Firefly Glen Six is not a pretty number; eight or three is definitely better

The crawling feeling that had settled over her was almost becoming normal. Marina wasn't sure how to feel about that. She'd assumed it would fade eventually, but maybe something was permanently wrong with her. Or maybe she had just changed? She wasn't sure, but she knew that she couldn't stop now.

So she left the wood and found another. This place was pretty, even in the aftermath of winter. Marina imagined that in spring it would be a different sight entirely. She hunted, and after a time settled down with a pale weasel for her dinner. She wasn't hungry much since the discomfort had started, but it was habit to go through the motions. She had to stay alive, after all.