Now it lies unused; it’s fallow pastureland—been this way for years. The fields are crisscrossed by man-made stone walls a few feet high. Over time, the hillsides have been overgrown with thistle, brambles, and thick field grasses. There are no trees or swales; Adrian knows he’ll be a clear target on open range. But he knows he has no choice if he’s ever going to reach civilization. Gotta take the chance; gotta go this route. He guesses he’s been running for ten minutes, maybe more, but he can’t really tell. He breaks into a slow trot, jogging uphill through yellow, knee-high field grass. He churns his way upward, thrashing through the weeds and clogged growth of vegetation. Adrian’s cheeks burn. He swipes at them. In the moonlight, he sees a dark bloodstain on his hand. Thorns, bristles, and branches did it, lashed and cut him. This night’s insane, but if he’s going to live, he’s gotta keep going. Fighting gravity, he churns uphill. He’s underestimated the incline’s steepness and the toll it would take on him.
