Anne’s fingers work frantically to get the pack free. Then, shoving it through the gap, she holds the wire up for Cinnamon. Clomp of boots and heavy panting from the winded yard bull. “Damn you kids. Don’t get paid enough for this bullshit.” Growing louder, closer behind Anne as she unhooks Cinnamon’s sleeping bag from the wire. Shoving her and her gear through.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Anne mutters aloud.

Trot is holding the wire back for her while Cinnamon tries to pull her through. Leg throbbing, she wriggles her head and shoulders under, then can’t go farther. She feels her pack being jerked backward. She tugs forward. “Get the fuck off me!” she growls.

Muttonchops snags his forearm on the sharp wire. Releasing Anne’s pack, he snarls, “Little cunt!”

Her waist and butt have wriggled under, and she is using her elbows to dig and drag herself through. She’s spent, swimming in slow motion, moving through taffy, trying to pull her feet through. Her pursuer manages to work his way back down onto all fours and grabs her injured leg. A jolt of fire sears up from her ankle to her hip.

“Fucker!” She screams. Rolls over onto her butt. She sees a face scrunched up in anger as he tugs her back toward him. She cocks her other leg and kicks hard. Trail-runner shoe sole meets face, and she feels the give of nose cartilage and bone. The man’s hands go to his nose, which is fountaining blood as his mouth spews profane threats.

Cinnamon and Trot grab Anne’s arms and drag her up off her ass, onto her feet. Cinnamon yells, “Sorry, not today, yardman.” And they run.

Into the woods, Anne half limping and half running. Dodging trees and being raked by brush and briars. Through a swarm of gnats. An evergreen branch slaps her face. Moving through dense undergrowth until Cinnamon is satisfied the pursuers have given up the chase. She slows to a walk. Everyone catching their breath.

Cinnamon laughs. “Wow! What a fucking rush.”

Anne can no longer contain the stress—or whatever is in her belly—and she pukes. Planting her palms on her thighs, bends forward, heaving and coughing until she’s dry.

Hands, warm and comforting, gently rubbing her back, giving her a clean bandanna to wipe her mouth. There is affection, a tenderness of emotion that Anne has never felt from another person, male or female.

“You okay?” Cinnamon asks with a look of genuine concern.

Anne straightens, smiles, her lips filmed by ick. And she laughs. “I think so. But you ain’t lying. I thought that whiskered tub of guts had me.”

Trot laughs too, saying, “Damn, that was too close.”

They walk for what seems a long time. Then sounds of voices grow in the distance. Cinnamon tells them, “Just a little ways.”