The woods are dark, the cabin isolated.
In the distance, a bird cries into the night.
The only light, the fire in the hearth.
Not far off, a twig snaps underfoot.
Someone softly comes my way.
The dread in me rises.
Have I been found?
I am cut off from running; it is too late for that.
In pensive silence, I await my fate.
The door bursts open, Andrew is silhouetted against the stars.
I so hate birthdays.