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It's the hunger that wakes me up, of course.
That gnawing in my belly that hasn't gone away for what? Days? Weeks? It can't be more than weeks. People can't live for weeks without food. While it may have been the ever-present hunger that keeps me from sleep, it is something else that keeps me awake. The pacing. I can hear it out there. Pacing back and forth around my campsite. It'll go away for a few minutes. Maybe a couple of hours. But it always returns. The pacing never stops.
Just like my hunger. "Go away!" I scream, then clamp my hands over my mouth. I shouldn't have done that. I'm a hundred miles from civilization in all directions, and no one is looking for me. I shouldn't anger whatever it is that's out there. A bear, a wolf, coyote, wolverine, cougar, could be any of those things. But why is it after me? It's not like I have any food left at my campsite.
That was gone a while ago when I woke up one morning and my food stores had been ripped into and eaten. From the paw prints. That time it was a bear for sure. All I've got left is the duffle bag filled with cash. And that doesn't taste so great. I've been subsisting off of fiddle fern leaves and the few berries I can find. I get my water from a tiny little creek down in that ravine a few yards away. But the ferns and berries are gone.
and the creek is slowly drying up. I know I've lost at least 20 pounds or more. I'm skin and bones. What does the thing want with me? I doze off and sleep for a bit. The rest feels good, and I just stay asleep. But the sun has risen, and the light is so bright in the tent. It takes all of my will and most of my strength to crawl from my sleeping bag, pull my boots on, and unzip my tent. Of course, I listen first.
I strain to hear the pacing. There's only silence. Except for the birds chirping as the dawn pierces the dense forest. I step away from my tent and survey my campsite, walking the edges, looking for signs of an animal I can recognize. Yet, there are no footprints. There are no claw marks or paw impressions in the loamy earth. I see absolutely no signs that something was pacing outside for hours. Except, and here is the weird part,
There is a space about a yard from my campsite that looks… swept. I can't explain it. It's about six yards long and a yard or so wide. The leaves and twigs are brushed to the side. It looks like a wide broom was used. It makes no sense. My stomach growls and I double over in pain. The cramps are back. They'd left for a bit, as if my stomach was getting used to being empty. But in the past couple of days, they have returned.
I inhale through my nose slowly, then let the breath out through my mouth. Controlled breathing helps ease the pain. It's a trick I learned from having a hippie mom. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the... What was that? I spin around, trying to take in everything at once. I heard something move through the bushes. A rabbit.
Dear God, please let it be a rabbit. I have traps. I was a boy scout, never an eagle scout. No way I was going to go through all that. But I learned enough to know how to set snares, find clean water, and stay alive. Not that I'm much of a boy scout now. Not after the job went wrong and the guns started blazing. I made the decision to look after number one, me. I left them all to die. I'm the only one that made it to the van.
I drove that thing until it ran out of gas and I ditched it in the woods about 50 miles back. Luckily, we had a plan. We had gear ready in the van. Yeah, how'd that work out for me? Maybe I should have pushed a little harder and gone for Eagle Scout. I probably wouldn't be doubled over with stomach cramps with my mouth salivating profusely just at the thought of catching a rabbit.
The cramps ease and I straighten up with my hands on my hips. My face is raised to the ray of sunshine that breaks through the tall fur boughs above. My eyes close, taking in the warmth as if it can feed me. A crow calls to me. That's a weird thought. Why would a crow call to me? It wouldn't. That's nuts. More crows join in, and I open my eyes to see a dozen, two dozen, three dozen up in the fur boughs.
Their voices are sharp, rough, and judging. They know I screwed up, and are telling me off for being so stupid. For being so selfish. Could I try hiking back out? Of course. You think I haven't tried that? I have. Several times. And I just become more and more lost. Better to make a base camp and wait for help. That's what they say, right? Stay put, don't wander. It makes rescue easier if you stay put. Rescue.
No one is coming! The rabbit!
