The closer they got to the entrance door of the apartment block, the slower Rick became. He moved, but he moved as if weighed down or reluctant to leave.
Tracey turned around to face him and pulled him along. Struggling backwards along the passageway, her whole body pained her: she wanted to cry and groaned tiredly as Timmy began to slip from her arm.
“Hold tight, Timmy,” she gasped.
“Hold - tight - Timmy,” Rick repeated in a dead monotone. The words gurgled, sounding chesty and far away.
They passed the closed door of Daniel Ryland’s apartment.
Closer. Slowly, closer to escape.