Tangled in Moonlight: Unshifted (Ava and Lucas)

Chapter 12 Ava: Nightmares

Chapters 11-17 have been rewritten to improve story flow and pacing. [June 27, 2024]

Strange dreams disturb my sleep these days.

It always starts the same; being pursued in a dark forest, not knowing what's hunting me. The panting, the

crashing of underbrush, the chase.

Somehow the forest becomes mountains, and the mountains turn into the beach. Still I run, as fast as | can, with

the threat of something at my heels.

It's daytime. It's night. There are people running with me, and I'm alone. It makes no sense at all, and yet it feels

completely normal in the moment.

Then a wolf slipping out of the shadows to stare at me, with blue eyes and sparkling white fur, except for a patch

of black at the end of her tail.

The dream always ends there, withstartled awake and staring at the ceiling through the dim light of my

bedroom window, soaked in sweat and sore like I'd run a hundred miles, being chased by smonstrous beast.

Getting back to sleep after feels almost impossible as | toss and turn, and | show up to the Grind every day

feeling more exhausted than the day before.

The only new change to my life is the daily escape from Animal Control—that silver husky (who, we found out, is

actually a girl) who always stops by to seeat the store, waiting patiently for an officer to get her and bring

her back to safety.

Carlos jokes that | should keep her, since she seems to like me, but there's no way | can raise a pet. Not when

there's a part ofalways looking over my shoulder. A part ofwaiting for the day | have to pack up and

leave again.

By the third day of nightmares, I've developed a low-grade fever that seems to cand go, along with a slight

cough. Nothing to keepfrom working. It just leavesmiserable enough to think | might need shelp

getting rid of these nightmares.

If | can't get enough quality sleep, I'm going to end up really sick. A trip to urgent care is something I can't

afford.

Building a new life is expensive. There's a huge list of things on my need list, and not enough dollars in the bank

account to cover them.

On day four, my blessed day off, | drag myself out of bed with shivers wracking my body. Thermometers were

listed on my want list, not my need list, so | have no idea how high my fever might be. Either way, | can't afford

medical care, so ignorance is probably bliss.

Even putting on clothes makes my skin hurt, and my bones ache.

But I'm out of food.

Getting dressed feels like an impossible task. My arms shake. My muscles protest. My head swims with every

movement, especially when | lean down to fumble with my sneakers. It takes five tries to get the laces tied.

When I'm done, I'm a sweaty, trembling mess.

The walk to the grocery store is pure agony. Every step is a torture of sharp pain from heel to pelvis. The sun

beats down onwith a vengeance, despite the crisp spring morning.

It's all | can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

There are familiar faces, neighbors I've cto recognize in my there, who pass by with a smile and wave. |

can barely muster the energy to nod in return, shuffling along like a zombie's taken over my body.

It's usually a quick ten-minute walk to the store, but today it feels like an eternity. | have to stop and catch my

breath every few minutes, leaning against buildings or trees for support.

My lungs burn and itch. My throat's raw from the hacking cough that's developed from needing to breathe

oxygen.

By the tI finally stumble into the grocery store, I'm not sure I'll be able to make it back home. It doesn't feel

worth the effort. Maybe | can just live and die here, right by the apples.

The cool air conditioning is a blessed relief... but it also makesshiver violently.

Living and dying is definitely not happening by the apples. I'll have to go home.

Grabbing a basket, | head for aisles by memory, shuffling my way through. | have to make smart choices. The

basics are all | need today. A small container of milk. Bread. Eggs.

Things that are easy to carry and require no effort to prepare.

The soup section is a dilemma. Chicken noodle? Tomato?

My head pounds, and | can feel my fever spiking. Not investing in a thermometer feels like a terrible oversight. It

would be nice to know just how sick | really am.

Sick enough to go bankrupt at the doctor? Or sick enough to make it through with sleep and determination?

| end up grabbing a few cans of chicken noodle. As | make my way towards the checkout, | spot the medicine

aisle, filled with boxes of bright colors and bold fonts.

A thermometer would be smart, but they're expensive. | settle for a small bottle of Tylenol instead, hoping it will

be enough to getthrough the worst of this.

The cashier givesa concerned look as she rings up my items. It takesa second to realize she's a shifter.

| don't think I've ever seen a shifter working here before.

But I'm too tired to worry about it.

"You okay, honey? You don't look so good."

| force a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. "Just a little under the weather. I'll be fine." More proof of my

defect life; shifters don't get sick, not like humans do.

This is awful.

She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. | pay in cash, not wanting to risk using my card and leaving a

trail. It's a new habit that I'm trying really hard not to break.

The walk back his even worse than the trip there. My grocery bags feel like lead weights, and | have to stop

every few steps to catch my breath.

There's a prickling down my back, like I'm being watched. My paranoia must have finally kicked in from that

shifter cashier.

| glance around, but there's nothing. No hint of any shifters nearby.

Still, the uneasiness lingers beneath my misery.

By the t| make it back to my apartment, I'm ready to collapse. | barely have the energy to put away the

perishables and heat up a bowl! of soup in the microwave.

Even the thought of eating makes my stomach turn. | force down a few spoonfuls anyway, knowing | need the

nutrients.

As | curl up on the couch, shivering despite the blanket I've wrapped around myself. Too late, | remember the

Tylenol, but the thought of walking into the kitchen to grab it... Ugh.

Maybe later.

I don't want to move.

But of course there's a soft rapping against my door to ruin that plan.