Fifteen minutes later, about as far from dead as it was possible to be, Jim opened his eyes. Now that the transformation was complete, the pain vanished, as though it had never existed. He wriggled and flopped onto his other side, feeling objectively amazing. Even if he had merely felt objectively okay, it would have been a vast improvement over feeling like he was hovering on the threshold of death’s door.

Now that he was facing Pam, he booped her nose with his snout and licked the tears from her cheeks. He wished he could tell her he was okay.

He couldn't, of course. Not in so many words.

Jim had never gotten comfortable doing most wolfish or doggish things–he found such actions demeaning, in general–but he didn’t have thumbs or lips so… how else was he supposed to thank her?

She giggled, obviously relieved, wiping her face on her sleeve. Her tears had slowed down, but hadn’t quite stopped yet. She ruffled his fur affectionately, clearly doing her best to stop her lips from twitching down repeatedly at the corners. "What's up, dog?"

Jim rolled his eyes tolerantly, shaking his head from side to side. He snuggled close, more grateful than words could express for just… everything about her.

After some extended interspecies spooning (which Jim didn’t need at this point, but Pam did, so of course he was all in), she regained her composure. “Do you think they’d let us on an airplane if I said you were my comfort animal?”

He feigned a menacing growl and licked her face again. It was lame, but he’d give her a pass. Anyway, there were only so many dog- or wolf-related jokes a person could tell before they needed to recycle.

"Are you ready for the big reveal?" Pam asked.

Still in full possession of his humanity and intellect, but speechless for obvious physiological reasons, Jim nodded gamely.

Turning on SportsCenter, Pam left to get the kids ready. Jim grasped a Sports Illustrated between his teeth. He’d be missing the second half of an Eagles game tonight–and a home game, at that–but he didn’t mind. The DVR was good to go. He could watch it in the morning.

Flopping on top of the bedspread, he nosed through the pages between downs. His fur was the same shade as the hair on his head, his eyes big and green, no different than his human form. His wolf ears were analogically over-large, although it was less obvious on an animal than a person. He was still over six feet long. Being rather more canine than human, Jim felt it was appropriate to measure in terms of length rather than height.

He wasn't a big fan of the relative helplessness brought on by the lack of vocal cords and opposable thumbs, but he'd pay Pam back when he could. Or pay it forward, whichever was more appropriate to call it. She always had a rough time of it on the first day of her period. Besides, she'd wanted to surprise him tonight.

There were accessibility options out there for people with limited mobility. It was stunning, actually, the variety of communication aids that were available. But they hardly seemed necessary for a condition that affected Jim one night a month, especially when he spent most of that time in a narcotic haze.

Worldwide, the incidence of werewolfism was statistically-insignificant. In Scranton, it was approximately one in a thousand. Nearly a hundred and fifty people had developed the disorder after eating infected meat at Ipanema Grill, where Jim and Pam had been celebrating their second pregnancy (unlike Cece, Phillip had been planned).

Fortunately, being pregnant at the time, Pam had decided against trying the rare picanha.

The new mad cow reporters had called it, because it was a prion disease transmitted by the consumption of tainted animal flesh. Or Mad Dogs 20/12, as the tabloids nicknamed the incident.

Assholes.

Not three years before, the prevalence of werewolfism in Scranton had been twice as high, give or take. The first mass transformation on the full moon following the mass infection was, unfortunately, the first sign of the outbreak. Roughly a quarter of afflicted individuals had been killed by startled police, friends, or family members.

Another quarter had committed suicide–some that very night, by throwing themselves off of parking garages… in front of moving vehicles or trains. Others waited to regain the use of their opposable thumbs. In the morning, they utilized the usual methods–guns, nooses, medications in conjunction with large doses of alcohol.

The families of the afflicted bayed for blood, not to mention the survivors themselves.

Not literally, having transformed back into people by that point.

Ipanema Grill closed down in short order. In the end, it hadn't even been the restaurant's fault. The outbreak was traced to a broker–a food distributor, the most middleman of middlemen. That part had worked out for the best. Their insurance company had far deeper pockets.

And there was the silver lining. Thanks to the proceeds of the class-action lawsuit, neither Jim nor Pam had to work anymore. They’d invested the money in safe, low-risk investment vehicles that he didn’t really understand or care to.

Jim wasn’t sure whose idea it had been to label government bonds and CDs as "vehicles." Fortunately, he didn’t need to know. These days, he was a sports blogger-slash-stay-at-home-dad.

Pam, unsurprisingly, had taken the opportunity to become an artist-slash-stay-at-home-mom. They went to sporting events whenever they wanted, wherever they wanted, with the very minor restriction of being unable to travel for one day out of every twenty-eight.

Unlike many of the survivors, Jim kept a relatively low profile. But he didn't begrudge the ones who'd become media whores. Namely Kelly and Ryan, who had coincidentally eaten at Ipanema Grill that very same night in celebration of the eleventy-third (or whatever) rekindling of their on-again, off-again relationship.

Having both eaten the picanha that night, Kelly and Ryan were werewolves. They were also both Howards. Being relatively young, not entirely unattractive, and experts at self-promotion, they’d become Youtube celebrities in short order. Their channel was entitled Where, wolves? It was G-rated, reasonably interesting, and showcased their travels around the world.

They'd become Youporn celebrities shortly thereafter, which wasn't Jim's thing at all but… whatever, more power to them. They'd tried starting a website of their own, www.WUPHF.com. Jim couldn't even recall what it stood for, at this point. Something about werewolves under persecution… it didn't matter. It hadn't taken off, as much as Ryan had tried to force it.

Their advocacy, obnoxious and motivated by greed though it might have been, was ultimately good publicity for the condition. That, in turn, made it safe for Jim to venture outside during the full moon. Even though he didn’t make a habit of it, and would never have risked it outside of Scranton.

Hell, not even outside their neighborhood, just in case. Jim wasn't personally acquainted with anyone who'd been killed in the initial outbreak, but there had been a couple of highly-publicized international incidents since then and… well, he had a family. He and Pam had been to hell and back after the infection (what with the initial medical uncertainties, the unwanted publicity, and the legal battle).

But those days were long-since behind them now. Twenty-seven days out of twenty-eight, Jim Halpert fucking loved his life. Nothing was worth that kind of risk.