POV: Clara

By mid-morning, Clara could take it no longer.

The claw marks shimmered at the corner of her eye no matter where she sat. On the couch, at the table, even when she’d ducked into the bathroom, she swore she could still feel them—grooves like they hummed against her skin, alive.

She dragged a chair from the kitchen and hauled herself up, lowering her face close to the frame. The wood smelled raw, splintered. The gouges ran deep and wide as if some giant animal ...