Bearclaw Valley some kind of plastic i could wrap around you

Something in his DNA coils and uncoils. Millions of years of evolution— had speech and language been around for even a fraction of that?
The black-haired girl surges forwards, and Taylor unlatches himself from his thoughts. He lets muscle memory control him, as if in a cruel interpretive dance. The coyote growls, high-pitched and grating. It breaks into a run, unaware of its proximity to sharp and hungry teeth.
Taylor leaps into its path in a smooth and frictionless perpendicular collision; it whines, and then wheezes as the air is punched out of its lungs, and the noise grates at his ears even more. Annoyed, suddenly enraged, he grabs it by its pale throat and shakes it. Like a ragdoll, it falls to the floor. Still dimly alive, but barely. 
His breathing is hard and heated. A black anger tears through his chest, a forest fire on full throttle.