“Why’s it gotta be running?” she panted. “God, why’s it always fucking running,” she panted, her expression shifting to look rabid, wild, teeth bared.
She booked down the street, spinning around the corner, fingertips gripping the brick, turning her sharply.
Thump thump thump went her boots on the pavement.
“Clang clang clang went the trolley,” she spat, half-laughing. She swung around another corner, never seeing the thing that connected with her face; she was turning to look behind.
It never occurred to her someone would be ahead.
“Ring ring ring went the bell,” finished the woman holding the Louisville slugger.
