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Chapter Seventeen
Sheryl and Russel knew every shrub, every single green trees, thickets, plants, weeds, briers, flowers and boscage and that was a good thing on the short run as we ran as fast we could away from the cops - barely escaping with Sheryl.
What I meant by moving as fast as we could was actually extremely slow and almost an insignificant increment compared to how we well we moved before the cops came.
Sheryl's cuffs were still on her and they made her unable to do anything but point out shortcuts with extreme fatigue.
Maisie was conscious again thanks to the ear piercing sounds of gunshots that filled the air minutes ago but she could barely speak or do anything other than stare and breath and bleed into Russel's shirt as we ran up, down and round the brown, dry earthen clumps, popped small, feeble branches under our weight and had occasional stops to get the right direction to Sheryl
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