"S-stop!" He jerks back as though struck, flinching so powerfully his foot hooks over something - a root or a rock - and sends him sprawling. He scrambles through the leaves and mulch underfoot, damp from the chill of the night, choking back the swollen bubble of a sob in his throat.

The white dome of something looming overhead, glistening in the filtered moonlight.

He snaps his hands over his head and squeezes his eyes shut.

It found him.

He always knew It would.

It found him, because It always does when the trees get to be like this, when he runs away, and It's like It lives in Rosswood and telling it to go away will never save anything, will never relinquish anything, but he still has to try, the words breaking.

"Please, I didn't - I didn't do anything wrong! I promise! Don't take me back! Don't take me back!"