Page 52 of Bad Bunny
Opening.
No one reacts.
Not the parents standing ten feet away.
Not the volunteers in neon vests.
Not the children scrambling at our feet.
It’s like it isn’t happening. Or like it’s happening somewhere just beside the world they live in.
Sorren’s grip tightens around mine.
“They cannot see it,” he breathes.
Across the lawn, the hunters stand at the far edge of the garden, just beyond the line of cherry trees. They watch the egg as well.
The egg yawns wider between us, its interior blazing gold.
Sorren and me on one side.
The hunters on the other.
For one suspended, terrible moment, no one moves.
Then.
The hunters break into a run. Headed for the egg.
Sorren drags my wrist to his mouth and bites, just like we planned last night.
“You should bite me and transform,” I had told him just before we went to sleep. “You run faster as a rabbit. Can dodge through a crowd easier. If you get to the egg before me, don’t stop. Go in. I’ll try to follow you and, if I can’t, well, I’ll wait for you outside.” I’d kissed him then, told him one more time, “I’ll wait for you, Sorren.”
Now his teeth break my skin. Sharp and fast. Pain flares, then warmth flows through my veins as he drops from my grasp, shrinking mid-fall into a blur of white fur that hits the grass already running.
Straight for the egg.
Children shriek with delight as he darts between them.
“Look, Mommy! A bunny!”
“It’s the Easter bunny!”
Laughter erupts around us while I sprint after him, the open egg blazing ahead.
The hunters are running as well, charging in from the opposite side.
I shove through the crowd, dodging broken plastic eggs and tiny pastel sneakers. A stroller swings into my path. I grab the handle to keep from vaulting over it. The baby inside stares up at me, unimpressed, a chocolate smear across his face.
“Sorry!” I gasp, already moving again.
Somewhere ahead, Sorren flashes white between legs and picnic blankets, a blur of fur weaving through the grass.
Behind me a man shouts.
I glance over my shoulder just in time to see one of the hunters shoulder-check a teenager clean off his feet. The boy goes down with a startled yelp, eggs flying everywhere. The man doesn’t even glance down. His eyes stay locked on the egg.
Another hunter catches his loafer on a dropped basket and stumbles. Not enough to fall, but enough to slow.
