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CHAPTER SEVEN.

Trisha McLeod's stein slipped out of her shaky fingers at the sudden realization that a student's life was coming to an end—in a matter of minutes—or seconds!

Driblets of the liquor; that glowed of crimson—due to the sunset's filter—which doused every physical objects within reach, lubricated the limpid surface of the cup and the ‘greased’ beer mug which still had an ample quantity of booze in it, skidded from her grip before ramming into the cold tiles and splitting into hundreds of tiny fragments with a strident noise. 

Regrettably, the bump of Trisha's wine's glass on the inured ground brought a lot of attention their way; that of their Geography professor included, and that was when another chain of problems began.

Harold and Trisha crouched into the indistinct shadows of the deftly pared gorse bush that separated them from the rest of the swimming tract like a fort breaking up a warzone from the territory of impoverished locales. Unf

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