When the track veered to the left and I’d seen a flickering light in the distance, I’d wanted to run to it. My legs refused. They were at least twice as heavy since I’d started out, making me walk more slowly as I tried to ignore the sharp pebbles and stones digging into the soles of my feet. Getting closer to the light, I could make out the faint shape of a single-story home and I let out an exhausted grunt. Almost there, I told myself. Hobbling up the long driveway, I staggered in the direction of the front door, but when a flash of lightning illuminated the skies and the car parked outside, my feet stopped dead. I squinted at the large blue-and-white letters on the side of the vehicle. The word POLICE.

I scrambled, toes and heels searching for traction, as if they, not my brain, sensed danger. It didn’t make sense. An officer might be able to help me, except I knew—I knew—I couldn’t knock on that door. Couldn’t ask whoever was inside for assistance. I had to get out of there, and so I turned and ran this time, disregarding the stinging in my feet and the searing in my lungs as a primeval fear deep within me took over, urging me to put as much distance between me and the house and police cruiser as fast as I could. I kept going for longer than I thought possible, didn’t slow down until the track widened some more and changed into smooth asphalt. That was when, doubled over from the effort, I finally caught my breath for long enough to steady the pounding of my heart.

I still had no idea what was going on, what had happened to me or why I was so afraid. I racked my brains, but no answers came, and it was still pitch-black when I’d made it to the outskirts of a town. I couldn’t bring myself to knock on anyone’s door. I didn’t recognize any of the landmarks, street signs or houses, had no clue who lived in the latter, but understood they’d call the cops if they were woken up by a half-naked man who couldn’t tell them who he was. Although I knew little else, I was certain I couldn’t take that risk.