"It's different," he says, pulling too hard on the blanket and making one of the holes in it bigger. "They were younger -- when --"

He cuts off, unable to say more. He breaths hard through gritted teeth, pushing his head against the wall. He should have told Daine not to watch; now he's too caught up in the pain to worry about it, but later he'll be bothered by her having seen. He tries to hold it in and not scream in front of her, but as his body bulks up and his skeleton rearranges itself, he can't stay quiet. Fur erupts over his entire body, and he practically shreds the blanket when his claws come in. Soon, it's the sounds of a bear in pain that fill the room, not the sounds of a man.