I run down the hill, scooting around people going about their day. I run and I panic. I run and I wince from the breeze, from the stupidity, from the shock. I run and I pant and then all of a sudden I’m no longer running, because I’m tripping and tumbling and skidding down centuries-old Scottish cobblestones, slipping and hitting the ground hard. Skin tearing as my hands scrape along the ground, and my knees follow, the jacket and my T-shirt flying high as I kneel like a bare-assed bleeding sprinter squatting awkwardly about to start a race.
