Excerpt
A minute later, the birds and insects around me all go silent.
It’s a subtle warning others may miss, but I’m always listening. I pay attention to my surroundings and what the world has to tell me.
The creatures have done their job warning me. Now it’s up to me to discover the threat.
Before I consciously process the slapping of feet behind me, my nape hairs stand on end. I don’t have to turn around to know that someone is approaching more quickly than normal. I speed up and take a sharp turn at the next street. And as soon as I’m around the corner, I walk faster, almost running. When I turn down the next street, I look back and finally glimpse my pursuer.
I recognize Tony—the local from our experiment—and his wiry frame immediately.
Despite the distance I’ve put between us, the snarl that distorts his weathered face is enough to tell me he is not here on pleasant business.
Maybe he resents being duped in our laboratory drama. Perhaps he thought he was making headway with Amber, and he’s angry that she was part of the act. Whatever his reason, I increase my pace, walking as fast as possible without running. When I do, the cadence of his feet hitting the asphalt behind me speeds up as well.
I’m not a runner. I never have been.
But as my adrenal glands flood my bloodstream with a huge batch of epinephrine, I break into a full sprint. When I look back, Tony’s in full pursuit. But luckily, he’s not in that great of shape, despite being rail-thin. His heavy breathing is louder than the sound of my pounding heart.
Even so, the next time I check behind me, his form is bigger as he continues to gain.
I turn another corner and move onto the sidewalk that runs along Rugby Road. The Greek-inspired fraternity and sorority houses blur by on my right as I jump onto the shoulder to avoid the crowd of students as I approach Beta Bridge.
As my heart slams inside my chest, my surroundings snap into clear focus.
The graffiti on Beta Bridge is newly painted in spring motifs of flowers and Easter eggs.
A female student steps on an earthworm without realizing it, smearing its body on the concrete as she crosses the bridge.
I inhale the sour odor of wet mud from Mad Bowl—the field on my right where popular guys, muddy and drunk, play rugby in the wet grass.
My brain processes all of these things in a single instant. And I silently thank evolution for the chemicals in my bloodstream allowing me to maintain this pace for much longer than usual.
But I don’t kid myself. My body is only responding this well to being chased because Tony is the dog and I’m the rabbit running for my life.
When I glance behind me, Tony has taken to the street, running against traffic, and has halved the distance between us. I should stop and let him say what he wants to me—allow him to vent his anger in front of all these student witnesses.
Being in public should keep me safe from any serious harm. Besides, even though he’s angry, he’s not a psychopath—not if Mooken’s questionnaire is as good as he claims at screening out psychopaths, sociopaths, and people with other serious mental issues.
While thinking about all of this, I spend a second too long looking over my shoulder and almost wipe out when I run into someone.
The person grabs me by my shoulders and spins me around, and I struggle to move past him. I’m an unwilling partner in this dark dance with him, and the sounds of bassoons and kettle drums from Beethoven’s Ninth flood my head as I ball my right hand into a fist, ready to fight if he won’t let me go.
But before I can throw a punch, Eugene speaks.
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