Finn whipped his head around, desperate for anything he could use to climb. His eyes landed on the most convenient thing imaginable: a stack of wooden boxes piled neatly against the wall like the universe was rooting for him.
"Don't mind if I do," he muttered, leaping onto one box, then another, until he hauled himself onto the roof.
The man was nowhere in sight, but Finn could hear him—thudding footsteps, wet squelches echoing through the misty fog.
Finn glanced down at the rooftop and nearly gagged. The surface was a nightmare—holes everywhere, lily pads growing straight out of the wood, the entire thing slick with moisture. Every step clung to his shoes with a sickening schlorp.
"God, I want to puke just standing here…" he whispered, swallowing hard. But puking could wait—he had a man to catch.
