Forty Eight Hours and 12 Minutes

City Fiction

Photo by Ashwini Chaudhary(Monty) on Unsplash

The exhale felt like a waste, like an admission.

Tandley didn’t remember if he hopped three fences or four.

Didn’t know this warehouse, just knew it had to have eyes. He pulled up the hoodie, late, too late.

Cops would get the camera footage.

He reached in the lining of the parachute pants under his jeans. The last pack of dope, flattened like a bandage people put on burns and large wounds.

Had he held his breath the entire run? Not possible.

His chest didn’t burn, it was icy.

He could pull the dope and drop it. Would it matter?

Something was missing.