Last semester, I almost got mugged. Or I think I almost did. I was heading back from Safeway, through the part of Salem where I walk quickly. Past chain-link fences and stray shopping carts. Past boarded-up former meth houses and the unboarded ones too. Past the house with the yard sale year-round, with like twelve barbecues and an assortment of car parts and other carryable things strewn across the front yard. 

I had just purchased a restock for my alcohol stash, and had way too many cheap wine bottles stuffed in a grocery bag. The handle had been biting into my fingers for blocks, and after switching hands and switching back, I stopped on a clean bit of sidewalk and set the bag down. It clinked. I let my hands rest. 

I was just standing there when something made contact with my shoulder from the side. I spun. There was a guy in a tattered hoodie there, like right there. He must’ve bumped into me, but how did he get so close? Another guy was behind him. They stared. 

“Hey man, can you help us with something?” the bumper said. He moved even closer. I stepped back and my backpack smushed against something, I think it was a fence. It rattled. 

I was like, “Sorry—,” but they were coming at me, side-by-side, with only this teensy gap between them. 

“C’mon, help us,” the other guy said. He stared at my pants pocket and I didn’t know what they wanted, but I didn’t feel like I had much of a say. I just stood there, paralyzed.

And I don’t know how, but all of a sudden the wine bag was back in my hand and swinging forward like a medieval flail. They jumped back with big eyes. I swear I actually let out a “Hyah!” and swung again at the bumper. He dodged to the side and the gap between the two men widened. I charged for the opening, whipping the bag again. The bottles clacked. 

I was through the gap, but then I lurched backward and my backpack straps dug into my shoulders. Someone must’ve grabbed it. Without turning, I swung the wine bag behind me and I heard glass crack and someone yelled, “Fuck!” and I nearly fell as my pack was released. Then I was running, absolutely booking it down the middle of the street. My backpack bounced and the grocery bag sprayed moscato and why was I still holding it? 

There were fast footsteps behind me. “Fuck you!” someone huffed. My feet pounded the ground. My lungs were bursting, collapsing, bursting again. The footsteps got quieter. Then less frequent. Finally someone said, “Hey wait, come back!” and I somehow felt impolite when I didn’t. 

I kept going. For blocks. Down the center lines and through intersections, until a car honked behind me and I veered to the sidewalk. When I reached the edge of campus, I had to steady myself against a wall. Sweat pooled under my backpack. The wine bag dripped. What if they had been faster? 

The next day, I went to the fitness center. I got on a treadmill. I did it the next day too. And the next. And the next. I’ve started to use the incline. And I’m getting quicker. 

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A few months later, I understand why people call it the dreadmill. The sweat smell. The unchanging view. Moving but never moving. So today, for the first time, I’m running down the woody trail in Bush Park, the one that borders the stream. I’ve got a water bottle in one hand, keys between my knuckles like Wolverine claws in the other. The water sloshes.

The trail weaves around trees and stumps, and I zig and zag with it. I round a bend, and there by the riverbank I see cardboard peeking out between branches. I speed up. There’s a shelter with a canopy of anything that might provide protection from the Oregon rain: tarps, grocery bags, unoccupied jackets with arms spread like birds in flight. There’s a pile of bike parts, wheels and frames and seats, surely pulled from campus and soon to be sold. 

Mud splatters my ankles and I push down the trail, checking ahead for branches or roots or other trippable objects, and then over my shoulder again and again and again. 

And up ahead there’s a man, standing to the side. His puffer jacket is ripped. White feathers show around ribbons of duct tape. He’s just staring, maybe fifty feet away. I could turn around, but in what world could he catch me? I squeeze my key-claws and hope he sees them.

Thirty feet. He’s still watching me. I hang to the opposite side of the trail, but that’s only a few extra feet between us. My heart pounds, and it’s not from the cardio. 

Ten feet. I know I’m staring and maybe that’s rude, but his hands are moving in his pockets and I need to know why. 

And I’m passing. He pulls a hand out, pumps it in the air, and yells, “Go, go, go!” and he’s smiling and it makes me smile too. And I go and go and go. 

Even once I’ve passed, I book it down the rest of the trail. When the loop ends at the parking lot, I’m out of breath, but I’m okay. I’m okay. My body buzzes. I fold the keys together. I sip water. 

And I wonder what it’s like out here, huddled under a tarp by the stream. It can’t be easy. It can’t be permanent. But it’s secluded. And despite the rain and cold, it’s probably safer here than on the very same streets of my almost-mugging. At night, I’m sure these shelters are practically invisible—there are no lights among the trees on the trail, no headlights from passing cars, probably not even a hint of movement aside from the flow of water in the stream. And I’ll bet sometimes, that stillness feels like safety too.

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“Salem Runs” by Jack Whaler and the artwork titled Sudden Fiction Spread by Erin McCann appeared in Issue 43 of Berkeley Fiction Review.

Jack Whaler is a new writer. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and is an avid runner.

Erin McCann (she/hers) is a sophomore illustrator and graphic designer. She studies cognitive science and enjoys finding creative ways to apply her design and illustration skills.