For the first couple of weeks, Ethan found himself compulsively checking the numbers for the police simply by habit. He would pause, walking down the street, pulling out his wallet, and quickly scan them, looking for any indication that the FBI was somehow growing close again. It would take him a moment to remember that it was over, he was free, and he did not need to worry about people looking for him anymore. The FBI were off his trail, and there was no reason for Bree to look for him anymore. At that moment he would let out a small, secret smile, and resume his interrupted action.

The seemingly life-or-death habits of four months did not break easily, but eventually break they did. Ethan remembered the first day where he made it all the way into the afternoon before checking for the police. He actually laughed out loud, ignoring the couple of people passing by who turned to stare at him.

Then he was making it a full day. Then two days, then three. And then, quite suddenly, Ethan forgot about the FBI, and the trials of the last several months. He dove back into the life he had craved while on the run with a fervor that could almost be described as desperation. He got kicked out of two casinos in one night, the pile of chips he left behind easily clocking in at the millions of dollars. He didn’t begrudge leaving the cash behind. It was simply a rush, proving that he could.

Ethan went home with a woman that night, someone with bleached hair and spray-tan skin who was content to have cheap sex so long as her new suitor took her out to a four star meal before hand and briefly funded her ludicrous shopping habits. Ethan willingly did both. One week later he got piss drunk with a new “friend,” who mysteriously vanished after Ethan blacked out with the check for one hundred thousand dollars he had earned after that night’s exploits. Ethan woke with a hangover that would incapacitate an elephant, and a strange, overlarge smile on his face.

Ethan did not worry about the potential consequences of his nightly exploits. He kept his eyes on the number, and knew with certainty, as he left his hotel each night, that he would return to it, still alive, the next morning. That was all he needed.

He would not slow down for nigh on two months. But when reality would once more rear its head, it would hit him as hard as a wave of ice water. He would be left, chilled to the bone and trapped once more. But this time, the trap would be of his own making.