Seven minutes. That's all I have left.
I sprint down the street, phone clutched in my sweaty palm as I check the map for the fifth time in thirty seconds. The little blue dot of my location inches painfully slowly toward the destination marker. This app doesn't bother with luxuries like street names or turns—just a straight line cutting through buildings, yards, and whatever else stands between me and this mysterious Guardian.
My lungs burn, legs already turning to jelly. I'm no stranger to running away from danger, but there's a huge difference between running on demand and running out of fear.
When I'm afraid, I don't notice things like how my thighs ache and I have a stitch in my side and how my breathing's getting too short and shallow. Adrenaline takes over and I just go until I can't go anymore.
But now I'm forcing every extra step. Running for thirty seconds? Doable. A minute? Sure. Three minutes straight? Torture.
