<Morphing undoes injury. Keep watch for three minutes and don't speak unless something comes up. Please,> he adds awkwardly. <I can scarcely move until this is close to finished and it's faster if it has my undivided attention.> There's a grating and a crack of bone and some unsettlingly squishy pops as he says that. Morphing is an upsetting way to change shapes, one that seems like it should be agonizing.

Night animals have scattered before the big shape and all the crashing, and the woods are filled with rustling and mysterious chatter, and the song of crickets just starting up again. If Saturday looks back the way they came she'll see the gleam of that silvery blood scattered like coins in the moonlight.