When it was all over, I nearly had a little cry. I made errors in judgement, I missed jumps, I clenched. It was utterly, panicinducingly horrible. Every time I lost my footing on the narrow path of tottering crates and other detritus and landed in the drink, a flurry of intense sploshing rose sharply in volume as it made for my meat. The only thing that gave it away was the languid ker-splosh of its footsteps as it ranged around after me.
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