The call at 2am.
Hairs stood on end.
The butterflies that fall
dead like stones
in the pit of your stomach.
Cold sweat.
The hot shower
can't dispell the chill in your bones.
You freeze,
breaths like a gale in your ears,
while your heart's sporadic pounding
tells you you're running.
Run.    Run.    Run.   Run.   Run.

Run.