Tom flicked his cigarette into the dirt, grinding it under his heel with more force than necessary. The whiskey in his flask had gone warm, leaving a bitter aftertaste that clung to his teeth. Around him, the distant cacophony of the park—shattering glass, raucous laughter, the occasional panicked bray—faded into the rustling of dry palms. He’d expected something more from Pleasure Island. More what, exactly? More fun? More chaos? Not this creeping unease that slithered up his spine every time he caught his reflection in a broken bottle, his eyes too bright, his grin too wide.

The trail wound deeper into the island’s interior, where the garish neon lights of the park didn’t reach. Here, the air smelled of wet earth and something muskier, animalistic. Tom stumbled over a root, cursing as his flask slipped from his fingers. When he bent to retrieve it, his fingers brushed against something coarse and wiry—a tuft of gray fur caught on a thornbush. He held it up to the moonlight, pulse quickening. It wasn’t just fur. It was attached to a scrap of fabric, the same striped shirt one of the boys had been wearing earlier. The one who’d been laughing too loud, his voice already slipping into something… else.

Then he saw it: a wagon, half-hidden by swaying ferns. Not one of the gaudy carnival carts from the park, but something older, its wood warped and splintered. The cover was canvas, sagging under the weight of something inside. Tom’s mouth went dry. This wasn’t just abandoned loot. This was a jackpot. He vaulted onto the wagon bed, knees sinking into the yielding mound beneath the tarp. Fingers clawing at the fabric, he yanked it back in one frantic motion—and froze.

Clothes. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Little jackets, vests, knickerbockers, all tangled together in a chaotic nest. Gold pocket watches glinted between the folds, their chains coiled like snakes. Coins spilled through the gaps, rolling across the planks with dull metallic clicks. The scent hit him next—a sour-sweet stench of sweat and fear and something else, something that made his nostrils flare. This wasn’t just random garbage. These were belongings. Stripped-off belongings.

Tom plunged his hands into the mess, fingers closing around a handful of silver dollars. The coins were slick with something sticky, clinging to his palms. He wiped them against his trousers, leaving dark smears. Deeper in the pile, he unearthed a pocketknife, its pearl handle cracked. The initials "A.W." were engraved on the blade. Alexander? That wiry kid from the ferry, the one who’d been bragging about how he’d stolen his old man’s watch.

He jumped out and looked around the wagon, wheels were good, front was good, looked like one beast of burden could carry this load. The hitch was rusted but intact—meant for something hefty, sure, but not enormous. A donkey could manage it. If he could get this to the docks, he could steal a boat, and go home rich. The thought unspooled in his mind like a lit fuse: a new suit, a better flask, maybe even a girl who’d look twice at him without sneering. But first, a donkey. There had to be one loose somewhere. The island was crawling with them oddly.

Tom strained his ears against the distant clamor of the park. No brays. Just the whisper of the palms and the creak of the wagon’s wood settling. His pulse hammered in his throat. He wiped his slick palms on his shirt again—still tacky with whatever had coated those coins—and grabbed the leather straps from the wagon’s front. They were stiff with age, the buckles clinking dully as he yanked them free. He looped them over one shoulder, testing the weight. Fuck it. If there were no donkeys, he’d pull the damn thing himself.

The straps bit into his collarbones as he leaned forward, boots skidding in the dirt. The wagon groaned, resisting, then lurched forward with a shudder. Pain spiderwebbed up his calves. He gritted his teeth and heaved again, muscles burning. A wild laugh bubbled up in his chest. Him! Dragging a wagon like some fucking beast! The absurdity of it prickled under his skin, but the gold—the gold was real. He could taste it already, metallic and sweet at the back of his tongue.

The leather creaked. Something warm seeped through his shirt where the straps rubbed, not sweat but something thicker, darker. He didn’t look down. Didn’t need to. The scent hit him instead—iron and salt and that same musk from the wagon, clinging to his skin now. His breath came in ragged gasps. Each pull sent a jolt through his spine, his shoulders hunching forward instinctively. The straps felt… right. Like they’d always been there, carved into his flesh.

His fingers curled against the dirt. Too stiff. Too thick. The nails darkened, yellowing, hardening into something closer to hoof than hand. A shudder wracked him—not fear, not yet, but a horrible, giddy exhilaration. The gold was so close. Just a little farther. His knees hit the ground with a wet thud, joints popping, realigning. The pain was distant now, muffled under the rush of blood in his ears. Or was that braying?

