* * *

I ran as hard as I could across the black rocks, dodging pipes and bulldozers. There were loose wires everywhere. Marti’s long hair streamed out behind her as she sent up a cloud of pebbles against my shins.

The crack of gunfire al behind me almost sent me flying into the ground, but I managed to keep my feet and zig-zag my way out of range. Marti reached back and caught my free hand. She pulled me faster, faster, faster than my own poor legs could have ever carried me on their own power. The gun cracked out again.

My mind was racing faster than my feet.

  How, how? I don’t believe it. It’s not real. It’s not. It can’t be. This stuff doesn’t happen to me. This happens in movies to James Bond and Jason Bourne but not to Marti and me! It’s not real. I’m dreaming. This is the result of too much chocolate and too many nights of watching Psych on Netflix. That’s it. I’m Shawn---no, I’m Gus. Marti’s Shawn. She’s the crazy one who never seems worried and I’m the realistic one who takes all the crap and will probably die of a heart attack at age forty. That’s it. Just a silly Psych dream. Holy crap we’re actually going to get shot and killed!

 That last thought was the result of another loud gun shot from behind me. The bullet came so close that I could feel the heat of it against my ear. Marti zagged the opposite direction, yanking my arm with her. The rest of me took it’s time and my socket nearly tore in two.

In my hand I clutched the pair of dirty, rubber flip-flops. Somehow, I don’t know exactly how even to this day, I’d snatched them off his feet when---well, let me back up.

Marti, with no warning whatsoever (Shawn-like), suddenly bailed out of the Jeep as soon as we made it to Main street. The drugs were wearing off more and more and we were both functioning almost normally, but that jump was still pure, terrifying agony, let me tell you. Hitting the pavement at twenty-five miles per hour may sound pretty tame, but I’d like to see your face after you give it a try. Needless to say, mine was priceless. Marti stuck her landing and started running almost instantly, however my parents never wanted to pay for gymnastics, so I landed like a log, rolled a few feet and stopped. I was a big slug, passed out on the ground.

I woke up to hear Flip-flops’ message to Marti:

  “Come out now or I put a bullet in Blondie’s head before you can say ‘Pretty-please don’t shoot.” His feet were in front of my face, and for some crazy reason I just reached out and pulled those dumb flip-flops out from under him. The gun blew, but up at the sky cuz he was lying on his back by that time. I took off running, still starry-eyed and nauseous. And I didn’t stop. Marti ended up in front of me suddenly, and she had the common sense to run over rocks. Barefoot feet don’t chase fast over any terrain, but especially not over the rocks and pipes and spare nails one finds in a construction zone. That’s where we headed. And by some miracle, it worked.

And we lived to see another day. Even if we ended up sitting in a drain pipe for a few hours before that day dawned.