They thought he was a werewolf. They were fools! He was hungry, so hungry and everything made him slather. He had a rash that kept growing. Nothing made sense to him but his hunger that was no longer about food.

Hunger, the word stopped meaning anything eventually. What he felt was deeper, what he dreamt of had grown difficult to bring to mind. There was only some bit of himself still there, something that was just the opposite of sitting in a bath, letting the muscles relax. Something that was as far from the egg as it could go.

He waved his hands in their faces on the street. The children thought he was a werewolf, but no one knew. There was no time to learn. When the dream began, he just let it happen.