Moanday.

The sky was burgundy, and I was sweating. Big fat salty globules that appeared on my forehead and ran into my eyes, temporarily blinding me and forcing me to stop running every few steps to clear my vision and shake my head, splattering the trees with run-off from my bedraggled hair. I knew I should have worn a headband. They always reminded me of Argentinian footballers.

I wasn’t sure how I had found trouble again. Or even if it had found me – what was the difference? Either way, I was running for my life. I picked up a pebble and hurled it into the darkness; it crashed to earth with no sign of the accompanying yelp of pain or grunted slump into unconsciousness that I had hoped for. He was still out there, somewhere. And I’m pretty sure he was still angry.