Bo Flint stays low, forehead shoved down over his eyes, the weight of his new body keeping him on all fours. His uniform hangs like a torn strip of cloth around his middle, and his huge feet splay on the splintered boards with a dull, helpless scrape.
Wet earth creeps farther over the threshold. The door is still cracked open, but only a handspan now. Beyond it, the classroom air feels thinner, as if the room is choosing between sealing shut and swallowing everyone inside.
The Warden Below watches from the crawlspace, half his body pinned in the opening, calm as a grave marker. The Feral Boy stands in the room’s foul center, grinning with too many small, sharp motions, and the stink of him makes the boards groan.
A Classmate jerks once, then twice, his ankle still trapped below the floor. Another Classmate stares at Bo, white-faced, backing toward the sliver of door with both hands raised.
Bo’s throat works, but no words come. The change has stolen his speech, leaving only a rough, breathy whimper in the room’s dead air.
The Warden Below lifts one hand from the crawlspace edge and points, not at Bo, but at the door, as if the choice is simple, close it or lose it.