These things could take time. John knew that. He knew it might be hours, or days, or even weeks before she finished turning. On the other hand, it could be minutes, he had to be prepared for anything. His first wife had died on the first night, coming back at once. It was a struggle, a scramble, a fight to keep her from eating him. In the end, he’d fled the house, leaving behind everything. He went to bed with a vibrant, living woman, woke up to a living corpse trying to consume him. That was twenty years ago of course, before he found Irina. She wasn’t supposed to be the love of his life, that was supposed to be Sarah, the woman he married, the woman who was supposed to bear his child. Sarah was seven months pregnant that night.