A lone teenager jogged along a dark, wooded trail, her tawny ponytail bobbing with the motion. Cool air clung to the warmth of her cheeks as she eased to a stop, leaning against a tree to catch her breath. That's far enough for today, she thought to herself. Birdsong delighted her ears instead of the roar of traffic; she basked in the predawn tranquility. The moon had already descended and the sun had not yet awoken, enshrouding this patch of the world in darkness. Irene Locklyn knew the shadows only heralded the dawning of a new day, and she seldom waited for sunrise to get moving.

Irene carefully stepped over a large root in the path; she didn't need to see it, she knew it was there. She'd wandered this small patch of wilderness many times, and witnessed it shrink yearly. One day these trees would all be uprooted to expand the rapidly growing town of Centreville. Morose at this thought, she wove her way through the shadows.

Crack!

Tendrils of panic wiggled along Irene's nerves as the serenity of the morning was shattered by cacophony of breaking branches and voices. Who's there? What's happening? She slipped between two closely entwined trees, unsure where the noise had come from. Closer and closer drew the sound of rushing footsteps and disturbed foliage.

A grunt!

A groan!

Excited shouts added to the confusion. Was that French?

Out of the nearby brambles stumbled a limping shadow, a masculine voice swearing viciously. Several more silhouettes spilled out into the nearby clearing in pursuit; her sanctuary had become the scene of some sort of chase. Someone approached her hiding place. The hidden adolescent held her breath as a tingle of fear swept through her.

Did they see me? What do they want?

Irene listened to her heartbeat as a hand reached out. She squinted, but could not bring herself to close her eyes. The scratching of bare branches could be heard, followed by a snap as the man tore a large branch an adjacent tree. Partial relief took the edge off of her fear. At least she could breathe again, albeit in rapid and shallow bursts.

Darkness was a blessing which concealed Irene from the men, and the men's actions from Irene. But vision wasn't the only sense illustrating a gruesome picture. Each sound of impact, each meat-tenderizing squelch, each grunt of pain, sent shivers down her spine. These impulses tingled down to her feet, where they rooted her to the spot despite her desire to run.

"He has learned his lesson, non?" remarked a smug, nasal voice. "Come, the sun soon will rise." The men vanished as suddenly as they had arrived.

Squinting in the darkness, Irene spotted a body the ground. Cautiously, she approached. Frightening possibilities raced through the girl's mind. Is he dead? Is he dying? Is this for real? He needs help, but those men might come back. What do I do?

"You… you just going… to stare?"

Irene nearly screamed, her tense nerves snapping. "Don't move!" He's alive. I can't leave him now. The obvious course remained. "Let me help."

Astonishment overrode her wariness upon hearing a chuckle. It didn't last long before it aborted and turned into a groan. Down went her hand to the leaf-littered ground beside the man, whereupon she felt a sticky liquid. Dark smudges streaked her finger tips. Disgustedly, she wiped her hand off on her sweatpants. "May I check for breaks or fractures?"

Despite the strain in the man's voice, there was a tinge of amusement as he whispered, "Be my guest."

Gently, Irene's fingers investigated the back of the man's head and neck, slipping through blood matted hair to feel the skin underneath. It wasn't noticeably swollen or lumpy, albeit she could feel the firm tension of his neck muscles. Nothing seemed to be broken. But she'd never actually felt a broken neck before, and thus wasn't entirely confident. She decided his ability to speak was a good enough sign.

"Are you breathing okay? Do you feel nauseated or dizzy?" She needed to keep the man responsive, while she tried to remember more from her First Aid course.

"Breathing hurts. Not dizzy... no nausea."

"Do you know what year it is?"

There was a pause, which played on Irene's nerves. She wasn't sure what to do if he was so badly injured that he didn't know the date.

"Two thousand and... four."

Irene sighed with relief. She then proceeded to perform a quick examination, having to rely on touch. She palpated his legs through his torn slacks, and to her surprise she found a frayed rope tied to one of his ankles. Immediately she checked his wrists. They were bound together. Having nothing sharp on hand, she searched her pockets for another solution. Keys jangled and she seized the opportunity, wedging her house key into the knot to loosen it. "Why didn't you say you'd been tied up?"

