Lincoln looked at him—really looked. The way he used to when they were kids and Michael had a fever, trying to decide if it was serious enough to call someone. "Then we move. Now."
"South," Michael said finally. "There's a drainage runoff that feeds into the old quarry road. If we take it, we can double back to the highway. There's a freight depot three miles east." do michael and lincoln get caught
Then a light bloomed—not from the road, but from above. A helicopter. Its beam swept the field in lazy arcs, and Michael knew they'd never reach the depot. Not like this. Not with Lincoln's limp and his own failing leg. Lincoln looked at him—really looked
They ran. Not the frantic sprint of the newly escaped, but the steady, grinding jog of the hunted—economy of motion, every breath a currency. Michael's ankle, still weak from the Fox River jump, threatened to give way with every other step. Lincoln grabbed his arm once, twice, pulling him upright. There's a freight depot three miles east
"Maybe. Or maybe they'll put us both in a cell next to each other. Wouldn't be the worst thing."
