January 6th. 1:14 AM. Outskirts.

 

El.

‘Glass.’

 

Gl.

Again?

 

‘Don’t die.’

 

Did you shoot me?

 

‘No. You did.’

 

Is that who it was?

 

‘Can you breathe?’

 

When you look at me.

 

‘Are you serious?’

 

Yes, when you look at me.

 

‘Then let me look at you.’

 

Is it bad?

 

‘It’s fine. Does it hurt?’

 

When you look at me.

 

‘Shut up. You’ll be fine until the ambulance gets here.’

 

Not if you run, Ellen.

 

‘I have to run, Glass.’

 

No you don’t.

No you don’t.

 

ELLEN’s practical sneakers offer only an insubstantial irresonant patter in return.

 

Gl.

No you don’t.