Your eyes adjust to the shadows. You move easily through the crowd without being seen. You’ve become smaller. Furrier. Grey and black fur now stripes your limbs. Your feet are no longer human — they pad and grip like a creature meant to climb and scavenge.
You spot another treat fall from a child’s hand.
You pounce.
Snatch. Gone in seconds. They don’t even see you. But a few people glance around. One whispers, “Did you see that raccoon?”
You scurry into the alley between tents, clutching a bag of half-eaten marshmallow ropes and cookie crumbs you stole from a vendor's tray. You sit back on your haunches, hunched over your prize, nibbling greedily with your nimble paws.
You’re almost completely a raccoon now. Masked face. Ringed tail. Small, wiry body. Clever paws. The world is your buffet. Every trash bin, every forgotten treat, every crumpled napkin with something sweet left behind.
More sweet.
More trash.
Mine.