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    A thing shaped like a silver egg should be funny. You could laugh at it, almost. But touching it felt bad. He could still feel the tingle on his palm, the way it had shuddered up his arm, like it was still there, still inside him. Should be a joke, but it wasn't. The silver arc of it hung over him, casting him in shadow; menacing; strange; alien.

    His arm throbbed now.

    "Is it getting worse?" he thought. "It's getting worse! Oh crap! Oh crap!"

    His fingers were numb. He fumbled for his inhaler, had to use his other hand to get into the pocket. It dropped onto the glass dirt with a clatter, rolling. His eyes followed it, followed it to the dip at the base of the egg, where a black line was forming, growing, spreading up the pristine shining smoothness.

    It was opening.

Shane runs away

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