“Run,” he says.
I look back. Across the empty field, Colton stands on the edge of the torch circle. His face is feral, lips peeled back, eyes so wide they catch the moon. His hands hang at his sides, fingers flexed. He’s not chasing yet, but he will.
I want to tell him I’m ready. But I’m not.
I turn.
The field is open, the grass slick with spring dew. Beyond it, the first row of trees waits, black and tangled.
I sprint.
The first step is agony—shoes catching in the mud, the cut on my palm stinging as I pump my arms. The crown slips sideways, digging into my scalp. I rip it off and throw it behind me. It lands with a thud, petals scattering, but I don’t stop to watch.
Guess this is better than the gym.
The world tunnels down to three things: my breath, the burning in my legs, and the line of trees ahead.
My heart pounds so hard I can taste copper in my mouth. I’m not even halfway to the woods when the horn sounds again, this time two short blasts.
That’s for Colton, I presume.
I look back once, just once.
The torch circle is in chaos. The Feral Boys are on the move and whoever is manning the camera gets on a quad, lens trained on the treeline. I don’t see Colton, but I feel him.
My lungs are on fire when I hit the woods. The branches claw at my dress, rip at my hair, bite my arms and thighs. Every few feet there’s a root or a rock waiting to snap my ankle, but I keep moving. I have to. I don’t have a choice.
The woods are alive, every inch of them whispering and flexing, the trees older than memory. The path is barely visible, just a sliver of mud between banks of rotting leaves. I duck low, using my hands to push aside the branches, ignoring the pain as the raw skin on my palm tears wider.
I can’t outpace him forever, but I don’t need forever. I just need now.
I choose left at the fork, into the thicker brush. It’s darker, the ground softer, my feet sinking with every step. My toes are already numb. I don’t care. If I make it to the creek I can follow it up to the old mill, maybe lose them in the ruins.
The moon is gone, lost behind the branches.
There’s something big, moving too fast, crashing through the underbrush. The sound is jarring, the rhythm of the steps, the way the air changes. For a second I want to believe it’s Colton, coming to catch me, to end this.
But the sound is wrong. It’s not measured, not patient.
I drop to my knees and belly-crawl under a fallen tree. Mud soaks through the dress, sticks to my skin. I feel the raw cut of bark on my elbows, the burn in my lungs as I force myself lower, closer to the dirt. The thing passes overhead, a blur of shadow and hate, and keeps going.
I don’t move. Not for a long time.
When the footsteps fade, I push up, my whole body shaking. My mouth is so dry it hurts to swallow.
I keep running.
The trees thin out, and I see the creek ahead—just a black thread in the moonlight, the banks lined with stones slick as glass. I slide down the slope, feet first, barely keeping my balance. At the bottom, I splash through the shallow water, the cold numbing me to the bone.
I crouch, trying to catch my breath. My heart is skipping, stuttering, ready to quit. My hands are coated in mud and blood. I wipe them on the dress, but it only smears.
I want to scream.
Instead, I listen.
There’s a new sound, closer than before. A voice, not shouting but calling, low and coaxing. The kind of voice you use for animals, or children, or things you want to eat.
“Come on, Eve. Don’t stop now.”
