The running had become the point. But now his legs were two tired branches. The next town was too far. The next freight train was just a noise.
That afternoon, a girl wandered into his clearing. She was maybe twelve, with dirty sneakers and a backpack missing one strap. Her name was Wren. She looked at him not with fear, but with the exhausted curiosity of someone who had also made a run for it. runaway50
Elias Thorne had been running for fifty years. The running had become the point
He wasn’t afraid of being stuck anymore. He was afraid of running until there was nothing left to run toward. runaway50