Coffee—miraculously, helps temporarily
To test
Coconut water?
Iron supplements?
Sturbridge’s campus was full of open spaces and greenery, lots of shady trees and curving pathways, and that was part of why Brennan had chosen it: it had a storybook charm that Brennan had fallen in love with. But over a year in and he’d still never felt part of the story—just a visitor, a side character. It was a beautiful backdrop he didn’t belong in.
But he loved jogging through the lush forests that surrounded the campus, with their meandering paths and steep inclines. In early high school, when Brennan had his first experiences with existential dread–induced insomnia and couldn’t sleep, with nothing else to do, he started jogging. It helped, mostly. He guessed some of the stuff they say about endorphins must have been true, because if he pounded the pavement hard enough, all the oppressive problems of the world scattered away from him. For at least a little while.
But this? This could barely be called running—he wasflying.
Everything was faster and sharper, each step launched him farther, and each movement was steady and instinctive even as he moved at aspeed he knew he’d never run before. That possibly nohumanhad ever run before.
How fast can I run?Another question for the journal.How fast can a human run? The average person? An Olympic athlete?
Once he was far enough away from campus to not encounter a stray jogger, he skidded to a stop. He processed a skittering sound up a tree, a blur of motion. Instinct took over, easy as breathing, and he dove at the squirrel and then bit down and—
Look—Brennan used to escort spiders in his apartment outside because he didn’t want to kill them. He was a vegetarian. Two days ago, if someone had asked him, like,You wouldn’t attack a wild squirrel, right?he would have been confident in the answer. But life was full of surprises.
It was sweet relief with a quick chaser of deep shame, next-level post-nut clarity where afterward he was left to clean up the mess he’d made. Except the mess in this case was a lifeless squirrel body.
Brennan did the same thing that he had done with the two squirrels and one rabbit he had drunk the blood of in the past two days: he knelt down and started digging. It felt like the least he could do.
He eased the squirrel’s limp little body into its grave, sweeping loose dirt over it until it was buried. For good measure, he plucked a few wildflowers from the brush and put them on the patch of upturned soil.
“I’m sorry,” Brennan said. He stood up, brushing dirt off his hands and knees.
Brennan pushed forward. He hadn’t realized it, but his feet were leading him to the bridge he’d promised his mom and two therapists he wouldn’t return to.
Begrudgingly, he would admit they had been right, considering it was where he’d been hit by a car and turned into a vampire, but explaining as much to Dr. Morris would probably get him back in the psych ward.
The sight of it—the small, arched stone bridge over a narrow bubbling creek, the path leading to a dead end of thick brush—used to bring him comfort. It was his place, far enough from campus and deep enough into the woods that he could be alone, think, get away.
But then everything in March happened, and now it loomed, shadowy and foreboding.
The narrow wood path widened ahead, and the rushing stream grew louder. Following the widening path would take you to the highway, despite the road barely being wide enough for a car. There, if you knew where to look, hidden by a cluster of maple trees, was where the bridge was nestled.
Brennan retraced his steps from that night. He’d been walking to the bridge then, too.
He slowed to a stop.
Because now, as he emerged into the clearing, he saw a car parked just before the little stone bridge, and a dark head of hair bobbing around the very area that Brennan remembered so vividly. The car, too—a blue pickup truck, rusted and beaten half to death. Recognition sparked and Brennan knew this was the car that had hit him.
Instinctively, Brennan dropped to shield himself from view. Very few hikers or bicyclists made it out there. That was part of the old appeal, when Brennan had wanted to be alone. In the year since he’d found this place, he’d never run into another person.
Until now. And she was hovering over the spot where Brennan waspretty fucking surehe had died two nights ago.
The person had a small, feminine frame with long brown hair, and she was bent down like she was looking for something on the ground.
Brennan was strategizing how to inch around to watch without her seeing him when he felt a vibration in his pocket.
“BACKSTREET’S BACK, ALRIGHT!”
Brennan jumped, and the girl flinched, as Brennan’s phone buzzed to life. He dove for cover too slowly, as her head whipped toward the sound and she stared right at him. She had a round face and pale skin, and Brennan committed it to memory as the Backstreet Boys ruined his only lead on whatever was happening to him.
In a heartbeat, the girl threw herself into her car. The engine started, and Brennan rose from his weak hiding spot to peek at the car roaring away.