The straps no longer bit. They settled into him, the leather fusing with the coarse hair sprouting along his shoulders. His shirt split at the seams, threads snapping like tiny bones. The wagon rolled easier now, wheels turning as if greased by his own sweat. Or was it sweat? His skin wept a slick, pungent oil, the same musk that clung to the coins. He tossed his head—when had his neck grown so long?—and let out a sound. Not a laugh. Not anymore.

His fingers curled uselessly against the straps. He couldn’t unclench them. The nails had thickened into dark crescents, pressing white half-moons into his palms. No, not palms. Something else. The realization slithered through his mind just as his spine arched, vertebrae popping one by one like a zipper undone. The wagon’s weight redistributed, settling evenly across his broadening back. His hips tilted forward, his knees locking at a new angle. Efficient. Balanced. Built to pull.

The straps weren’t straps anymore. They were part of him, the leather seams attached and clinging to the wiry fur now creeping up his shoulders. He tried to scream, but his throat convulsed around a sound that wasn’t human—a choked, guttural hee-haw that sent spittle flying. His tongue felt fat in his mouth, pressing against teeth that ground flat as molars. The wagon jolted forward, and this time, his body moved with it, muscles rippling in perfect synchrony. No pain. Just purpose.

Tom—no, not Tom anymore, not with these ears twitching at every rustle—staggered forward on limbs that weren’t quite arms or legs. His boots split at the seams, hooves punching through the leather like it was paper. The scent of his own fear was overpowering now, sharp and animal, mingling with the stench of the wagon’s cargo. Gold. That’s what mattered. The thought flickered in his mind, dim but insistent, even as his vision blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into grays and browns. He could still see the coins, though. They glittered. They called.

His spine arched again, this time with a wet snap. The pain was a distant thrum, drowned out by the clop-clop-clop of his new hooves against the packed earth. The wagon’s weight—*his* weight—felt right. Natural. He tossed his head, and the motion sent a ripple down his elongated neck. A sound escaped him, half-bray, half-groan. The wagon answered, rolling smoothly behind him as if it had always been his to pull.

The straps were part of him now. He could feel the leather fibers knitting into his hide, the buckles sinking into his flesh like they’d been forged there. The wagon wasn’t just cargo anymore; it was an extension of him, humming with a low, insistent magic. The same magic that had seeped into his bones when he’d touched those cursed coins, when he’d greedily stuffed his pockets with what wasn’t his. The wagon had been waiting. Waiting for a beast to bear its weight. And Tom—no, it—had volunteered.

His spine elongated with another wet crack, vertebrae shifting like railroad ties being slammed into place. His fingers—hooves now, dark and chipped—dug into the earth automatically, finding purchase where a boy’s soft palms would’ve failed. The pain was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing strength. His shoulders bulged with new muscle, tendons standing out like ropes. The wagon’s tongue rested snug against his haunches, the wood warm against his bristling fur. It fit. It belonged. The realization should’ve horrified him. Instead, a strange contentment settled over his animal mind. This was his purpose. To pull. To carry. To serve.

The magic slithered deeper, curling around his ribs like smoke. His lungs expanded, ribs broadening to accommodate the thick, dusty air of the island. His nostrils flared, drinking in scents he’d never noticed before—the tang of rusted nails in the wagon bed, the sweet rot of forgotten candy in the underbrush, the musk of other donkeys hidden in the trees. His ears—long, twitching things now—pivoted toward distant sounds: the clink of a bit, the sigh of the Coachman’s whip slicing air. His body knew these sounds. His body remembered them.

The wagon’s straps pulsed against his hide, alive as leeches. Tiny, needle-like barbs emerged from the leather, burrowing into his flesh with a thousand tiny kisses. They didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt anymore. His veins hummed with a new rhythm, slow and steady as a plodding gait. His thoughts, once sharp with greed, softened into a warm, syrupy haze. Gold? What gold? There was only the weight of the wagon at his back, the promise of a job well done. His lips—stretching, thickening—peeled back in a grin that was more grimace, teeth grinding flat as river stones. A noise bubbled up from his chest, not a laugh, not a cry, but a hee-haw so natural it startled him. Or would have, if he’d been capable of surprise.

