Whumpee who just barely escaped.
Whumpee who knows they only have minutes, if not mere seconds, until Whumper notices their absence and all hell breaks loose.
Whumpee who knows they only have one shot at this.
Whumpee who’s running for their life—literally—not stopping when their breaths get shallower, when their throat starts to burn and their sides start to hurt, or when they start feeling as if they could pass out any moment.
Whumpee who runs through the yard, the forest, and onto a highway with no sidewalk, which they run along the side of until they finally come across a gas station.
Whumpee who barges in through the glass door, the “open” sign clanking against it with the sudden movement.
Whumpee who rushes to the underpaid cashier, their mouth moving faster than their thoughts, as they communicate the urgency of their situation, practically begging to be believed and helped.
Gas Station Employee who makes a few quick phone calls to the nearby police station, pausing to ask Whumpee for clarifications every few sentences.
Whumpee who meekly asks for permission to take a bottle of water from one of the fridges—as if they weren’t about to pass out from exhaustion and dehydration—as to which Gas Station Employee gravely encourages them to do so.
Gas Station Employee who does not charge Whumpee for the water bottle.
(Whumper who finds the door ajar far too late, fury and anxiety mixing into one lethal concoction as they vow to take Whumpee out the second they see them again, if they ever do.)
