Lungs burning, he ducks behind an outcropping and crouches there. Hearing no sounds of pursuit, he leans back against the cool stone. His heart rate slows and he can feel his adrenaline ebb, leaving small tremors in its wake.

He's sure he hasn't entirely lost his pursuers, but he'll take what little time he's granted. He assesses his resources: a navy-blue THRUSH coverall, gently used; a pair of boots, badly polished and one half size too large.

In the first pocket of the coverall he strikes gold in the form of a half-melted toffee. He unwraps it into his mouth and sucks the paper, feels the shock of sugar against his teeth. He lets the candy melt into his empty stomach, continues his search.

Back pocket: a wallet. In the wallet, $5.60 American, which confirms at least, that they hadn't driven him over the border. A driver's license belonging to one Frank Jones, late of Birdseye, Montana, his small, photographed face as generic as his name. Behind the license, two photographs with tattered corners. A boy and a girl. He looks away.

Front left pocket: a quarter and a receipt from a filling station in Gilman—two cups of coffee and a pack of Camels.

Left breast pocket: three loose Camel cigarettes.

He doesn't find a lighter or a match anywhere. Frank must have gotten his lights from someone else, maybe his fellow guard, the one patrolling counterclockwise, the one who must surely have found the body by now. Maybe the guy he bought the coffee for last week.

No use woolgathering. He drops the rifle that Frank hadn't carried any spare rounds for, its utility as a bluff outweighed by its weight as a burden, covers it in leaves. He pulls the money from the wallet and puts it in his pocket. Keeps the cigarettes, certain they'll prove useful even if he doesn't smoke anymore.

He buries Frank a few inches down, his driver's license anyway; he hadn't had time to do much with the body back at the perimeter. He leaves the children's photos there too, leaves with them the impotent hope that Mr. Jones had been a lousy father, hadn't seen his kids in years, that they aren't eagerly waiting for him back in Birdseye.

He leaves them all behind and picks up running. He's pretty sure the highway isn't far. He has $5.85 and 3 cigarettes in his pockets and Illya is waiting for him in New York.

A/N: Not a songfic, but inspired by Regina Spektor's song, 'Wallet"