El runs.
She runs until her lungs burn, until her legs shake, until the world blurs into streaks of green and gray. Days pass in a haze of panic and instinct. She doesn’t sleep. She barely eats. She drinks from streams when she remembers to. Her thoughts are a tangled knot of fear and adrenaline.
She just keeps running.
By the fourth day, her body is failing her. Her steps drag. Her vision swims. She stumbles over roots she should have seen, branches she should have ducked. She’s getting careless — too tired to be cautious, too hungry to think straight.
The forest floor dips suddenly.
She doesn’t see it.
Her foot catches on a slick patch of moss, and before she can gasp, the ground disappears beneath her. She tumbles down a steep embankment, the world spinning, branches scraping her
