He ran.

He ran until the blood in his bones sang, until his lungs cried for oxygen, until the skin on his soles threw in the towel and split away. Until the world pitched and swayed not with explosions or quakes but with sheer exhaustion.

And then he collapsed.

---

". . .figure. . .to do with him."

"We shouldn't. . .taken him. . .in the first place."

Kinchiro struggled out of a thick, sticky sleep. Tried to put together the disconnected words into something that made sense. Everything hurt. Why did everything hurt so much?

"Oh, great. He's waking up."

". . .Can't we just knock him--"

"No."

"Ahh, man. . ."

Kinchiro finally forced his eyelids apart.

Five lightbulbs swam in a dizzy circle around a tan ceiling, then came together into one point of light right above him. Moths fluttered around it, snapping up mosquitoes. Cicadas churred nearby, and a humid breeze brushed over him, bringing with it earthy smells, wet smells. Swampy smells? Yes, swampy smells.

Where the hell was he?

A face appeared above his own.

It was upside down. Framed in--purple hair? The eyes were pink. A novel cluster of freckles hugged the outer corner of each--almost like little storm clouds had decided to live in this person's skin. Twin horns poked out above the brows.

Yeah--Kinchiro was losing it.

"Good morning!" The horned girl gave him a beaming grin. "You must've run a very long way, huh?"

"Manezai. . ."

"Oh, shush!"

Kinchiro frowned.

He had run a long way, hadn't he? The memories were slow to surface--like they'd been sunk in a mire--but that sounded right. Why had he run so far? . . .Something bad had happened. It must've. Otherwise, why was he sitting here with this. . .Well, even if she wasn't human, she was still a girl. And her friends.

He pushed himself upright, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from revealing how much it hurt, and looked around.

It wasn't morning--in fact, it was after dusk. He'd been given a futon right on the porch, which explained the moths, and the breeze. And the swampy smells.

There were two other people sitting here. One of them was definitely grown up--probably the responsible type, if Kinchiro had to guess. He had good posture, a simple but neat outfit, and long hair tied back cleanly in a high ponytail. He was even wearing a hair stick. Of course, he was also horned. . .

The last of the strangers was smallish, slouched over, and looked like he'd been forced to endure mild psychological torture. His hair was short, black, and messy--almost like he'd gotten electrocuted--and a scar split the skin on the bridge of his nose and over one cheekbone.

He at least didn't have any nonhuman characteristics.

Kinchiro looked between the three of them. Blinked a few times.

He finally remembered what had caused him to run so far.

It's happening.