"You only... noticed... now?"

"There." Irene tossed the ropes aside. "Think you could walk if I helped you?"

"Mhm..."

Grunting, she helped him to his feet. To her surprise, the stranger was about her height, maybe just slightly taller. She herself was just over a metre and half, although she'd grown since her last precise measurement.

"Do you live nearby?" inquired Irene.

In a barely audible whisper he replied, "No… you?"

"About ten minutes' jog away… but…"

"I need shelter, quickly… quickly," he uttered urgently.

Irene could not bring herself to refuse. Leaning on her for support, the man was able to limp along, albeit at an excruciatingly slow pace.

This is the right thing to do, isn't it? Irene had a strong aversion to being involved in whatever trouble this man was embroiled in. Clenching and churning, her stomach had other ideas about letting a stranger into her home. She fixed it in her mind with the intention to set him on the porch and then phone for an ambulance.

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The first rays of light were breaking over the surrounding mountains when they arrived at her house. The stranger inhaled sharply as she guided him to a rickety old deck chair. A rapid thumping caused Irene to glance at him - his leg was shaking as he gazed to the east.

Muttering under her breath, Irene struggled with the old lock, the man's agitation visibly growing. Finally, there was a satisfying click and the door swung open. Seeming to forget himself, the stranger sprang to his feet only to stumble. She caught him before he fell onto his face, thankful for his small stature. "Easy there… no rush…"

A sharp hiss forced its way past his clenched teeth as he winced. Redoubling her efforts to get the languishing stranger back into the chair, she was unprepared for him to throw his weight towards the front door. Fearful of causing him more harm by restraining him, she let him stagger inside. He leaned heavily against the wall by her coat rack, leaving dark smears on the faded wallpaper.

As soon as the lights went on, the languishing stranger exhibited animal-like distress. "The light… no… need... dark…"

"Is your head hurting that badly?"

He barely nodded.

With proper lighting, she could finally see his face clearly. His coal-black eyes were bloodshot and one of them had significant swelling around it; it may have just been the injuries which gave them their squinty, shifty appearance. His messy black mop of hair was badly in need of a trim, unkempt bangs sticking to his high forehead. The angular structure of his jaw was further punctuated with a black soul patch on his pointed chin. A slightly hooked nose perched above a set of lips, which were split and puffy, obscuring their natural shape. Marred as his face was, Irene guessed he was in his thirties. She considered him rakish, especially due to the small gold earring in his left ear. This did not inspire her with confidence about her decision to let him inside.

The urgency and fretfulness of the man was worrying her, and she felt it better to pacify him. In his condition he probably wasn't a threat. Probably.

"Think you could handle stairs?"

Keeping strong eye contact, the stranger gave a slight nod. Thus she helped him down to the basement, encouraging him to steady himself with the bannister.

"The basement has no windows…" she explained as they stepped into darkness, the air having a heavier quality and a whiff of lint and laundry detergent . With a flick a bare yellow lightbulb lit up the room. She gestured with a free arm towards a roll-away bed shoved between some shelves.

"This'll do…" the man croaked. Feet shuffling asynchronously across the scratchy Berber carpet, Irene helped him to the bed. Before letting him lie down, she whipped off the handmade quilt. She was not about to let the man bleed on a memento from her late grandmother. He sluggishly laid down and put his hands over his chest, staring at the ceiling.

"Wait here; I'll call an ambulance." Before she turned away, the man's alarmed expression caught her attention.

"No hospital!" he blurted, expectorating blood in the process. Irene quickly stepped back to be out of the line of spray. "Just bandages..."

She rolled her eyes and left to go find some gauze and other supplies. What a mess. I should have kept running. She paused, a feeling of shame tightening her chest. "Stop it. This is serious." she reproached herself, as if spoken words would drown out her internal doubts.

Irene returned holding a plastic case in one hand, and a bag of ice in the other. Her guest took the offered ice, stared at it a moment as if trying to decide where to deploy it, then put it against his lip.

