The boy ran scared. He sprinted down the darkened path alongside the playing fields. He passed the locked changing rooms and continued on to the wet grass of the football pitch. His felt the moisture enter his training shoe and dampen his socks; but he didn't stop. He risked looking behind him, but in the darkness of the retreating alley he could only make out dim shadows. He could now see the road and the traffic heading out of town. He could hear his breath and feel his heartbeat. His chest was burning, and, despite the chill January wind, his felt his face glowing hot. Yet on and on he ran. Not far now. The lights of the passing cars were almost upon him; he could see the steam of their exhausts as he continued his rush out of the darkness of the playing fields and into the light of the streetlamps. He heard the heavy breathing of a runner behind him. He looked anxiously and, without dropping his pace, watched the tracksuited and iPodded jogger run down the hill and disappear into the gloaming. He felt relief. He was now at the kerb, waiting for a break in the traffic. He paused then ran, reaching the other side. He made straight for the bus-stop and read the electronic GPS sign. His bus was due in three minutes. He had made it.