“Hey you! Stop!” a voice rang out in the terminal.
Sam panicked. When he panics, he gets scared, and when he’s scared, he runs. Bolting down the terminal floor he blew past dozens of startled onlookers. He darted left and right trying to obscure the view of his pursuer. Flying past the souvenir shop he grabbed the postcard display letting it crash the ground. Passing the Gelateria he bowled over an unsuspecting patron. Mocha Nocciola gelato = splattered everywhere.
He ran past the ice cream vendor and turned the corner at the sleazy terminal bar hoping to lose whoever it was that was after him. His bag was heavy, and it bounced hard on his back as he ran. Taking the corner, however, a force came down on him like a ton of bricks. That load was commanded by terminal security, more specifically ex-line-backer Tiny. Once an NFL prospect, Tiny had been expelled on drug charges. After that he dragged himself around the US trying out for practice squads only to end up a security thug on the East Coast. That had been a long time ago, and though he had been faster in his salad days, he was still more than a match for any post-grad vagabond lugging a 12 kilogram backpack.
At this point, Sam was crushed both literally and figuratively. He had heard a crack when he‘d hit the ground and he was afraid his hopes and dreams had been broken along with two of his ribs. He felt a trickle running down his back and his darkest fear was confirmed. That pain seemed incredibly real at that moment. Somehow it even felt more real than the 250 pound former All American sitting on top of him.