I scramble into the brush to find my closest snare broken and coated in mud. It doesn't matter, there are more. Except there are, and there aren't. Each snare I find is broken, twisted, and useless. Except for one. The very last one has a rabbit, and I'd be overjoyed except it isn't fresh. From the look of it, the rabbit has been ensnared for a few days. It even tried to chew off its own leg to get free but failed. I understand the feeling, little guy.
How did I miss this? I check the snares every day. I check them several times a day, which probably defeats the purpose of having snares if I'm fumbling and bumbling about, scaring off the game I hope to catch. My throat is parched from the yelling. I need fresh water. I walk to my tent and grab my water bottle and then set off for the ravine. It's only a few yards away, past a dense row of three-foot-tall ferns.
I shove the fern fronds apart and look at the first hurdle to staying hydrated. It's a ravine, so the sides are steep and slippery with mud, which makes getting down to the trickle of water a chore. The climb back up is even worse. But I only have one water bottle, so I have to fill it daily, which means I have to climb down and back up daily too. My fingernails are caked with mud. The fingernails that aren't cracked and nearly broken off, that is.
My water sack broke after three days into my trip, which should have been the first sign of trouble and a solid reason to hike back out and figure something else out. But I was stubborn. I told myself I'd never go back to... Jesus Christ, what was that? A shriek, like a child being murdered, fills the air for a second. That wasn't a rabbit. That wasn't a crow. And why do I think of a child being murdered? That's a strange thought to have. I wait and listen.
The sound doesn't repeat itself. It was probably a hawk or something, its cry echoing down through the trees, distorted by nature. I chuckle some more. Distorted by nature describes me to a T. My muscles have atrophied. My skin is dry and cracked. I can taste my body devouring itself as each breath I exhale smells like rotten meat and death. Holy hell! That shriek fills the air again. Where is it coming from?
Standing on the edge of the ravine, I look around and try to orient myself. I've done some recon of the area and know most of the animal trails that wriggle and squirm through and around the underbrush. East is that way, kind of a giveaway with the sun rising. But the shriek came from the west, which is a direction I know the least due to the unfortunate feature of there being a cliff that way. I don't trust myself to get too close without falling off, considering my physical state.
The shriek pierces the woods once more, and I swear I hear the words "Please help!" in there. Dear God, what if there's a family out here somewhere? A family with a child, and they are as lost as me. They need help, I'm sure. And I hate myself for thinking this. Maybe they have some food? Okay, okay. West. I turn from the ravine and my empty water bottle slaps against my leg. God, I'm thirsty.
I should fill my bottle before I go looking for... That was for sure a kid screaming. No doubt. I have no idea if it's a boy or girl, but that "no" sends a shiver down my spine. Now to what? I swallow, and my dry throat catches mid-swallow, forcing me to cough in order to breathe again. Should I call out to the kid? That last scream of "no" has me thinking maybe not. The water bottle bumps my leg again, but I've made up my mind.
The kid may not be able to wait until I get some water from the ravine. The process takes me an hour of climbing down and back up, and I'm usually exhausted by the time it's over. If I'm going to find the kid, then I need to use what energy I have right now to do so. So, I start walking west. This podcast brought to you by Ring. With Ring cameras, you can check on your pets to catch them in the act. Izzy, drop that. Or just keep them company. Aww.
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The ferns are huge this way, and the brambles of blackberries and wild raspberries don't make the way any easier. By the time I reach the trail to the cliff, my arms are seeping blood in tiny rivulets. The smell is intoxicating. My mouth is salivating once more. I look at my left arm and blink a few times. Animals lick their wounds, right? If I were to lick my arm, I'd just be healing myself, right? Right? I bring my arm to my mouth and lick a little of the blood away.
Just a smidge. The salt explodes in my mouth, and before I know it, I'm licking and sucking at every scratch and cut on my left arm before moving on to my right arm. Ow! Shit! I snap my head up, suddenly aware that I've been lost in the licking. And biting. I stare at my right arm and at the teeth marks I've made. Jesus Christ! Did I just try to bite out of my own arm?
