The trip to the Swimming Hole was a blur. Michael’s mind was racing and his legs and lungs were on fire. He hadn’t bothered to take a car. A straight hike from the mill would have taken the same amount of time as driving since there were no roads that lead directly to it. But he didn’t hike; he ran. With a full, unrelenting sprint, he ran. His body would scream to him in pain, and he would trip and fall, gashing his skin on rocks, briars, stumps and twigs. But he didn’t stop, not for a moment. His skin just sealed over and his legs kept going.