In a sleazy, run-down motel in the heart of the city, a man stood anxiously under the buzzing yellow lights of the top floor hallway. He was middle-aged, with a large bald spot flowering on his head, and beads of sweat had accumulated just under his thinning hairline. He was wringing his veiny hands, pulling at his wrinkled shirt, and he kept glancing nervously at the aged wooden door he was standing in front of. He would lunge forward to knock, then would stop himself, pull his hand back, then resume his wringing and his thinking.<br/><br/>Within the motel room was another man, Gregory, propped up on the squeaky mattress. He was on the threshold of sleep. His eyes were heavy and crusted, and his stubbly chin kept dipping to meet his chest. He stirred himself just before the battle to stay awake was lost, and would shift his position on the bed, stretch his neck, then settle down again. This was his ritual; every night he would entice himself with the prize of sleep, then push it away with all of his willpower. It was simply too great a risk; his<span style="font-style: italic">thing</span>, power, ability, whatever the hell it was, had the capacity to blow his cover, to draw attention to himself, or even hurt someone. Therefore he deprived himself of rest. It was a challenge, and he dreaded the quiet hours of the night.<br/><br/>He couldn’t risk leaving this safe haven just yet, because when he had to leave, he wasn’t sure where else to go. He’d been holed up in the motel room for almost a week now, and though he hadn’t gotten comfortable, the allure of<span style="font-style: italic">not</span>having to change his location constantly<span style="font-style: italic">was</span>comforting. It wasn’t a pleasant place, nor was it well-kept; but it was a hell of a lot better than having to camp out in the bushes of some park through a bitingly cold night. The stained carpets, dusty furniture and ancient facilities were actually a great break for him. So far he was happy he had taken the risk of contacting an old acquaintance of his, the motel manager, to rent out a discounted room. Off the books, of course.<br/><br/>Greg had been running for almost three months now, and he’d had to lie low. He needed to hide his face and keep from leaving a digital or paper trail. Couch surfing at a friend’s house was a viable option at first, but when the news spread around of what he’d done, he needed to search for people who weren’t as close and not as aware.<br/><br/>And now he was thinking of where to stop next – though this place was, of course, a lucky break, he couldn’t stay for long or he’d surely get caught. He knew the police had been gaining on him; his case wasn’t some neatly packaged murder. He’d left fingerprints, DNA, and the cops knew who he was. It was just a matter of trapping him. As options ran through Greg’s muddled mind, there was a timid rapping on the door. Greg’s eyes flickered open. He reached for his backpack, already preparing to bolt.<br/><br/>”It’s Ted,” the voice of his unwitting comrade filtered through the door. Greg’s tensed shoulders relaxed. He lifted himself off of the bed and lightly strode to the door. He peeked through the eyehole to double-check it was Ted and only Ted, then fiddled with the jammed doorknob and the clumsy lock before opening up the door a crack.<br/><br/>”Yeah?” Sharp eyes surveyed Ted, whose face and body language screamed unease and fear and – guilt? Suspicion and dread flooded into Greg’s brain. “What did you—“ He bit his lip, stuck his head out the doorway to look if the hallway was clear, then ushered an unwilling Ted, who squealed slightly, inside.<br/><br/>“I had to, Greg, I’m sorry, I had to—“<br/><br/>”What did you have to do, Ted, what?” Greg knew, but he needed to hear the confirmation come from Ted’s mouth.<br/><br/>“Jesus, Greg, I’m okay with helping a friend when they’re low, but harboring someone who’s wanted for murder? Hell no, man. And you lied to me – I saw your fucking mug plastered on the news this morning, what did you expect me to do?”<br/><br/>Greg had stayed too long. He’d pushed his luck. His case wasn’t a big topic of discussion, but that didn’t mean people who paid attention wouldn’t catch his face on the news occasionally. His chest was tight and he could feel his blood thrumming in his ears. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair before clasping the back of his neck. He exhaled slowly, trying to clear his head. “Jesus Christ. You called ‘em? ‘Course you did. I assume they’re on their way?” Ted went silent. Greg paced across the room, the floorboards beneath the carpet creaking under his weight. “Why’d you do that, man, why’d you do that…” He muttered under his breath, scrubbing his face, and speaking more to himself than to Ted, whose actions were justified. In a sudden motion Greg flew towards his pack, grasped it, and swung it across his shoulders. Then he shoved the window open and climbed out, ignoring Ted’s cry of surprise, and landed on the fire escape.<br/><br/>The great rusty skeleton shuddered under his blundering footsteps as he descended it. It was dark out, the stars hidden by the smog, and a harsh chill had settled over the city. His constricted breath puffed out in clouds before him. He was making quite a lot of ruckus; he prayed the police weren’t here yet. Then, sure enough, as if the gods had cursed him, the sirens approached the motel, and the sound of tires screeching to a halt met his ears. Greg made the final leap to the alleyway beside the motel. He nearly lost his footing from the impact, but caught himself. He took a glance behind him, in the direction of the newly arrived police.<br/><br/>He really wished he hadn’t done that. His eyes locked with those of a young officer. There was a moment of apprehension and bated breath. Then Greg sprinted away from the officer, through the shadowy alleyway, and knocked down garbage cans behind him to make the police’s path just a little more cumbersome.