Running. Panting. Soil in toes. No time to turn around and look. She leaps through the brush ripping her gray dime-store Hanes t-shirt and rolls down the unexpected slope into a mass of a burr-bush. It's time she turn around to fight but reality rips her back into the brush and prickles of blood spot her tee. She begins to dig again, looking for a hide, a way out, only to find cold autumn soil.
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