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be taken by them, he pulled himself off, up and off that root, and he got in the car and drove and drove and drove, even though his feet were barely able to reach the pedals and blood soaked the seat and floor.”
    “You can’t know that,” he whispered. His face was pale and sweating. “This is a trick. They weren’t there to see me fall—”
    Left leg.
    I rolled up on my left hip and opened my eyes. I drove my foot into his left knee, the one that had never been quite right after he’d impaled himself on the root, so terrified in his flight that he’d pulled himself off. I felt the splinters being left in his leg, the weakness in his ankle as the boy hobbled away, crying.
    Nightmare Man screamed and, clutching his knee, fell forward. I kept kicking, aiming at his face. He grabbed blindly at my leg, but that just kept him in place while I kicked him with the other foot.
    He finally stopped moving. I tried Changing again; still no luck. I’d been out too long after the electrocution, and hellebore had gotten deep into my system.
    With a lot of difficulty and swearing, I got the bolt cutters. But with my hands cuffed, I couldn’t get the the cutters open enough to work them. It seemed so obvious, but physics and biology were working against me.
    With the Nightmare Man lying next to me, I had to figure out a way to get the key out of his shirt pocket and undo the cuffs. If I scooched around all the way to the left, I could just grasp his shirt collar. I pulled as hard as I could, trying to keep my damaged pinkie and ring finger out of the way. His shirt untucked, but he didn’t move. Straining, my fingertips aching, I pulled harder and was rewarded with a solid handful of shirt. Praying the shirt didn’t come apart before I could reach him, I hauled away and succeeded in moving him closer to me. The stitches pulled and ripped, but the shirt held. It was a painstaking process, gaining no more than a centimeter or two at a time, and I suspect if I hadn’t been Fangborn , I wouldn’t have been as lucky as I was. With one more good pull, the body was close enough that I could reach him.
    I was bloody, sweaty, and covered in dirt and duff. Even if I could manage to get the key, how would I ever manage to use it behind my back?
    I kept pulling. The Taser fell out of his pocket.
    When he’d tased me, I’d half-Changed, ever so briefly.
    If I tased myself, could I take advantage of that brief moment, when my hand was clawed, longer, and thinner, to yank it free?
    The idea was odious. It was also practical.
    I worked around until I could get the Taser. I thumbed the stud.
    Somewhere in the middle of the electrical storm, I felt my fingers shift into claws. I yanked my hand up and out.
    Then fell over, gasping, in human form.
    Eventually, I could see straight and struggled to get up. I took the cuff off my other hand and then put them on him. I kicked him a few times, as much as my wobbly legs would let me. I wanted to kill him, but was so woozy, in so much pain … my fingertips had stopped bleeding, but the tissue was thinly scarred, not yet regenerated. However, I badly needed the information he had about the Fangborn.
    I took my phone out of his pocket. Just that action made my fingertip begin bleeding anew. I stared at it, wondering what to do. I was so hungry I couldn’t think straight. Maybe there was water or food in his camper.
    I careened over the rough surface of the fire road, leaned against the camper. Very carefully, a handkerchief protectively wrapped around my hand, I pulled open the door. There I found a cooler. The cheese might have been going a little melty, but a stale roast beef sandwich never tasted so good. I ate both of them, washing them down with a warm, fizzy Coke. The sugar and caffeine did wonders for me; my fingertips now itched and were sore because the bones were knitting up and the skin closing around them. The food also cleared my head, because I suddenly saw what else was in the back