8
With a little earnest effort by my shoulders, I made it off the Fleshway. But I had the distinct impression I wasn’t alone. Whatever eyes Minnie’s petite pie-hole had alerted were hanging back with their owners. They wouldn’t stay shy for long. I needed to lose them before they target locked.
I kept moving forward while planning my next move. The former was easier than the latter. My brain felt fuzzy, like I’d suddenly started to grow mold between my gray matter and my skull. It’s hard to describe, but it was like every next thought link in my chain of thinking was a half-step further away than it should be. Like how I felt my brain worked when I was drunk, only without the euphoria. Thinking past the immediate was difficult, and that felt damned unnatural. Like my lungs had forgotten
