Tom takes this as his opportunity, and while he doesn't run, he does, for lack of a better word, skedaddle. He even manages to keep the switchblade. He hobbles and stumbles and scampers off like a rodent skittering behind a refrigerator.

When he eventually escapes, he can't help but laugh - quietly, so as not to draw attention, but deeply, in a way that rumbles in his throat and stomach. He only finds it in him to stop when the chuckling sends shots of pain across his bruised ribs and throat.

He disappears into shadows, where he belongs.