They spilled into the street, the city awakening around them. Pale light washed over cobblestones. The smell of fresh bread mingled with the scent of anticipation. It hung thick, suffocating. Broken glass, empty sangria bottles, food, and a myriad of other trash and detritus strewed the course for the running of the bulls.

The crowd swelled, a sea of white and red. Pulse points throbbed. Adrenaline surged. They merged with the mass, bodies pressed close. Breath hot on necks. Hearts synchronized with the beat of fear. Shouts of “Viva el toro!” fell from the balconies lining the course.

“Long live the bull?” Ellie said over the din. “What about us?”

"Don’t sweat it, Ellie! I still love you more than the bulls," Caroline added, her smile tight.

They moved purposefully. They were drawn toward the paddock at the bottom of the Santo Domingo slope. The bulls were being goaded there before their release onto the streets. The bulls awaited, unseen but sensed, a threat cloaked in shadow and muscle.

Evan surged ahead. His gaze was ignited with a reckless spark. He was irresistibly pulled towards the precipice of danger, like a moth trapped by a seductive flame. The rest trailed behind him, bound by a silent pact, their steps echoing his with a loyalty that needed no words.

Meanwhile, Bell found herself amidst a different sort of preparation. Seasoned participants piqued her curiosity. They deftly rolled newspapers into makeshift spears. Intrigued, she approached them and, with a casual inquiry, uncovered a survival tactic masked as tradition. They explained, with a blend of seriousness and jest, how these paper tubes served as a diversion for the bulls, a tool to cheat death's embrace. Bell was convinced of its utility. She secured a newspaper for herself, seeing it as wise, though unusual, insurance. She also bought copies for everyone in the group.

Earlier, as Bell had navigated the vicinity near the paddock, her eyes had cataloged the litter scattered across the landscape, a disheartening sign of neglect that made her question the sanity of her participation. The possibility of sprinting alongside bulls on a track strewn with debris seemed ludicrous. But, as the event neared, her doubts were washed away. Literally. The municipal workers, as if by magic, had transformed the course. What was once a neglected alleyway, marred by the footprints of disregard, now glistened under the early morning sun. Now devoid of refuse, the streets promised a cleaner, albeit no less dangerous, run. The change was thorough. Bell couldn't help but admire the efficiency. It restored her faith in the day's adventure.

“Remember why we're here," Alex said to Bell.

She nodded, swallowing the knot in her throat. This wasn't just thrill-seeking. It was a test—a trial by fire.

As the clock neared its fateful hour of 8:00 A.M., the crowd began to move as one, flowing toward the small chapel where the statue of Saint Fermin stood watch. Silence fell over the multitude as they approached, a reverence taking hold. In front of this venerated effigy, it was here that the ritual would begin—a plea for protection, an invocation of the divine.

Bell watched, her breath held in awe, as the gathered mozos raised their newspapers high. It was a sea of arms stretched toward the heavens, clutching the paper talismans that symbolized their shared hope and fear. Then, as if guided by a single will, they began to chant, their voices rising in a solemn hymn to their patron saint:

"A San Fermín pedimos, por ser nuestro patrón, nos guíe en el encierro dándonos su bendición."

Though not Bell's native tongue, the words resonated deep within her chest. The chant, repeated three times, filled the streets, echoing off the ancient stones like a sacred mantra. The prayer, a blend of reverence and desperation, sought the favor of Saint Fermin, the runners' guardian and protector of the brave and the foolhardy alike.

A palpable shift swept through the crowd as the final prayer echoes dissipated into the cool morning air. The moment of solemnity gave way to a renewed sense of urgency, a collective realization of what was to come. Bell, caught in the wave of emotion, had a bond form between her and the strangers and friends around her. They were no longer just a crowd. They were a sisterhood and a brotherhood, united in their plea for protection. Their lives were briefly intertwined by faith and tradition.

With the chant completed, the mozos lowered their newspapers, and the ritual concluded, but the charged energy remained. It was a moment of brief, shared humanity before the chaos of the run. Bell looked at the faces of her companions in this rite. She saw that, no matter what lay ahead, they had invoked something powerful and ancient. They had called upon Saint Fermin, and in that act, they had found a moment of unity and peace amidst the storm that awaited them.

"Any moment now," Ellie said, her voice drowned out by the collective heartbeat of the crowd. “Hope I don’t shit myself!”

"It’ll be okay! Just let the bulls and the oxen pass by. Don’t try to get too close. Since this is our first run, just be extra careful! Let’s make it count!" Bell said, cupping a hand to her mouth to be heard over the noise, not knowing they'd echo with such finality.

A rocket exploded in the sky. The signal. The release.

Hooves thundered. Earth shook. The run had begun. One of the mozos stopped the group, instructing them to “Wait for the surge of people near the paddock!” That, he told them, gave a good sign of where the bulls were.

Bell noticed that the walls of the buildings to her left and her right were blank, with nowhere to grab onto if the bulls got too close.

“I’m not waiting for ‘the surge’!” she shouted to her friends and broke into a sprint.

They bolted, legs pumped, and lungs burned. The crowd's roar was a backdrop to their gasps for air.

"Left! Now!" Danny's command cut through the chaos. They veered, narrowly avoiding a collision.

"Keep going!" Evan urged, his eyes wild.

But Bell saw it—the flash of horn and hide—too close, too real. "Look out!" she screamed.

The world narrowed to instinct and survival. Every second was a dance with death, and every breath was a gift.

Stay alive, she told herself. And ran faster. Just stay alive.