Page 43 of Molt

The front door flies open as August crashes into the apartment.

The lamp turns on.

Nothing is behind me. Nothing is there.

Just me, August and the piece of skin on the floor.

He sees it and stops as his face drains of color.

“What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer.

He kneels. Not touching it. Just staring at the word.

NINE.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

He looks up at me with wide eyes. “This isn’t supposed to happen.”

“What isn’t?”

“Any of this.”

“You said we’ve done this eight times.”

“We have.”

“Then I’m nine.”

“No.” He stands.

“August, you told me I’m number nine.”

“I was wrong.”

My stomach turns. “What?”

His eyes move around my bedroom. Checking corners. The closet. Windows. Like he’s looking for someone.

“August.”

He grabs my hand. This time, no memory comes. Something else does.

A pulse deep beneath my skin.

His eyes snap to mine. He felt it too.

“What the fuck was that?”

He releases me.

Too late.

A sharp pain tears through my palm and I cry out.

A thin line splits across the center of my hand. Not a cut. An opening. Something presses upward beneath it.