Run!

I run the length of Boris’s truck, swerving directly behind and then along the road on the passenger side; if he decides to shoot, the angle of the shot will make it tough for him to hit me. But I don’t think he will shoot. It’s not the first time I’ve faced someone with a weapon. That’s why I run.

He shouts, “Hey!” but by then I’m several metres from his truck and still running. Running towards the ditch at the edge of the cul de sac.

I hear the roar of his engine coming closer. He’s reversing to drive after me.

But when I hit the ditch, I know he can’t get me. His truck may be big, but the ditch is too deep. If he drives into it he will get stuck. Or, like me a few days back, flip the truck over on its side.

Across the ditch and then I’m on the shoulder of the road that it runs alongside. Traffic isn’t that bad, but I have to run about ten metres before there’s enough of a gap to sprint across the road. Horns blare and tires screech, but I do not slow. I make it across four lanes of traffic and cross the ditch on the other side. Into that neighbourhood, weaving between houses for several blocks until I find a small green space with trees and bushes.

I push through the branches, ignore the scratches on my arms and face, and find a secluded spot. I collapse on the ground, knowing it will take a long time for my breathing to slow and the shaking to stop.