When you tell Earl about your bite wound, he offers reassurance, but behind it all you detect a sense of resignation. "What if I'm infected," you ask. "You're not infected," he answers. "It's just a little nick. We'll give you a booster shot, just to make sure."

After you help deliver the tranquilized werewolf to the holding cell, a couple of agents show up. They take a look at your wound, which is red and swollen, and give you a shot to your shoulder. It doesn't take you long to realize that the shot wasn't a booster; it was a sedative. You fade out, but not before you hear Earl say to you, "don't worry, son. I'll stay with you."

And he does, at least for the first few days of the transformation. You don't see much of him after that. You don't even get to enjoy the freedom and power of the werewolf life because you're pent up in a cage, where you are poked, prodded and tranquilized, always with a running movie camera trained on you that stops only when they need to change the film magazine.

You eventually become lethargic, refuse all food, and die, but your legacy lives on in dozens of cans of film stored in the bowels of the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta: the first and only cinematic record of a transformation from human to werewolf in U.S. history.