There was a sound behind her, and she looked over her shoulder in a horror-film-cliché move she knew she’d beat herself up over later. The moose was charging after them. Ellie yelped and faced forward, her feet moving faster than she thought they could go. Tree branches whipped across her face, but she couldn’t feel the sting, couldn’t feel anything except sheer terror that she and George were going to be trampled. She ran until the air felt like a rusty blade sawing in and out of her lungs, until bile rose up in the back of her throat, and she knew that, if she didn’t stop, she’d die anyway, charging moose or no. Slowing in a few faltering steps, she stopped and immediately bent over, her hands on her thighs right above her knees, and sucked in air. Oxygen was the most critical thing at the moment. Not even her safety had priority. When she managed to straighten, she reluctantly turned, half expecting to be face-to-face with the moose.