I inspect the self-inflicted wound and sigh with gratitude that I don't have the strength to do too much damage to myself. Blood wells in the two curved rows of indentations. I could maybe just have one more lick, right? For healing's sake? I don't, though. I'd like to say it's self-control, but it isn't. The child screams again and my head whips in that direction. There's a trail. It's faint, but I can see it as a ray of sunshine lands on a clump of ferns a few feet away.
Then another ray lands on a second clump and the trail becomes clearer. How had I never noticed it before the few times I've been this way? It doesn't matter. There's a kid out there that needs help. I no longer believe there's a family with the kid. Or why would the kid be screaming like that? But when there's a lost kid, there's a rescue party. One that is actively searching. I could get out of this hell. Lucky for me. The trail is lit up like a walkway at Disneyland.
The sun stays on it for most of my hike as I navigate through the ferns and around the brambles. I avoid injuring myself further which is good because, to be honest, I don't know how much willpower I have to not gnaw my arms off if they start bleeding again, which is a sobering thought. I concentrate on the trail and strain to listen for more of the kids' screams. I hear nothing but the wind and the birds. No, hold on, I don't hear the birds.
I stop to rest for a second and catch my breath. I'm not hiking quickly, but even a slow walk is hard and tiring. The break gives me a moment to assess my surroundings. The forest has gotten denser and the trail is no longer lit up like the Magic Kingdom, but I can still make it out and in a stroke of good luck, the trail is widening and free of ferns and brambles. It's nice to have a little smooth sailing for a change. Slightly rested, I continue hiking.
Following the trail as it winds around firs that are hundreds upon hundreds of years old. I hurry faster. The screen was close this time. Very close. I hobble my way up a slight rise and then stop. I'm not sure. I'm not sure what I'm seeing. Is that a… cabin? I rub my eyes. Digging deep, producing stars and sparks behind my lids. Then I pull my fists away. Holy crap! It is a cabin!
I slip and slide my way down the other side of the rise and stumble towards the cabin. There's smoke coming from the chimney and I smell... Oh, dear god! I smell food! They are roasting meat of some kind. Deer? Elk? Rabbit? Who cares? I need squirrel, possum, raccoon, rat, snake, or anything! The closer I get to the cabin, the more the smell reminds me of barbecue back home. Wild boar! That must be it!
"Hello?" I call out when I reach the small clearing that surrounds the cabin. No response. I look about and see bones here and there, just scattered as if flung haphazardly from the cabin door. Something tells me not to look too closely, which is just another strange thought in a long line of strange thoughts today. "Hello?" I call out again as I reach the bottom of the cabin steps. There's a small porch that covers only a couple of feet to each side of the front door.
I place my foot on the first step. "Hello?" The door creaks open about a foot and a half. No one is there. I can't see inside. "Hello?" It's not a question this time and more of a caution to myself. "Come in." I hear a voice rasp from deep inside the cabin. "I've been waiting." My feet have carried me to the last step and I freeze before placing a boot directly onto the porch. "Uh, what was that?" I ask.
They've been waiting? That's messed up, whatever it means. "Come in, come in," the voice rasps again. "Come and eat." A rush of wind carries the smell from the cabin door, and I feel like I'm drowning in my own saliva. My mouth is watering so much that I'm having to suck spit back past my lips to keep the drool from spilling down my chin. I'm at the cabin door, and I don't remember crossing the porch.
My hand pushes the door open, and all I can see is wood burning in a small fireplace across the cabin. Hanging over the fire is a cast iron pot with steam drifting out from under the heavy lid. "Hello?" I whisper. I'm lucky I can even say that, considering how much my mouth is watering. "Hello?" A voice responds. "Come in, come in." I can't see anything other than the fireplace and the pot.
My eyes refuse to adjust even as I step all the way inside. The door slams behind me and I'd have jumped if I had the energy. But I only shudder and give it a cursory glance over my shoulder. It's hard to take my eyes off the steaming pot. "Poor thing, you are starving," the voice says. It's not a question. It's probably pretty easy to see what state I'm in. Not that it's easy to see anything in here.
