Tee Jolie was running.

Not jogging.

Not trotting.

She was running so hard, every breath felt as if she was being stabbed. She prayed her legs would hold out. She’d worn sneakers that morning because walking five blocks to her office was too hard in the heels her boss, Martin, demanded women wear.

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t some idiot from the fifties. Shoes didn’t define a woman just as Martin wearing his blue-tooth headphone didn’t make him important.

He’d come on to her a few days after she’d started working in the office.

“Hey, Tee Jolie, I know you’re new to Savannah,” he’d said. “As your boss, I feel it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re acclimated to this area.”

Martin’s breath smelled like the onions he’d had on his lunch sandwich. Tee Jolie noticed there was a bit of lettuce stuck between his teeth. Looking at that made her stomach turn over. She knew men like Martin. Knew them well. He didn’t notice the revulsion in her eyes.

He didn’t notice she’d backed away from him.

“We’re right here on the coast, and there’s a lot to see in the historic downtown area,” he continued. “I’m a good tour guide.”

What made him think she wasn’t from Savanna? She had a Southern accent, but it was from Louisiana, not Georgia. If this ape thought he could introduce her to history, she could tell him a few things about New Orleans that might cause hair to grow back on his sweaty head.

She’d told him maybe another time – she was still unpacking. But that evening, she was hungry and still hadn’t found the box with her kitchen skillet and potholders. So she’d checked online and found a small restaurant down by the docks. She’d taken an Uber to the restaurant and had decided to walk to the dock, the smell of the bay irresistible to a Cajun girl.

Luckily, there was a full moon tonight, so Tee-Jolie could see where she was going. Unfortunately, so could the person following her.

The running footsteps were getting closer. They were heavy, not a woman’s, she knew from her racing days. Tee Jolie picked up the pace. She was glad she hadn’t dropped out of that Pump-It-Up class a few months ago. The hard workouts had been paying off. She’d always enjoyed running and had completed a marathon when she was in college. But she’d kept running, using the solitary times to think and dream.

Tee Jolie knew she couldn’t keep running much longer. She needed to hide somewhere, but this isolated street didn’t offer much refuge.

There was a sign up ahead. What was on it? Dead End? She wondered briefly if she should take it. If it was a dead end, maybe she could find a better place to hide. In the movies, there was always a dumpster or trash cans along the dead-end street.

Tee Jolie made the decision and made a hard right down the street. About 20 feet in, she stopped dead in her tracks and listened. She could still hear the footsteps, but they were slower. Whoever was chasing her wasn’t in as good a shape as she was.

She pictured whoever it was taking in deep breaths, holding their side as the stitch started setting in because they weren’t used to taking deep breaths.

“I got you now, you creep,” Tee Jolie thought, and silently thanked her aerobics teacher for pushing her. She looked down the street, an alley really, and noticed it wasn’t a dead end. There was a faint light at the end, maybe from a partially opened door. She’d rather be in a building instead of out in the open.

“Be quiet, girl,” Tee Jolie thought. The street was dry, unusual for Savannah which had more than its share of spring showers. She quietly moved down the street toward the light.

That’s when she heard the footsteps stop. She froze in place, looking at the light. She thought she could reach that door in half a minute, but was she far enough away from the entrance to beat whoever was following her?

She took off running as fast as she could when she heard the footsteps start again behind her. Tee Jolie got closer to the light and saw it was a door. Just as she reached the door, it suddenly slammed shut. Tee Jolie froze in place, but the footsteps kept coming closer.

She looked around, desperately looking for a way to defend herself. She’d been so scared she hadn’t taken notice of what was around her. Tee-Jolie had to find something in this alley she could use as a weapon.

She saw some empty soft-drink cans and crumpled fast-food wrappers. Then she spotted a glass beer bottle. Tee Jolie rushed over and picked up the bottle by its long neck just as she felt a presence behind her. She hit the end of the bottle on the street, leaving a sharp end, and then turned to face whoever or whatever was coming down the dead-end street that, she laughed to herself, wasn’t really a dead-end. Would that be the metaphor for her life? Tee-Jolie Broussard had escaped the hell hole she’d grown up in and an abusive husband. Would her life really end up a dead end?

Tee-Jolie held the bottle with the jagged end facing whoever was coming down that alley. The rasping voice wasn’t loud, but she knew that voice. She’d heard it for two years and then, the last six months, in her nightmares.

“Once something’s mine, it’s mine,” the voice two feet away from her said.

“How did you find me,” she asked her ex-husband, her voice a little shaky.

He was still trying to breathe normally, she noticed. She looked closer at him, her eyes readjusting to the moonlight. He didn’t have a weapon – of course he wouldn’t. His hands could inflict plenty of damage.

“This is a dead-end street,” he said between gasps of air. “Just like your life, Tee-Jolie. A dead end.”

That was it. She’d heard enough. She lunged forward and plunged the end of the broken beer bottle into his neck with as much force as she could manage. He shrieked in pain and fell to his knees.

Tee-Jolie backed up, watching the blood ooze from his neck, covering the front of his shirt. His eyes filled with anger then shock then defeat.

He rocked back on his heels, and Tee-Jolie came closer.

“This is a dead end for one of us,” she said quietly. “Guess which one.”