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Hepzibah

“We were lupine-only,” says Nurse Rusch, “until some mad Hungarian generalized the virus. Now we take all kinds.”

“And it’s treatable?” says Hepzibah. She’s still weak, leaning on her IV as they amble the halls.

“Therapy can reduce outbreaks from thirteen to four a year, but more importantly, we provide community.” She smiles with a hint of moustache. “People who’ll understand your condition. We have chiropterines like yourself, ophidioforms, pseudolphins, entomorphs…”

Hepzibah peeks in a door and freezes.

“Oh.” Rusch bites her lip. “Should have waited for that. Mr. Alvarez is our only werejellyfish.”

Hepzibah leans over and vomits moths.

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