[ He goes out early, before even the faint hum of civil twilight reaches the northern skies. Or is it late? Who knows, with what little daylight there is these days.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, exactly, but he has an idea of where to go. He’s watched, noticed the directions people come from when they go out hunting or see to their traps. The places where game can be found. He knows what he needs, and he doesn’t want it, but he knows he can’t put it off any longer. He can't eat regular food, he can't even eat the freaky mushrooms that've been messing around with people this month. What if it gets too much and he ends up killing someone? What if he completely loses control? At least with the hunger where it is right now, he’s able to keep a hold of himself. But he doesn't know how long it'll last.

Maybe if he tries to sate it this way, maybe he can keep a hold of himself. Maybe it'll be enough. Maybe it means he won't attack a person.

(Or maybe he should just give up and end it before he has to do any of that.)

But he keeps walking, and the woods are quiet. Soon enough, he finds what he's looking for. Out in the snow, he sees it: a rabbit caught in snares, or the half-frozen carcass of a deer felled in the night. His stomach rolls unpleasantly, desperately. And all he can think of is food.

Dropping to his knees in the snow, he pulls off his gloves. His hands shake, and he knows it isn’t the cold. He doesn’t feel the cold. But he reaches around for a good-sized stone, digging around in the snow — he can't think about it too hard. He aims for the head, raises the stone, and brings it down with a sickening, wet, crunch of a sound. One, maybe twice.

(He remembers the sound Lisa Lancaster's skull made as they rammed her head, trying to shatter and split the bone.)

He scrambles with shaking hands, grabbing the bloodied brain matter with his fingers. He doesn't hear his whimpers, his face screwed up as he crams it into his mouth — wolfing it down with quiet, shuddering sobs.

He's not alone.

He freezes, someone behind him — and his hands and mouth bloodied. He doesn't dare move. He's dead, he knows he is. And maybe it's better, maybe it's better they just put him down now. ]