She had a hole in her body, evil and dark, almost three inches across. It was irregular and ragged. The edges hadn’t even scabbed over, and looked raw and red in the firelight. A ring of naked flesh, with only the shortest hairs of a new coat, maybe two inches thick, was between the hole and the rest of her coat. Catskill prodded at the hole. It didn’t even twinge. She thoughtlessly worked her hoof into the hole. Her insides were like eel corpses, cold and damp and unmoving, and she could feel the softness of her guts. She felt revolted, but her gag reflex never made an appearance. Maybe it, too, was dead.