Anthony's hands trembled, the cold seeping into his bones as he navigated the forest floor. Prickly pine cones dug into the tender skin of his stomach, each sharp jab eliciting a wince. He groaned softly, a low sound born of pain and exhaustion, pressing himself deeper into the shadows cast by passing headlights. His strained eyes scanned the steady stream of cars on the nearby street, catching snippets of conversation and fragments of music, all blending into a discordant symphony of urban life.
Crawling, his torn clothes snagged on the rough undergrowth, the rustling leaves whispering warnings of his presence. He moved with desperate grace, trying to silence the crunching twigs beneath him, acutely aware of every sound. Keeping a safe distance from those who had already passed, he remained vigilant for any potential threats lurking behind.
With a dirty hand clamped over his mouth, he muffled his ragged breathing, tasting dust and blood thick on his tongue. The roar of engines and sporadic bursts of headlights amplified his anxiety, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He knew he needed fresh clothes and to clean and bandage his wounded thighs; infection, if untreated, could be fatal.
He crawled further, weaving between trees, their rough bark scraping against his skin. Clinging to a trunk, he tried to conceal himself in dappled shadows, limbs trembling with fatigue. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, he stumbled, nearby branches rustling and betraying his presence. A faint breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth—a fleeting moment of solace amid the chaos.
Realizing hiding was futile, his gaze fell upon a lumberjack, his bright red jacket a splash of color in the twilight. The man's thick, grey beard framed his weathered face as he prepared to chop wood, the rhythmic thud of the axe echoing through the still night air. Anthony imagined the warmth of the fire within the lumberjack's home, the cozy living room bathed in flickering light, the comforting smell of wood smoke.
A wave of longing washed over him as he dropped to his knees, drawn by the light spilling from the windows of the imposing house. He peered inside, glimpsing a family engaged in their evening rituals. Children's laughter mingled with adult conversation, a woman in the kitchen preparing dinner. The aroma of something savory wafted through the open window, intensifying his hunger.
Fear and determination warred within him. He needed a plan—food, water, clothes. He needed to survive.
His hands clenched, calloused palms rough against the cool earth, as he crawled toward the front porch. The wooden planks creaked softly beneath him as he maneuvered himself beneath, watching the lumberjack whistle a cheerful tune, strong and practiced as he swung the axe. Anthony's gaze fixated on the lumberjack's hands, thick and hairy, skin reddened from the cold.
Mesmerized, he watched the axe arc through the air, muscles flexing beneath the man's shirt. The solid *thunk* of the axe cleaving a log resonated through the quiet night.
But then, a splinter flew from the impact, catching Anthony in the eye. He cried out, instinctively wiping away the sting. A sudden urge to sneeze overwhelmed him, exploding into a sharp, painful burst that sent agony through his sinuses. The metallic scent of his own blood hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of his precarious situation.
Continuing to crawl, he sought refuge near a worn, grey doormat, its surface covered in pollen. Pressing his face against it, he sought a fleeting sense of comfort and security in the shadows beneath the porch.