It felt like a million pounds, like a heap of bricks strapped locked around the ankle, the key was thrown away. The second it was snapped on, Neal's heart panicked. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. His heart objected fiercely. Such a little, minuscule piece of plastic—it consumed his whole world. It weighed Neal down like nothing else could. Neal couldn't even take a stroll down the street—something he'd done regularly before everything went south—without glancing down at his ankle.
The words "two miles" had never sounded uglier. They scraped at the insides of his ears, chasing him through his nightmares.
"Stop picking at that," Peter commented over his folder of papers.
Neal looked up but didn't stop rubbing his free shoe over the brace. "I hate it though," He smiled to keep Peter off his case. But his heart still picked up pace, his palms turning slick. He really did hate it. More than words would ever really be able to express.
Can't find Kate.
Can't roam the world.
Can't play my games.
Can't live like this.
Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.