My mind races to understand what is going on. I rarely ever remember the evening of my accident, that well tucked away is it in the attic of my skull; so why now?
I follow my younger self. Every turn and wind of the road elicits a flashback: where I frugally and minimally applied the brakes, where I took my eyes off the road to wipe off my tears, where I ignored the faded but still legible road signs.
It had been dusk then as it is now. I sigh, walking down memory lane after my younger self. When she disappears around a bend, she is kind enough to let me catch up on my feet before she flickers into existence and floors the accelerator. Her mother's sedan shoots away like an arrow each time.
Dusk continues to drop quickly like a curtain while I am aware of heading the opposite direction to town. I am following nine-year-old me on her irrational flight away from home. This all took place on the night of my inoculation with werewolf venom, the night I became a werewolf.