She knelt beside the bed and opened the case. "Let's see here…"

First, Irene gingerly cleaned the cuts on the man's face, being particularly gentle around swollen areas. He closed his eyes, barely wincing as she wiped away the blood. More gauze was unrolled and dabbed with disinfectant as she eyed him for any more obvious abrasions. "Are you okay with unbuttoning your shirt?" Wordlessly, the man complied. "By the way, my name is Irene."

"Cyrus."

"This might sting…. Cyrus? It's not a very common name …" Irene remarked as she did her best to clean several cuts along his ribs. She kept expecting the man to flinch at her touch, but he remained eerily still as she worked. He either had nerves of steel or was too tired to react. As more silence followed, she continued, "Then again… Irene isn't Jennifer or Amanda or Jessica…"

"My father thought he was being clever..." her patient remarked, his nose wrinkling slightly.

Irene cleared her throat. "Well, that's all I can do for you. You really should go to the hospital."

Cyrus's eyes shot open and he curled his lips menacingly, like a dog about to bare its fangs. Immediately he pressed his raw lips back together. Before he could utter a word in protest a loud meow resounded. Irene jumped and whipped her head around, laughing when she saw her cat. Promptly, the small grey tabby wandered over to investigate. After getting a good sniff, the feline arched her back and hissed. Irene hurriedly picked up her pet, trying to calm her down as she smoothed out a puffed-up tail.

"Shhhhh…. it's okay… it's alright…" Irene cooed soothingly, but the furious feline continued to growl and struggle. Quickly shuffling across the floor, she threw the cat out of the room and shut the door. There was a loud scream of protest followed by the sound of tiny feet thumping up the stairs. "Sorry. Silver is usually very friendly. I'll make sure to keep the door closed so she doesn't come back."

"Never... really got on... with cats."

"Still... I'd never seen her behave like that towards a human." Visible signs of tension could be detected in Cyrus. "Normally, just other cats," Irene added.

Cyrus lifted his head slightly, slowly bringing his bandaged hand up to wipe away dark strands from his eyes, relaxing. "I promise... I'm not a cat in a monkey suit."

Perhaps, in another circumstance, Irene could have laughed and bantered a little. As it was, she gave her unusual guest a sideways stare, ambivalent about his attempt at humour. Echoes of her cat screaming reverberated as her stomach fluttered. Something isn't right. "I'm going to call that ambulance now."

"NO!" Cyrus shouted. Moments ago he was struggling to talk. "I can't afford it."

Can't afford it? This isn't the States. Unless... "Are you here illegally?" His accent sounded local, which made her wonder if he was from just across the border.

"...I don't have papers..." he admitted after a pause.

Oh for heaven's sake. Irene put her hands on her hips, eyeing Cyrus critically. She then remembered he didn't ask for her help; she offered it. Despite feeling foolish and naive, she dared not reveal her mounting doubts. "It's better to get tended by professionals and end up deported, than to stay here and risk getting an infection."

"Well isn't that adorable. Young and naïve."

Irene squinted with irritation.

Cyrus snorted and reiterated, "NO hospital!" His glare returned with greater intensity.

"Don't give me that look. You can't stay here." She examined Cyrus again, noting how pale he was. She hesitantly walked back over to him, putting her hand on his forehead. Cool skin, but not clammy. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm in pain!" he snapped, then amended an apologetic smile. "But... I've been through worse. Let's not make a production out of this, shall we?"

Irene put her hands on his hips, eyes narrow, and lips half turned down. He's been through worse? Do I even want to know? "I'm not making a production. I'm just trying to help."

"You are. Just... go about your day. I only need a safe place to rest for now."

The harried teenager drew in a deep breath, then let it all out in a heavy sigh, pushing the air out until it almost hurt, as if she could squeeze the butterflies out of her system. After chewing on her lower lip, she arched an eyebrow and nodded. "Fine. You have until the evening. If you aren't well enough to leave by then, I'm calling the ambulance. If you resist, I'll call the cops, too."

Pacified, Cyrus's mouth split into a grin, causing a new bead of blood trickled to the surface. "Trust me, I'll be fine."

With an understanding reached, Irene instructed him to rest before she left. She just wanted to get to school and as far away from him as possible.