His shirt split down the middle like overripe fruit, buttons pinging off tree trunks. The fabric flapped uselessly before catching on a low branch, shredding into ribbons. Good. A good donkey didn’t need shirts. His trousers fared no better, seams unraveling as his haunches swelled, the fabric sloughing off in damp clumps. The island’s humidity had rotted them anyway, the threads weak with neglect. His boots—or what was left of them—crumbled like wet bread, revealing dark, cloven hooves that struck the earth with a satisfying clop. Each step shed another piece of his old self: a sock here, a suspender there, all discarded like snakeskin. The wagon’s magic whispered in his ear (long, twitching, perfect for flicking away flies): You never needed these things. You were always meant to be bare.

Brown fur sprouted in patches at first—his shoulders, the small of his back—then surged across his body in a relentless tide. It itched something fierce, the new growth pushing through his skin like grass through sidewalk cracks. He rolled his shoulders, relishing the scrape of coarse hair against the wagon’s leather straps. The sensation grounded him, sharper than any memory of fingers or thumbs. His muzzle—when had it grown so long?—dipped toward the ground, nostrils flaring at the scent of crushed ferns. The island smelled different now: richer, layered, every leaf and beetle a distinct note in an orchestra only he could hear. The whiskey stink of his old life was gone, replaced by something muskier, earthier. Better.

His gait shifted without conscious thought, hips rolling in a lazy rhythm that matched the wagon’s creaks. The change wasn’t sudden—it was creeping, inevitable, like the sea swallowing footprints. He barely noticed when his spine arched higher, his tailbone lengthening into a wiry switch that flicked at imaginary flies. The tail came last, bursting from his coccyx in a shower of wiry hairs. It lashed once, twice, then settled into a steady pendulum swing, perfectly timed to counterbalance the wagon’s weight. Every part of him was working now, each muscle and tendon humming in harmony. Even his hooves, dark as polished oak, struck the earth with a precision that made his old two-legged stagger seem laughable.

A breeze ruffled his new mane—coarse, sun-bleached strands that spilled over his forehead. He snorted through his finished muzzle, nostrils flaring at a scent carried on the wind: salt, sweat, and the unmistakable reek of fear-slicked palms. Boys. Fresh ones. Their laughter was too high, too shrill, untouched by the braying undertones that would come later. The sound should’ve stirred something in him—pity, rage, the ghost of his own voice shouting warnings—but his ears only twitched forward, then back. The wagon needed pulling. The coins needed carrying. That was all. His thoughts, once sharp enough to plot theft and escape, now moved like honey dripping from a spoon: slow, golden, simple.

His hooves found the path without conscious direction, worn smooth by countless others before him. The wagon’s wheels groaned, but the weight was nothing now. He could pull twice this load. Three times. His shoulders bunched with the promise of it, his new muscles singing as they worked. A fly landed on his withers; his tail lashed automatically, the motion as natural as breathing. The fly buzzed away, defeated. He exhaled through his muzzle—long, velvety, right—and caught another scent: tobacco and cheap cologne. The Coachman.

The docks materialized through the palms, swaying on their pilings like rotten teeth. Men lounged on crates, their laughter sharp as gulls’ cries. His ears—long, twitching things—pivoted toward the sound. "Silly jackass," one wheezed, slapping his knee. "Fell for that old trick!" Another spat into the water, grinning. "Been a while since we got one dumb enough to hitch himself." Their voices rolled over him, meaningless as wind. The wagon was his world now. The straps hugged his ribs like old friends.

Hooves clattered on the warped planks. The men didn’t move to help. They watched, cigars clenched between yellow teeth, as he maneuvered the wagon into position. His muscles remembered what his mind didn’t—the exact angle to pivot, the precise pressure needed to brake. The wagon sighed to a halt, coins jingling like laughter in its belly. One of the men stood, boots creaking. "Lemme check your teeth," he muttered, fingers rough on his muzzle. The scent of onions and gun oil wafted from his sleeves. "Prime stock," the man announced. "Ship him with the Morgans."

The others chuckled, swapping coins. Bets settled. The wagon’s straps hung loose now, their buckles rusted shut where they’d fused to his hide. He stood there, ears flicking, tail swishing, while they poked at his haunches. One spat on the dock, the glob landing between his hooves. "Faster’n the last one," he said. "Didn’t even fight it." The words meant nothing. The sea breeze did—it carried salt, and beyond that, the reek of coal smoke. Somewhere out there, a steamer waited. Somewhere, a mine shaft yawned.