for a wedding that never happened. It's quiet, a bit isolated in the woods, but only forty minutes from the factory where I work. It was enough then, and it's enough now.
That evening, my phone buzzed. Mom.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Are you alright?" Her voice was full of worry. "It's that time of year—you're usually off camping in the jungle. I couldn't stop thinking about it."
I hesitated. "I came back early. Didn't feel so good. Might be catching a fever."
"Oh, thank God." I could hear the relief in her tone. Then, after a pause: "But listen, when are you finally going to settle down? You're thirty-eight, sweetheart. Don't give up on love just yet. You just haven't met the right woman."
I forced a chuckle. "Yeah, maybe you're right."
"I mean it," she pressed. "One day she'll show up when you least expect it."
We talked a little longer. She reminded me my youngest brother's wedding was this weekend. I promised I wouldn't forget. After some goodbyes, I hung up, sinking into silence again.
---
That night, something was wrong.
My heartbeat thundered in my chest, too fast. Heat surged through my body, climbing higher and higher until it was unbearable. I tore off my clothes, gasping, the fire in my veins dropping me to all fours.
I'm dying, I thought. I have to be dying.
The burning went on and on, endless. By the time I tried to stand, my legs wouldn't hold me. I crawled, dragging myself toward the bathroom, desperate for cold water.
But when I reached for the door, my hand wasn't there. My thumb—gone. My fingers—warped.
Panic slammed into me. I stumbled back into my room and stared at the mirror.
What I saw wasn't me.
A wolf stared back. Its fur black as midnight, its body huge—too big to be normal. Even hunched on all fours, it stood nearly five feet tall.
I froze, staring at the reflection. My reflection.
It was me.
I wasn't a man anymore.
I was a wolf.
A werewolf.