“Hurry up,” April said, always in a rush. Her birth was predicted for the month of her name, but she was one day premature of that. “We’ve got to get you to the hospital.”

Phil lurched a bit, his head a swirl of images, the loss of blood taking its toll. What kind of madman bites you? Phil thought.

He staggered, falling against the graffiti-strewn wall, several of the bones in his arms breaking. “Are you alright, baby?” April asked, running to his side.

God, he loved her. Everything about her was perfect, Phil thought. But she never loved him. Not like she should have.

He felt claustrophobic in his clothing. His muscles ached as they stretched, pulling themselves as taut as possible. There was a slight stinging in his arm, his bones knitting themselves back together.

April screamed, then tried to back away from him. What’s wrong, baby? he thought. Everything’s alright. Everything’s perfect. He heard a whisper in his ear, a call to come home. He ignored it. I can really, truly love you now.