Uh, hi. Uh, I'm hungry, I suppose. The voice interrupts. I nod, which makes me lightheaded. Sit, you poor thing, sit. The voice says from the corner. There is a chair right next to you. I look down and there is a chair. I don't remember it being there, but that doesn't mean much. Is that, is that Stu? I ask before I sit. I place my hand on the back of the chair and almost yelp.
It's freezing cold. A shiver runs up my spine. "Oh, the poor thing is cold too," the voice says. "Sit, sit, poor thing. Eat with me. We shall have dinner together and you will tell me all about yourself." "Thank you," I say and take a seat. "I am hungry." "So very hungry," the voice says. I pause.
A shape is moving in the corner, growing taller as my unknown host stands, and stands, and stands. The shape is so tall that what I perceive to be its head has to bow low on a bent neck to keep from scraping the cabin ceiling. I, uh, I, I stammer, my words caught in my throat as my host continues to stand, and stand, and stand, and...
"Are you alright?" I jolt and scramble away. "What happened?" My back is against the floorboards and that's when I see her. The old woman. She is leaning over me. Concern and worry on her face. "Oh, you poor, poor thing," she says. And a gnarled hand grips my left wrist with surprising strength. "Let me help you back into your chair." I can only nod and let her do just that.
I get settled back into the chair and shake my head. "What happened?" I ask, this time out loud. "You fainted," the old woman says as she shuffles over to the fire and to the pot. "When was the last time you ate?" she asks, her hands moving about the fireplace. I hear the clanging of metal on metal and the clinking of a ladle in the pot.
My head swims from the smell that envelops me. My breath becomes shallow and fast and the woman pauses. "Calm yourself," she says. "In through the nose, out through the mouth." "What was that?" I ask. "What did she just say?" "Here you go," the old woman says, turning back to me. A clay bowl in her hand. She shuffles a few feet to my chair and hands me the steaming bowl of stew.
"Thank you so much," I say, as tears fill my eyes. "Food." She steps back and watches me. I look up in gratitude, but she is backlit, and I can't really make out her features. "May I have a spoon?" I ask, which is a ridiculous request. "Do you need a spoon?" she asks. That question seems perfectly reasonable.
Do I need a spoon? Oh, hell no. I tip the bowl of stew to my open mouth and pour in a huge portion. I barely close my mouth as I chew and swallow, chew and swallow. In seconds, the bowl is empty, and I'm licking stew from my hands as I wipe the drippings from my chin and neck. "Oh, he's a messy one," the old woman says. "Messy indeed." I gulp the last bite and hold out the bowl.
"Can I have more?" I ask. She laughs. "Oh, you may have as much as you can hold, you poor thing," she says, and takes the empty bowl from me. Her fingers brush mine, and I gasp. The stench of death, of spoiled meat and rotting corpses violently forces its way up my nostrils. The room is filled with the stink.
Then the room is filled with screams. Children crying for their parents. Children crying to be let go. Children terrified as their last moments creep towards them. Their deaths inevitable as the old woman approaches. Then it's over. "Are you alright?" She asks me for the second time. The smell still lingers, but the cries and pleas and screams are gone. I shake my head. "I've been hallucinating," I say.
"Hunger makes you see all sorts of poor, poor things," she says. "Let us fill you up so those nasty visions stop. Does that sound good?" I nod. I'm not sure if I'm nodding at being filled up with more stew or nodding for the visions to stop. If they can be called visions, I feel like they are. "Here you go," the old man says. I shudder violently and almost knock the offered bowl from the old man's hand.
"Wait, you were a..." I peter off. The smell from the bowl is too overwhelming. "I was a what?" the old man asks. He pushes the bowl towards me and I take it. I can't help myself. The contents are gone in seconds and the old man laughs as I lick the bowl clean. "There is plenty more, you poor thing," the old man says, and pries the bowl from my hands. "Let me fetch you some."
