I run, fire in my side where their bullet found me. Running is all I have left. Those that pursue me will never stop, but I can't run forever.

A tangle of thorns catches my bare foot, and I tumble through a cluster of ferns. Their sharp leaves slice my exposed arms and face. The trees end, spaced respectfully from a small cabin.

On the rickety stairs rests a mannequin. Its black cloak billows in the wind, and a mask glows pale green in the moonlight. A stupid plan takes root in my mind, and I am too tired to refute it.

As I start up the stairs, a barrel by the backdoor shrieks. Bio-lights flash as it staggers toward me. I kick it, and it shatters, but the pain in my side explodes. I fall on the porch, panting.

The cloak flutters against my arm, and I grab the heavy fabric. It flows over my shoulders, and my arms slide through wide sleeves. The belt of my jerkin ties the cloak, too. I'm not used to clothes, so I can only hope it looks natural.

The mask stretches up over my face. Its material is similar to Mother's hose but more opaque. It smells like feet, but I'm not in a position to complain.

Cowl pulled over my head, I roll onto my uninjured side at the top of the stairs and calm my breathing. The shouts and steps of those tracking me draw close. They are within sight, emerging from the tree line. The door flies open, and an old man with a large rifle stomps to the edge of the porch.

"Stay off my property, you rotten troublemakers!"

The rifle aims at my face, and I leap to my feet. The cloak whips around me like black flames.

The men from the woods scramble back. "Death's come for old Plunker!"

I don't know what he means, but I know of death and how closely it's related to rifles.

I jump aside. The stair beneath my foot snaps, and I stumble, arms outstretched.

"Stay away, Death!" A man raises his shotgun, but his companion smacks it down.

"Don't fire at Death, you idiot. Let's get out of here."

They retreat. I also try to flee, but I trip. I lie curled on the ground in pain.

The old man approaches, yanks the mask down, and shines a bio-light in my face. "You look like Death's coming for you."

The rifle is still in his hand. I kick at it and at him. The man backs off and disappears in the darkness. Unable to rise, I lie here. Any moment, the man will shoot me in the back.

Gunfire echoes in my ears, and images flash in my fading vision: how I tore through the forest, a dozen wardens chasing me. I was faster than them, but their bullets were faster still, their bite worse than any creature's. When I was hit, one voice rose above the clamor.

"Imbeciles! I need him alive!"

Is death my surest escape, then?

A cloth-covered hand clamps over my mouth and nose. It reeks of danger. I claw at my foe's arm, but unconsciousness drags my limbs down, closes my eyes, and pushes pain far away.

* * *

Agony flares in my side, as if I have become something's meal, yet I cannot move. Uneasy dreams rerun memories, the last I saw of Asher.

"Come on, Mar. Let's check our traps by the gorge."

Father chided him for always speaking to me like a person. "That dog can't understand you."

"Sure he can, right Mar?"

I sat and cocked my head to show I listened. I didn't always understand everything Asher said, but I would learn. Asher smiled, and my reflection shone in his gray-green eyes. He saw me.

Near the ravine, our trap had sprung, but all that remained of our prey was shredded gore. Asher's confused disgust was not enough to mask the thieves' scent. They hadn't gone far. To them, Asher seemed a better catch than the measly rabbit they stole. They surrounded us.

I growled, and Asher's hunting bow snapped up, arrow nocked. Its tip smelled of liquid danger.

They lunged. Asher's arrow flew, and they were upon us, snarling frenzies of teeth and claws. Another arrow stabbed and sliced at them. I sunk my teeth into their pungent hides, but they thought nothing of me. They smelled of ruthlessness, and they wanted Asher.

Though they resembled coyotes, they were too big—at least thrice my forty pounds—and there was definitely something wrong with them.

"Mar, run! Get help." Asher scrambled toward the edge of the gorge.

I did as he commanded and sprinted faster than I had ever run, following my nose and ears back to Father and Uncle. My bloodied appearance and Asher's absence caught their concern, and they trailed my barking, panicked dash back to my boy. They shouted his name all the way.

The coyote monsters were gone when we arrived. Asher lay still at the bottom of the gorge. We hurried through blood-soaked leaves—Asher's blood. He didn't move, eyes open but glassy. They captured my reflection, but he didn't see me. Before I got close, Father kicked me.

"You worthless mutt! You did nothing." He hoisted his rifle and fired.

Uncle's reflexes saved me. He pushed Father, and the shot swung wide. Father shoved Uncle back, but I already ran. Away from Asher.

I am a coward. I should never have left him.

None of Father's rounds found me, though his and Uncle's shouts followed a long time. I reached the edge of our property and plunged into unfamiliar territory. The woods crowded close, shooing away light. The wind shrieked and hissed. I scratched together some leaves and lay down to lick my wounds.

Then, they came for me.