sometimes quiet is violent

Though it could not have been more than a minute or two, Junkyard Dog's flight felt like an eternity. In that time she was a beast of instinct, the only sounds her breathing and the steady beating of her paws against the ground. It was a strange experience, a moment suspended in time where all was slow. Soon, her condition caught up with her, as exhaustion trumps all. Weariness like a fire burned in her legs, rendering them unstable until-

one foot slipped on the slick snow. Try as she might, she could not regain her footing. In her attempt to do so, she twisted her ankle and, finally, fell. She skidded, for a moment, rolling with her momentum, before settling in a heap. Junkyard Dog could not see her pursuer, but she could hear him, calling terrible things into the dark. The dog gasped, pulling in air as quick as she could as she pulled herself up on unsteady legs. It was futile, but she crept away, careful not to stress her injured paw. Rather than run, an impossibility even if she wasn't injured, she tried to hide, tucking herself behind a tree. There she listened for the beast, trying to quiet her heavy breathing.