I watch the old man return to the stew pot. This isn't right. "You were a woman!" I say, confident in my observation. Hungry or not. Weird, hallucinations or not. I know this person was an old woman only minutes ago. "Was?" She turns and has another steaming bowl ready for me. "Oh my, those visions must be awful to endure."
She extends her arm from where she is standing, and the bowl gets closer and closer. Yet she doesn't budge from in front of the fire. "Eat, eat, to make the visions go away." I take the bowl from the impossibly long arm and bring it once again to my lips.
But before I can pour my third helping into my mouth, the bowl is slapped away from my hands. It flies across the cabin and shatters in the corner. Lost from sight by the shadows and darkness that the old woman or man had first appeared from, the old man hisses and shakes his fist at the cabin. "Behave!" he roars. "Behave now!"
Footsteps camper across the floorboards, but I don't see anyone else. "Behave, poor things, or else!" the old woman says. I've lost my mind. I stare at the shape of the old woman and watch as it ripples against the firelight. Old woman, old man, old woman, old man. Back and forth, over and over until I scream at the top of my lungs, "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"
The old woman man laughs. "It's too late to stop, poor thing," the old woman man says. "It is already done. You have passed, and now you will stay here with me. That is your fate, poor thing." The old woman man shuffles closer to me. "Then one day, poor thing," she/he says, "you will take my place."
"You will tend the fire, you will find the souls of the lost, and you will make the stew." "One day, poor thing, one day." The door behind me creaks as it opens. "No!" The old woman-man shrieks. "It has made its choice. It ain't of the stew. It supped with me. It made its choice."
"Thrice." The voice from the open door is like nothing I have heard before. No gender, no form. It is simply there. A voice that fills the cabin like the stench of the rotting corpses I smelled before. "Trivial," the old woman man mutters. "It has sucked." I can tell from the way the old woman man stoops and sort of shrinks in on itself that it can't answer the question. "Thrice what?" I ask, surprised at the sound of my own voice.
Neither the old woman-man nor the shape in the door answers me. "Nothing of bother," the old woman-man says. "Let me fetch you more so you can rest, poor thing. You need..." Before he can finish, the screams return. The stink of rot returns. I see her, his blade, so sharp and quick. I see the children fall as they are cut down one by one. I see her, him, butcher them.
I see her make the stew. I turn my head and throw up. All of that stew inside me is lost to the floorboards. Then something takes me by the hand and pulls me from my chair. I stumble, but do not fall as I get up. I am pulled towards the door, which is now empty except for the sight of the darkening night outside. There is no fight in me.
I let what is grasped, my hand, lead me away from the cabin. You will come back. Come back now. The old woman man bellows from the cabin doorway. You are not ready to go. My stomach growls and I come close to pulling away and rushing back to the cabin. Back to the chair. Back to the stew. But the grip on my hand tightens and I do not fight it.
Crows, unseen in the darkness, fly and caw above me as I'm led down the trail into the cliff's edge. I should be terrified. I should be scared of slipping and falling off the edge that is only inches from my toes. But I'm not. A strange peace takes me. The pressure on my hand lessens and I stare out over the forest below. I can see it clearly, even though the sun has set long ago.
I see a forest and a river. I see the twinkle of nocturnal eyes. I see the life that flows everywhere. But I also see the death, the flip side of the life. I see the small mouse taken by the owl. I see the deer carcass being fed upon by wolves. I see the snake strike and kill the squirrel. I see it all, the hunted and the hunters.
"Four-Thing!" the old woman-man shouts through the woods. "Come back, Four-Thing! Take your place!" I shake my head. The old woman-man roars and the voice is closer. The hunted and the hunter. The grip tugs and I look down at my hand. I would scream, but what is the point? A boy of maybe ten is holding my hand and tears are streaming down his face.
