357. A hill of tan grass; dozens of plump green cedars scattered over it; not a single shadow. She bursts out from between the trees, hair whipped and panting. He follows her and tries to syncronize the rhythm of his steps to the rhythm of her steps. He ran, hard, legs pumping and feet hitting the ground, loud, and pressure building up in his chest, constricting, each step causing a glancing bite. Her sweat was sweet with victory.