11.Pink Bunny turns, waving for us to follow him down a narrow corridor lit by construction lights jury-rigged along the ceiling. The spooky glow makes the graffiti sprayed on the concrete walls look like blood splatters. Trent mutters something under his breath about turning back, until Carrie plants a boot against his rear and shoves him into the building. “This is bad,” Trent hisses.“This is the job,” she whispers. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen weirder.”Stopping in front of another metal door at the end of the hallway, Pink Bunny bends over and punches a ten-digit code into a small keypad embedded in the doorframe. As he does, we notice that the costume’s waist has a zipper that runs all the way around. That certainly makes sense. How else could he go to the bathroom without taking the whole costume off?Carrie wrinkles her nose. “What’s that smell?”We sense it via a thin strand we plugged into Trent’s olfactory nerve: a faint floral scent, mixed with a whiff of poop. And

13.From nothingness we emerge, into a red fog that reminds us of those first moments in the sunlit murk off New Jersey, when we were nothing but a strand of tissue no longer than a fingernail, thrashing amidst bored fish. From our furthest reaches, we receive damage reports: some tendrils burnt to a crisp, mewling their pain to the void. Others vaporized entirely. We are not concerned. So long as just a few of our cells survive, we can overcome, stabilize, regrow . . .Actually, we are a little concerned.No, that’s a lie. We are very concerned.What has happened to us?The tendrils circling the brainstem issue fresh reports: Trent’s heartbeat is normal, along with his breathing and other vitals. No severed nerve endings, no drops in temperature that would indicate a severe bleed. Trent’s eyes are closed, and we can hear nothing through his ears except for a vague humming. It sounds like a distant machine.The humming fades as the red fog clears, revealing a gray bea

15.At the sight of trouble, the worker in coveralls drops his hose and runs for the kitchen door. Angry Fox socks his rifle to his shoulder, aiming at that fleeing head, but Pink Bunny shoves the barrel aside with an oversized paw. Pink Bunny says something muffled by plastic and fake fur. Angry Fox shouts back, louder but equally unintelligible, before ripping the barrel from his friend’s grip. The worker disappears into the building, the door slamming behind him. The forgotten hose rolls across the concrete, spurting water.“The hell is this?” Big Jim asks, more amused than angry.    Trent and Carrie, of course, know exactly what this is. All these furries had to do was look up the pizza restaurant’s address. The weapons suggest they’re not here to order an extra-large Gut Bomb and a side order of garlic knots.  No fool, Carrie ducks behind her car. Trent stands frozen between Big Jim and the Mountain. Angry Fox strides forward, raising the rifle again, y

17.  We drift through a snowstorm.White particles flicker in the harsh light stabbing through broken glass. Snowdrifts rise on Trent’s hands and sift into the folds of his shirt, stick to the blood drying on his lips and forehead. We try to stick his tongue out, the better to collect some of it, but Trent’s body must have taken some damage during the crash, because moving it only a millimeter past Trent’s teeth sparks a wave of pain so intense that he moans—Stop complaining, we tell him. We’re trying to get you some medicine.What? I—Before he can say anything more, our efforts with his tongue are rendered moot, because a few flecks drift up his nose, and—zoom. Trent’s next words are lost in a screaming pleasure-storm, his nervous system exploding like the Fourth of July, his every cell a fireworks display, throbbing, pulsing, exploding—My God, my universe, this is AMAAAAAAZING—This is why we exist. To feel, to experience, to taste everything this weird mixture

19.In the elevator, there’s no way to avoid Bill’s stink. He looms over Trent, reminding us of our breakfast meeting a million years ago. Bill barely held it together then, thanks to the magical forces of nicotine, caffeine and pills. Now he seems immense, powerful despite his gray and puckered flesh, seeping wound, messy hospital gown. As the elevator rises, the enormity of the situation appears to fully sink into Trent. Any residual effect of the drugs has dissipated, and our tendrils sense his growing panic, sizzling and sour. Only strategic squirts of adrenaline and dopamine work to keep him in some semblance of working order. “I just don’t get what’s happening here,” he says.How many times do I need to explain it, dumbass?“Patience,” Bill says, glancing at the floor indicator. The elevator stops on five. The doors hiss open, revealing a nurses’ station pocked with gunshots, its countertops smoldering with charred folders. Beyond, the floor-to-ceiling windows of the patient