"AGHH!"
Blanket cried in pain, falling on the same knee he had scrapped that week. But he pushed through the pain. He had to get out of there. His life depended on it. Through his wincing eyes, he looked up and saw two respectively owned gloves: one red, one green.
Stan and Kyle both instinctively whisked the small boy effortlessly into the cold night air from out the soaking snow. They knew just as well as Blanket, maybe more, that where they currently were at that moment was the very last place any child should grow up in. It was reckless and rash, but rang true with a fight-or-flight primal instinct. Nothing kept them from blindly flying into the black of winter, but they trusted their thoughtless urge to seek sanctuary. After all, if not for the two 8-year-olds, Blanket would be dead.
"Freeze, Jefferson!"
The boys could hear the echo of the police megaphone bounce through the vast and void Colorado sky. It sounded like justice, but no one was tempted enough for visual receipts. Their ambitious but naive legs ran on hot coals through the moonlit snow, getting ever farther from trauma. From torture. It wasn't until the sounds from their feet transitioned from crunching snow to snapping twigs that they felt less vulnerable. The police lights flashed wildly on the road and against aligning homes, casting stretched club-like shadows across the snowy fields and towering pine trees. Beneath these very trees, Stan, Kyle, and Blanket finally surrendered to rest- its beckoning almost as persistent as the danger they were temporarily safe from.
Red and blue continued to strobe a bittersweet air of release, slowly waking the quiet mountain town of South Park. Soft yellow squares began to inquisitively switch awake one by one. Shielded in arborescent solace, the desperate youth basked in the nothingness of the moment - the presence of absence. Three hot huffs burst continuously from the mouths of the three boys, Blanket's more rattled and desperate. That same instinct that had just saved a small child's life kept them flat on the ground. Wait for the noise to go away - or grow.
Their breathing was more steady now, quiet, listening for anything: an animal, an officer, Mister Jefferson. All anyone could hear aside from crickets and wind were Blanket's breathy sobs. Stan and Kyle both looked between them to see the boy's tiny chest pulsing with repressed anguish, his face red and twisted beneath the feathered sequin mask that his father used to hide his son's face from the world. Rather than cupping his mouth, Kyle pulled Blanket tightly to his chest and squeezed him with as much security and assurance he could muster. Stan then clasped both of Blanket's hands, enveloping them in his own like a warm mittened cocoon.
It was a moment they all needed, but it was short-lived.
"Stanley!"
It was his mother, her voice lousy with panic. Stan shot up, much like one would from a dream
"Shit," Kyle sharply muttered before standing up and turning quickly to help the smallest to his feet, holding him close by his right hand. "Stan, we have to go."
It seemed that Stan was ignoring him because he didn't answer, but when he turned his head to acknowledge, Kyle could see a tear streak catch the red and blues of the authorities, just meters away. He knew it would be a long time before they could even think about returning to South Park. Stan nodded, his bottom lip tucked and quivering, and took hold of Blanket's left hand. Kyle nodded back.
"Kyle!"
That was Kyle's mom.
"Oh, shit!" Kyle shuttered. "Stan?!"
"Yep, we're going!"
And the three raced into the dark thick of the trees. The voices of both their mothers, and soon-after their fathers, began to fade away into incoherent echoes. They could talk later, now was the time to run.
It might have been five straight minutes in reality, but it was the longest five minutes of blood-flow, sweat, and panting. Run straight. That was the idea. That's what and all they did. After that fifth minute or so, the steadily paced unit began to slow along Stan's end.
"Stop," he managed to wheeze out.
Truthfully, he had taken the words out of Kyle's mouth. Kyle was ready to stop, and did so eagerly - too quickly. Kyle tripped over his own footing and fell to the ground, unwillingly pulling Blanket down with him. Stan, too exhausted to react in time, toppled over his friend and was sent rolling along a patch of grass; thankfully, void of trees.
"Aw, God dammit!" Stan hissed clutching his right arm.
"Oww!" Blanket cried, surrendering to tears.
Kyle quickly crawled over to him to inspect his body, then turning his head to his friend.
"Stan are you okay?!"
"I'm fine," Stan quickly answered, still breathing rough. "Is Blanket okay?"
"He didn't like that just now."
Kyle pulled Blanket to his chest after observing his bruises.
"Me..." Stan rasped, "... either..."
Kyle let out a chuckling sigh. Very rarely could Stan not be charming in any circumstance. Kyle invitingly extended his arm to his childhood friend who reciprocated on a comfortable kindred reflex. Stan and Kyle had been friends since before they could remember. As close as best friends could be, this curious third addition to the intimate bond was concocting an energizing enertia. A vibrating aura that could only be expressed in the very bond itself. Somehow the unspokenly instinctive pact was assuming an almost biological evolution in this crying, soft-spoken, homeschooled kindergartener.
The crying ceased for but a moment.
"Thank you," Blanket sniffled.