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Failing Breath and Losing Sight

With a riotous clang of metal they burst through the roof exit. The chilled night air hit Denton square in the lungs.

He barely suppressed his wheeze, “You know we’re on the roof, right?”

“Yep,” came the curt reply, “Catwalk, there!”

“Joy, more running.” He’d said it more to himself, as she was already sprinting for the narrow metal walkway that spanned some thirty feet of darkness. Jogging, jiggling, and jangling Denton plodded after, wondering how he’d never noticed how creepy the compound could be.

She was across the catwalk by the time Denton reached it, which was also the same time as the door flew open behind him. The unintelligible curses had followed them, now overflowing and slurred through the spittle of rage.

This moment, in later evaluation, represented the fastest Denton had ever moved in his sad life, barrelling across a narrow bridge muttering with failing breath, “I’m gonna get shot. I’m gonna get shot. I’m gonna get shot.”

Worst of all, he’d lost sight of his damsel in distress.

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