Whitefish River running through the parking lot, he chased me and he wouldn't stop

She shivered—there was little point in fussing. She stilled, eyes roving over him as she tried to hold still for him, every so often her gaze would drift down to the wound on her side—opened once more—not nearly as badly, but definitely a set back. 

He tried to lighten the mood, insisting bad company was still company. She thought back to the past day or so and snorted. I hope he dies.

Poor company sucks.