[i]Run, run, as fast as you can . . .[/i]

Breath rings in cold-reddened ears; the sound intertwines with footsteps, his own and someone else's. There's harmony, there, a minor key that would fit well under a dark sketch at the Luxor – but no, focus. Breathe. Don't pass out – consciousness is key, or there's no way through this. And goodness knows, this part is near to the last. If he can just make it to the goal, everything will be alright. If he can just make it to the goal, he'll be able to rest. (I can't. [You must.] But . . .)

Pant.
[pound, pound, pound of his own feet]
Pant.
[ra-tat, ra-tat, ra-tat of expensive shoes on the pavement somewhere behind him]
Pant.

There is pain, if (relatively) slight, shooting through his entire body and the tangy, metallic scent of blood; this, too, has a sound, a twang of sorts. It blends, resonates with the in and out of his breath, the pound of his worn tennis shoes, the tap-ta-tap of their fancy dress shoes. There is the taste of gin and cigarettes, both old and fresh, and this, too, is part of what he hears as he runs until his lungs protest, until his knees threaten to buckle, until he can hardly remember why he was running and spots run across his vision. He's light headed by the time . . .

There! Halfway down the block is the place he's going, and so now? Now, he feints into the busy street and hopes he's strong enough that his goal works as he then darts back to the left and into a certain bookstore. The outside is nothing special, nothing to draw the attention of anyone who isn't looking for it already, or who hasn't been directed there for some purpose or another; its front has certainly seen better days, and when one looks inside, all one sees is dim and dust. It seems he's in luck – he can hear them as he dodges away from the windows, towards a certain darker area of the stacks.

“There he is! Over there, by the blue Caddy!”

[i]You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man.[/i]