Mal grasped the shoe in one hand in finger-locked, white-knuckle grip. Like a drowning man gripped a rope. Like a talisman against the darkness. The grip of one holding on to their last and only hope for salvation.
... a ridiculously overdramatic way to hold a shoe.
She rolled onto the flat of her back, splayed out across the ground. Carving out a little dust-angel on the alley floor. The sound of brick grinding on brick still ringing in her ears as relief split her face in a manic grin.
She began to snigger.
Then the snigger became a chuckle.
Then her hard, severe manner threw it's hands up in surrender and she exploded into harsh, guttural, body-shaking laughter. All the tension, the shock, the trauma of her world burning around her bulldozed by the relief that she had done something right.
She had dug her heels in, looked certain-doom in the eye and said 'No. You move.'
And Death had blinked, and then passed them by.
And lying there, in the dirt. In that stupid alley. With her stupid friends. With that stupid shoe in her hand. Was the funniest thing in the world.
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Jack gets to her Feet
