A crony bends to examine the foot and looks up, angrier than ever, shouting to Selbridge, “You son of a bitch!” The besuited brutes rush toward the putative SOB, sidewalk nails be damned.

Sara and Sel run as well — away, of course — down an alley and up against a motherfucking wall. Twenty-four professional arms reach toward Selbridge’s neck. Sara screams.

Selbridge pats his pockets and asks, “You got any nails?”

The ground opens up and swallows the pursuers.

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