She sealed the flapping rubber mouths shut with camouflage duct tape, taking care to avoid the laces. Then she looped her arm through the duct tape and pushed it up until it fit snugly around her bicep.

She started jogging but then turned around and stopped in front of the store door. She ripped down the taped-up sign that read: No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service. She pounded her fist on the glass. Once the cashier looked over, she pulled off her shoes with her toes and yanked her sports bra down.

No service, she yelled into the door, and then she was running, barefoot and barebreasted, down the sidewalk. She pulled the loose end of the duct tape toward her and wrapped it around her chest. She wrapped the tape around her until the roll was empty, and then she threw the cardboard into a nearby trash can.

She clenched and unclenched her left hand as she ran, ran, ran down the sidewalk, into the bad part of town, past the highway, into a private field that she could get caught for trespassing in; maybe some impulsive hunter would shoot her down as she ran by.

Her sides were ripping in two. If the duct tape weren't holding her together, she'd be spilling a ribbon of bloody intestines behind her as she ran; she could feel her muscles tightening and then splintering like icicles forming and falling down to concrete.

The duct tape wrapped around her feet was beginning to tear against the concrete, and she could feel heat and sweat gathering between her toes.

She knew if she sweat enough the duct tape would start falling off, and then she would be in trouble, but she also knew that her legs had been run on to the point where she couldn't feel them anymore unless she stopped running; she couldn't stop; she didn't want to feel the lazy pull of muscles born from sitting around and looking at old photo