Six Sentence Sunday

She’s sure that when she was a girl, she hated running.

Mostly.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Dallas shakes her head to force the hazy memories away.

Twisting from one side to the other, her back cracks and she bends down, tightens the laces on her running shoes before she takes off again. Her path is lit by the full moon that hangs heavily off to the side, dipping ever closer to the horizon as sunrise nears.

She runs to a tiny bungalow a mile off, rolls her eyes at the sight of the lights blazing through the curtain-clad windows.

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