Sheep. Your family.

Wolves. Danger.

The ram. The source.

Peggy. Thief. Freak. Punished by fire.

The red wolf. Fear.

Rosa. Too quiet. Nice.

Snow. You don't like it. No grass when it snows.

No, no, that's not you- You're Rosa, you love the snow! You want too see snow! You-

Snow is bad. No food for the flock. Starving.

Who are you?

You're a ram in its pen. The world spins around you. You bleat panickedly.

You're a zombie. You smell fresh meat. There is a metal door. You break through it. Something charges at you, biting and goring and trampling.

You're not yourself. You feel calmer, but hungrier. The Flesh does not sustain you anymore, nor does grass alone.

You're a truck driver, crawling from the wreck. The ram approaches. There is too much purpose in its eyes.

You're rats in the grass, and fallen crows. You're ghouls and mudmen and zombies. You're the scientist, and the wolf eating her legs.

Who are you? There's too many, and no two are the same. You can't agree.

The flock. You need the flock to live, and they need you.

They're your flock. Your lambs. You agree.

Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece as white as snow

It's you.