Overture Downs i know that you want one more night

the stranger has a partner, or maybe it's just him seeing double. he blinks, hard. it doesn't really help.
they make eye contact and whittaker's already sweating. he tenses and grunts and twists around wildly, searching for a decent exit, and he books it. 
or well. he tries.
what he ends up doing is slipping in the slush and getting a mouthful of it without traveling a single decent meter. the cold feels good on his skinless shoulder. he lies there for a while, cheek on the ground, breathing hard, staring at his own limp hand until it goes blurry.
as if getting shocked, he jumps back up again, wild eyed and even messier now, and he can barely keep track of what's coming out of his mouth and what's writhing inside his brain like a tuna on deck gasping for air—wh-what d'you want? he'd made two things clear: one, that he was used to being chased and that maybe even someone was on his tail now, and two, that he couldn't run for shit.