When they came for her, she ran. She ran like she was made for running. She ran like hunted deer ran. She ran like hungry wolves ran. She ran like a river, like a fire through dry brush.
She ran, because there was nothing left to do but run.
There was nowhere to go, but purely to go; all she had left was the momentum that would have to carry her from one world to the next, a slipping between breaths, between heartbeats.
Always just a moment too late, an instant behind him, fingers never quite finding the tear, never quite in time, to be able to reach through, to take hold of his hand.
They keep getting to her. They keep catching up. They keep getting between her, and her next step.
All she needs is to get a little faster, to jump a little sooner.
All she needs is to get her fingers laced into his.
All she needs is to hold on.
The Old Jones 