I power-walked across campus with my hand pressed against my lower back, trying to look casual and probably looking like I'd pulled a muscle. Three near-misses with my boyshorts wedging themselves where they didn't belong, one near-death experience with a curb, and I made it to the lecture hall in one piece.

I was still replaying the lab. Professor Gibson crouched behind me. Sniffing my—no. Nope. Not going there. I was going to sit down, take notes, and pretend the last twelve hours had never happened.

That's when my stomach gurgled.

I stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. It wasn't a normal gurgle. This was a deep, rolling cramp that started behind my belly button and settled right into the base of my new... equipment. I felt something down there flex, like a muscle remembering how to do something, and a cold spike of panic shot through me.

The restroom was at the end of the hall. I could see it. But I could also see the line — three girls, phones in hand, settling in for a long wait.

No. Absolutely not.

My eyes darted sideways and landed on the janitor's closet. The cleaning staff had left the door propped open with a brick, and I could see a mop sink and a shelf of chemical bottles just inside.

I didn't think. I just moved.

I slipped in, pulled the door shut behind me, and fumbled for the light switch. A fluorescent bulb buzzed to life, revealing a cramped little room with shelves stacked full of paper towels and cleaner, a floor mop leaning in the corner, and—thank god—a steel bucket sitting on the floor.

There was no time to be picky. I shoved my sundress up around my waist, dragged my boyshorts down my thighs, and crouched over that bucket with my knees spread wide, gripping the rim with both hands.

It came out of me like I'd been holding it for days.

A thick, wet squirt of white paste hit the bottom of the bucket with a sound I never want to hear again. And it just kept coming. Another squirt, and another, each one forcing its way out of my new cloaca with a soft, involuntary clench of the rim. It was white, like paint, the exact same stuff I scraped off the chicken coop every morning. My chicken poop. Coming out of my …