There are times when a thing happens so quickly that one scarcely has the time to sense it, let alone comprehends it. All sensory input is scrambled — which paw is touching what fruit, what person is screaming shrilly in the background, who is eating who — and only a delayed amalgamation reminiscent of a fever dream is left. Mange is still thinking this: This fruit looks delicious. It will surely sate us. We'll make it back after all. We'll make it to the cure. Sixclaw and Flyfur will live.

He blinks and shakes his head. Something is wrong. Something is off. There is a dreadful noise slamming like the tail of a serpent through water against his head. Screams, shrieks. He doesn't understand. "I'm getting the fruit, Lapblood," he says, an attempt at reassurance. Or, at least, he thinks he says that. Except he can't hear the words. He can't feel the words in his mouth. He can't— can't—

Mange screams. A searing pain rips across his body like a claw through tender skin. Something drips. His face is wet. Drip, drip, drip. Gush, gush, gush. His muscles spasm. His tail lashes. Except he can't feel either — his muscles, his tail. Eyes burning, he blinks. He blinks, blinks, blinks, come on, what isn't working? But they only burn. Everything burns. Everything rips. Everything feels liquid and dripping and—

Everything.

Melts.

The words in his mouth. The sounds in his ears. The muscles in his body, the organs, his skin, his eyes, his face, his thoughts…

Why am I here?

Why?

WHY WHY WHY?

There is only room for one word, one thought.

It was something about pups. Think of… of…

Mange sees Sixclaw. He sees Flyfur.

Hold on, he thinks, I… have to…

Six… claw…

Fly… fur…

S… law…

Ly… ur…

S…

Y…

Everything melts.