I can’t move, I don’t have the strength. It doesn’t hurt anymore, I can’t really feel much of anything. When they changed the dressing I saw the wound, it looked awful. You couldn’t tell it was a bite anymore, it looked like I’d gotten burned all along my arm. Bad, third degree. I don’t know why I’m not scared. Maybe my glands have shut down.
They’re all in the next room deciding what to do with me. They said I’d be all right, but I know better, I’ve seen it: in a few hours I’ll be trying to eat them.