Raven POV:
It's official. I can't run. At all. Running and I? We're sworn enemies. Mortal foes. Arch-nemeses. I don't care what anyone says—if running were a living being, I'd stab it with a silver dagger and dance on its grave. My legs have turned into literal mush. Mushy mush. My toes are screaming, my knees are on fire, and my thighs feel like they've been set ablaze by the gods of torture. And guess what? I am only on my third lap.
Third. Out of ten.
Do you hear me? That's seven and three-quarters more laps to go. Seven. And. Three. Quarters.
At this rate, I'll still be dragging myself around this field when midnight strikes, the moon's out, and the rest of the pack is sleeping soundly in their cozy beds. Meanwhile, I'll still be here, wheezing and crawling across the grass, probably mistaken for some dying creature that needs to be put out of its misery.
