She dropped from the fire escape, boots hitting the asphalt hard, all too hard.

Before she even knew it, she was halfway down the alleyway. Wet, rank, the smell of ripening trash was by no means a new thing to her, but it hit her all the same, assaulted her.

She swallowed her lunch, for the second time that day, and kept up the pace. As she grabbed the railing of the next fire escape, her feet left ground, rubber souls affixing squarely to the rusted step, and up she flew. One glance behind her told her she wasn’t done yet.

And indeed, she wasn’t. He watched her climb, watched his sparrow’s futile flight. His arms, longer, stronger, easily swung him onto the escape. It gave a twisted, screeching cry. A warning. But if she was sparrow, he was hawk, more than competent in the hunt. Around and around they spun about each other, her always five steps ahead, a level above, one hairpin turn away. But if he wasn’t gaining ground, he wasn’t losing it either, five steps behind, a level below, a hairpin turn.