The helicopter circling overhead, the bloodhounds closing in. None of it made sense.
He had spent his whole childhood in these woods. He should be a ghost.
And yet…
The fugitive leans up against a redwood, hoping to catch a breath. Then it hits him. The cast. So damn obvious.
He finds a tree stump nearby and bashes his plastered forearm apart as he lets out an agonizing howl. Course it hurts, but that tracker has gotta come out somehow.
He likes his first real taste of freedom in nearly a decade. No way he can ever go back now.
The Weekday One Hundred 