Hemlock doesn't wait a second longer than she has to. The adults on their podiums tower over her, and she knows they're stronger and more skilled than her. Her only hope is that they won't catch her. So she's away from the podium as soon as she hears the gong, turning on her toes and sprinting away.

The pessimistic voice at the back of her head is saying Oh, what's the use? You're done for anyway. But Hemlock's survival instinct has seen her through years of hard living, and it balks at surrender. So she runs, runs with her legs pumping and her heart pounding, until she gets to the water, and then she stops dead. She can swim, in a doggy-paddle kind of way, but she's not going to be able to swim out over all that unthinkable reach of water, if there even is another side to it. Swallowing hard on the lump in her throat, she steels herself and starts walking, wary as a hunted deer, looking for cover and high places.

Eventually, she'll make it to the forest. But she's got a long, long way to go.