A Shred of Truth by Eric Wilson

the front to lift their feet and shudder. “What if there’s something in our collective heritage that triggers such reactions? Rats helped spread the Black Plague in the Middle Ages. Maybe the nightmares of previous generations passed down through our DNA.”
    The lecture hall was with me now.
    “And think of déjà vu. We’ve all experienced it, right? Well, what if a particular bend in the river or a curve of the road seems suddenly familiar because Grandma saw that place years ago and passed that memory through her genes?”
    Eyes were round with contemplation.
    “Fear is a tool,” I said. “A warning mechanism to aid our survival. DNA, genetics, maybe even your grandparents’ memories play a part. Of course it gets tricky when it filters from our logical side into our intuitive side. A mom sees her kid run into the street, and she finds superhuman ability to protect her young. But emotions can also get in the way. Who was it who mentioned shooting free throws? You, Derek? I bet you wouldn’t have frozen at the foul line if your dad hadn’t been watching.”
    “Probably not.”
    “Bottom line,” I concluded, “in this age of science and rationalism, wecan’t forget that the heart and brain are connected. They work in tandem. When we
feel
afraid, it only serves to underline that fact.”
    The professor’s jacket swept against me as he retook the stage. The applause and whoops from the class faded, and he threw me a scowl. “Speaking of feelings, how do you
feel
you just did with your little discourse?”
    “Pretty good.”
    “And how do you
think
you did?”
    “All right, I guess.”
    “Which simply proves, Mr. Black, that thoughts and feelings don’t always coincide with reality.”

    All this raced through my head in seconds.
    Fear is a tool. Feelings don’t match reality
.
    I shook my arms and took a step back. The ground was spongy, an unstable springboard. To my left, the
Steeple Dance
’s orange spires stretched upward. Straight ahead, the felt bag still dangled from the tree.
    BEAR … act rapidly.
    I made two running jumps, but my fingertips only raked along the soft material and set the object swinging back and forth above my face, taunting me.
    The cords were wrapped around the branch, defying my efforts.
    The razor. That was it. The freak had provided the necessary tool.
    I shifted my gun back in my waistband, held the blade between my teeth, and grabbed hold of a lower branch. I tried not to close my mouth on the bloody metal.
    To find piece …
    I braced a foot between the tree trunk and a branch, stretched my leg toreach the next. A grunt. Another stretch, and I reached the limb that held the bag. Gripping the wood between my thighs, I scooted out to the cord. I saw it was knotted, damp and thick, almost impossible to loosen by hand.
    After a few seconds of my sawing, the bag plummeted to the forest floor where it hit with a metallic clink. Didn’t sound like a body part.
    Other sounds now, not too far off.
    Heavy breathing. Pounding feet.
The security guard!
    I dropped the blade and eased my legs over the cedar limb. My fingers released, and I landed in a crouch on the twigs and leaves below, the Desert Eagle squeezing over the rim of my jeans and thudding on the ground. I snatched it up, found the blade and the bag, and sprinted away as the guard came into view.
    “Hold it right there!” he called.
    He was no match for my speed, and he was in need of serious meds if he thought otherwise. Daily sit-ups, push-ups, and walking the mile to Black’s most days—and now riding my mountain bike to class at Lipscomb—kept me lean and mean.
    See ya
.
    Without slowing, I crashed through the bushes and swatted away the branches that slapped at my face. Give the guard some credit for recognizing pursuit was futile. Behind me, I could hear him yakking into his handheld radio.

8
    I high-stepped through dense underbrush, my mind racing.
    Would they try to stop me at the gate? Was there an