Quite simply, Bill's on fire, and the flames need to be put out
The street narrowed, the buildings grew, and as Bill raced past the row of parked cars the flames covering the back of his blazer caused the windshields to glow.
"Bill!, Bill!" we all screamed as we ran after him, but he wouldn't stop.
Whatever chemical it was he'd soaked his blazer in kept the flame burning, no matter how fast he ran.
And as I labored to catch my breath - I hadn't rum more than a half mile since the seventh grade - I thought about how sober Bill looked when he lit the bottom of his coat. The flame bloomed almost instantly, but before any of us could tackle him, he ran.
So here we are, running after Bill, who's on fire and faster than the rest of us.