She felt like Tartarus, but the bear didn’t look much better. One of its front legs was crooked, large patches of its fur had been scraped off, and it flailed its legs like it didn’t know how to work them. For a second, Catskill hoped the fall would do it in, but then it managed to stand up. Any other animal would’ve limped away to lick its wounds, but not a rabid one. It noticed her and roared mightily; flecks of foam flew from its jaws.