"At the very moment he lifted his chest away from her and moved the knife towards the hem of her top to cut it from bottom to top, Molly jerked her head backward and hit him with the back of her skull at the chin. He cried out, whether from pain or anger, it was hard to tell, falling to the side and away from her, holding his bleeding chin, whimpering. Within a few seconds, Molly had clumsily pulled herself up and ran towards the cliffs. They had never seen a person run like that before. It was as if every muscle, every bone suddenly understood its purpose, as if she were no longer a human but a wild creature, shot early in the morning from the field, with her arms still tied behind her back. She stumbled, regained her footing repeatedly, kept running, never looking back.

The boys stood there, too surprised by everything that had just happened, too afraid of what might still occur. The air sizzled in the heat of the sun, and a sense of foreboding swirled in their minds like thick honey. They were incapable of thinking, incapable of acting, incapable of helping. Only one of them said something, then laughed dully, leaving his mouth hanging open.

Within seconds, he was back on his feet. The others could hear him calling her name as he thundered after her, panting, catching up with her too quickly, and pouncing on her again. They could see him futilely reaching for his knife, which he probably lost while sprinting, frantically moving his head back and forth, searching for something. How Molly's body trembled from the fight and pain, how he picked up something – a stone? – from the ground and struck her skull with it. Thrice.

And as the boys approached after minutes – perhaps even hours – of silence and breathing, they could smell the blood, warm and moist, crawling over the cliffs, like honey slowly seeping from their minds into reality.

"Is she dead?" someone asked after a while.

"Of course not!" he shouted in anger, then pointing at Molly's chest, which rose and fell slowly but steadily, just like his own."