“I could die if I don’t run as fast as I can,” Gambol added.

The comment was unnecessary, the smug tone doubly so. William remained silent, tense. He knew Gambol was a weird guy, too prone to pushing limits and boundaries. The guy got away with it too, like with this doctor’s note.

The guy had befriended Coalbelcher, William knew. That might have explained the doctor’s note and the arrogance. Fucking whatever, it was still a bad idea to play with fire here. The guards looked ready to shoot someone.

William kept his eyes down.

The guard lowered his gun. Gambol took that as his okay to go. He stretched in front of the guard before running off, a loping, awkward motion that still covered a shocking amount of ground.

“You can go, William,” a guard ordered.

William found his way to his feet. “When do we get better shoes?”

“Shoes are expensive. Those will be fine once you break them in.”

Breaking them in. That wouldn’t be before it was too cold to wear them outside. It would, however, be a possibility after winter. It hit him just how long he might be here. His expression twisted into a scowl as the pain resumed, each stab matched to a footfall.

Gambol approached from behind, already prepared to lap him. He stepped over to the grass, while Gambol leaped—hitting the fence full-bodied, limbs finding purchase on the multiple layers of chain link, hauling him forward.

The guy was moving fast enough he was putting his mutated extremities against the fence to brace himself as he rounded corners. Mutated musculature around the spine flexed as the body absorbed the shock.

William focused on running. He was lapped several times by Gambol, who was moving faster than before, still periodically leaning hard into the fence as he turned a corner.

The guard that had been calling for Gambol to stop was standing with his arms folded. He was talking with another prisoner—up until William drew closer. The conversation aborted.

A convict friend had told William about how things went in jail—what was true, what wasn’t, what to watch out for.

Silence was dangerous. Something was about to happen.

Gambol approached—on his fifth lap, while William was just wrapping up his first since the earlier incident with Gambol. He leaped up to the fence, gripping the bar at the top with the complicated arrangements of three separate limbs for a more solid grip. He went over William’s head, leaped down to the path, scuffing and breaking up the packed dirt, and then broke up more dirt by sprinting from his landing position.

William had to jog over the broken piles of dirt. He used it as an excuse to kick some chunks of dirt back into their holes, stepping on one to help it find its fit.

“Keep moving, William!”