Scootaloo walked through the town, her body covered in clothing, the barest hint of her orange coat visible. At least she had the excuse of winter for her odd apparel.
How many towns had it been, now? She could hardly keep track as she passed through, trying to avoid the ponies around her.
“Look out!” She heard, before a group of boxes fell on her, knocking her down and dislodging clothing.
Shaking her head, she looked up to see a worried Colt’s face looking down.
“Are you alright?”
Scootaloo rubbed her head. “I’ve had worse.”
The colt offered a hoof to pick her up, and too late did Scootaloo realize she grabbed it with an unmittened one.
Her eyes rolled back, a number running through her head, and she heard the colt call out as she fell to the ground, the words haunting her.
Three days, Twenty-Two Minutes, Forty-Five Seconds.