Running. I knew that doing this job would be rough, but I never thought I’d literally be running for my life. It’s close to 2 a.m. on a Saturday. I had just broken into my target’s place of business when the lights suddenly came on and alarms sounded throughout the high-rise. Two large men in pristine suits appeared in the doorway of the office space where I was trying to get into a file safe. They had guns. This was supposed to be a routine job. Get in, get the information, steal the money, then leave. Half to me, half to my client. Worked like a charm most of the time. This time, it’s like the guy was expecting me, and he sent his goons to kill me before I could get his account information. My job never needed a gun before, so in a situation of fight or flight, I didn’t have much of a choice. I broke into a sprint the instant I saw the two men, their bullets just missing me as I shot through the emergency fire staircase.

Now, I’m running. Pure instinct. Blood pumping to every inch of my body. I run up, up, up until I get to the roof. I hear their barreling footsteps right behind me. Within two seconds, they burst through the roof door, and I have nowhere else to go. Why didn’t I run down? I weigh my options. They’re strong. I’d never get past them to the door. They let out two more shots, and I run this way and that. I get an idea in an instant, and I bolt toward the edge of the roof. Bullets fly above me as I leap over the edge and into freefall. Will this really work? I close my eyes, brace for impact, and hit the ground within seconds.

I wake up with a start, my body lifting two inches off my bed as I lie stiff as a board. I touch my hands to my chest, my head, and my legs. Everything intact. It worked.