“Don’t poke it!” my twin, Harri, whispers. “We should go.”
Our best friend, Francis, a big, dark boy with cheeks that always look like they’re covered in grease, smirks at me.
I stab the cocoon again with my stick. It’s five feet long, oval-shaped, and purple.
“Don’t, Harlow.” Harri grabs my arm.
“You’re annoying. Get off!” I yank away from her and jab the shell again, breaking it.
A gelatinous substance, like strawberry jam, oozes out, then the cocoon trembles. Harri pulls me back, and I spin, shoving her. “Would you piss off!”
“Harlow… Harri….” Francis is stepping back.
Whatever’s inside the cocoon prods at the insides, trying to escape.
“We should—”
The cocoon explodes, and Harri tackles me to the ground. Francis shrieks out, and I push Harri off. Francis stumbles around, hands searching for one of us to grab. That slime is all over his face, eating away at his skin.
“Can’t see. I can’t—”
A screech pierces my soul, and Harri sprints away through the woods. I run after her, looking back to see gray wings spreading out.
“Harri, wa—”
I trip over a fallen log, and something curls around my ankle, dragging me back.
I claw into the dirt. “No! Help! Harri!”
Darkness shrouds me. When I turn back, rows and rows of teeth surround me. My scream doesn’t make it out.
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