However, I begin to think that it is not fear that motivates this paranoia, but something less discouraging.

First, he sinks. Quickly, like a fragment of cinder.
Fatigue wells in his eyes like jaundice.
Bruising sighs, sweet and cerebral.
Freedom ties her hair back. Fear rolls up his sleeves.
He feels compression wash through his ribs. Greatly alive.
But paralyzed. His nail beds scrabble.
Glacial, shallow against the green.
He engages. Finds teeth, catching, carves a lifeline under the beds of his nails.
Salt water slowly soaks into the green horizon.
He feels it on his forehead.
He engages. Builds a bridge with his shoulderblades.
Starts counting stars again, automatically.
Fear is ready with a punch in the gut.
Suddenly the paralysis has its hands in his stomach and throat. He fights.
Feels the worms in his limbs. Thrashing, writhes.
Retching. Almost. No. Gripping. Head heaved over. Paisley.

Paisley in red and blue.

His eyes well up and he starts swearing and he swallows and bites his lip and stops himself. His whole body hurts, but he has to move. He is not alone here after all. Blinking hard, he realizes that he has no place to go. His bare toes flex in the underground air. He needs to keep his head down. Put himself back together. But anyplace safe is far away from here. So he'll keep moving. No rest yet. Just running, and hiding. And healing. And making do.