Then, one by one his friends follow, bolting through large plastic strips that hang from the top of a commercial garage door. Sounds of a chainsaw and screams overpower the quick slap of sneakers on pavement.
“Dude, I ran a 4.3. I’m NFL now. I should be catching passes for Teddy Bridgewater," says the first one out.
"What about the rest of the group? They’re all dead back there," I ask.