Twenty-Three
My feet hit the snow-covered ground of a flowerbed far below my balcony. I duck down immediately in case someone walking nearby heard me. With my heart still thrashing in my chest, I look around. I need to run. Not to run away—I haven’t yet figured out how to escape—but to run the way Val and I used to. As fast as possible, leaping and climbing and somersaulting. Forgetting everything except the ground slamming beneath our feet, the rough sting of bricks and the cold bite of metal against our hands. The exhilaration of successfully making it from point A to point B faster than the previous time.
I can’t do that here. These gardens don’t contain the right kinds of obstacles, and my long coat would be a bit of a hindrance. But I can at least run. And if someone sees me—if some
