She was writing. Her hair fell in her eyes; she had fruitlessly searched neighboring houses for a brush. The pencil she was using to write was down to a stub, she'd have to find a new one soon--but that was no problem. The paper she wrote on was fine white paper, and she was very neat. The words were straggling though, because she was suffered a very serious writer's block: she had blood caught in her messy brown hair because she had been hit with a shovel there. She sat in an uncomfortable chair that she'd brought up to her roof via the stairway. It was relaxing, and had a great view. A great lookout. Now, furiously scratching her dull writing implement to a nub and lost in her own hopeless thoughts, she heard approaching motors. Her first thought was: they've finally come for me. This was followed by a kind of bitter hopelessness, disappointment, and a twinge of rebellion. One look up from her diary quickly clarified her belief. Then she had another thought: I can run, I might not escape but it's worth a shot they can't go everywhere in those Jeeps and you don't want to go with them please anything but that--
Yes, she could try. And after one moment of hesitation, she did. She got up, and ran for the stairs.
Linda ran for her life.