She is running. She doesn't know who she is running from, but she knows she has to. She can’t even remember her own name. All she can make out through her hazy, blurry mind is that someone—or something—is coming to get her.

She runs, as far as her weak legs can carry her. Branches whip at her face. Her lungs burn. Panic surges through her veins like fire. As she pushes forward, her foot catches on a root, and she stumbles—tumbling off the edge of a cliff.

She crashes into a thick bush, the thorns tearing at her skin, cushioning what could have been a fatal fall. Her heart pounds. Just then, she hears it—the angry, heavy footsteps of the thing chasing her. It jumps down the cliff and lands just a few feet in front of her, but she manages to tuck herself deeper into the bush before it sees her.

She holds her breath. Her chest aches with the effort of staying silent. As the thing prowls past and disappears into the woods, she finally lets out a shaky exhale. Relief washes over her—until she tries to move.

A sharp, blinding pain shoots through her leg. Her ankle is broken. She winces, biting her lip to keep from crying out. She reaches for something—anything—to pull herself up, but then, she hears it again. Footsteps. This time slower, more deliberate. Closer.

She panics. She tries to crawl back into the bush, but her legs fail her, and she falls hard onto the grassy terrain below. Her hands dig into the dirt. Her breathing quickens. With tears welling in her eyes, she turns her head toward the sound, desperate to see the source of the footsteps.