Round and round and round

The air hung, bone cutting. Every movement felt like an unnecessary expenditure of energy. But she pressed on. The corridors stitched together in unlikely ways. She traced and retraced her steps, feeling hot wet rise in her chest. Someone was coming. No they weren’t. But they would be. A door? No it’s locked. She tried another. And another. She went up stairs, down stairs, took all lefts, took all rights, trying every possible door, chest tightening. Sun would be coming. A window, an open window. She pushed through and slipped onto damp, dew droplet mud.