I make it to the human town just before dawn, and the sky is still a bruised shade of blue that has not quite decided whether it wants to become morning, and my legs feel like splintered wood by the time I reach the bus station at the edge of the main street, because I have been walking for hours and adrenaline only carries you so far before exhaustion collects its debt.
The building smells like burnt coffee and old vinyl seats, and a tired woman stands behind the counter flipping through paperwork like nothing in the world is urgent and like girls running from Alpha mates are not something she has ever had to consider.
“I need a ticket,” I say, shifting the strap of my duffel bag higher on my shoulder because it suddenly feels heavier than it did in the forest.
She taps at her keyboard