"Don't go back to them," he says, and tugs at my hand again. "Please." Twigs snap, leaves crunch, branches break. "They are coming," the boy says, and stares up at me. "Please choose." "Choose what?" I ask. "To stay here with them," he says, and nods towards the trail where I can hear the old woman man getting closer and closer. "Or to go."
I ask. He shakes his head. His eyes go to the trail, too. He says, Let's go. I say.
The boy yanks on my hand and we are running away from the cliff. We run through the dark woods, dodging the shadows of ferns and the grabbing, grasping tendrils of the brambles. We run down and up, past the ravine, past my useless snares. We run until we are at my campsite once more. That's when the boy lets go of my hand. He nods at my tent. What? I ask. He only nods again. Boys!
The old woman man screams, suddenly very close by. "I need to get in my tent?" I ask the boy. He sighs and turns away from me and faces the direction the old woman man is coming from. "Okay," I say and walk to my tent.
I push the flaps aside and gasp. "Oh shit!" I whisper. In my tent is a duffel bag spilling over with stacks of fifties. A few stacks look gnawed on. "Did I do..." My voice trails off when I see what I'm really meant to see. There's a shriveled body barely wrapped in my sleeping bag. I have no choice. I grab the bottom of the sleeping bag and pull the bag and body out of the tent.
The top of the sleeping bag catches on the bottom zipper of the tent door and pulls away to reveal the face of the corpse. But I don't need to say whose face it is, do I? "Poor thing!" The old woman man bursts into my campsite but freezes at the sight of the boy. "Move, poor thing!" the old woman man says. "You have no say in this." "He chose!" the boy says. "No, the poor thing has not chosen," the old woman man says. "He hasn't been given the true choice."
I hear all of this but see nothing. My eyes are locked onto my own face. Where eyeballs should be are only depressions behind collapsed eyelids. My lips are pulled back into a rictus grin I've only seen in movies and on TV. The hair is long gone, just wisps left around my skull. "I'm dead," I say. "No!" The old woman-man shrieks. "You live forever!" I back away from myself and look around, seeing the campsite for what it really is.
My grave. A memorial to my own stupidity and ego. To my own greed and fear. "I don't think so," I say. "You do!" The old woman-man screams. "You can!" The thing at the edge of my campsite is not an old woman. It's not an old man. I don't know what it is. I shake my head at the thing as it swells and shrinks. It turns to mist and becomes solid and swells and shrinks.
"Yeah, pretty sure that's not true," I say. "I'm not going back with you." "Your hunger!" My stomach growls. But there's another sound. It's familiar. The pacing is back, and there is a sweeping sound. "Ooooh," the old woman-man says in a low, guttural voice. "Not your place." The same voice from the cabin doorway says, "Not your place."
The old woman man swells until its shape fills the campsite, its darkness blotting out what little night sky filters through the canopy above. "Your place?" the voice insists. Then the old woman man is gone. "They will come back," the boy says, and points to the opposite side of my campsite. "Hurry!" I turn to see another figure, a figure much different than the old woman man, different from the boy before me, but all the same. "Hello," I say.
The figure is nothing but a black cloak with the hem dragging across the ground as the figure paces back and forth. The cloak has a hood and inside the hood, two eyes peer out at me, or the holes where two eyes should be. I take a step back from the shrouded skeleton. It scythes staff firmly pressed against its shoulder. "It's okay," the boy says. "You can leave now." "Leave?" I ask, but the boy doesn't answer.
The cloak shifts and a skeletal hand reaches out from one of the sleeves. I stare at the boy. "What about you? And the others? There are others, right?" I ask. "There are," the boy says. "We will continue." I look at my tent and the outline of the duffle bag inside. None of this was worth that. What a waste. "Choose," the cloaked figure says. "Can I have a few minutes?" I ask. "Your time is now," it says.
"I won't be long," I say, and then look back at the boy. "Take me back." "What? No!" he cries. My stomach growls. "Can I do this?" "Take me back," I repeat. He does, and we are running once more. In minutes, we are standing before the cabin.
The door creaks open and the old woman-man stands there, its body shifting and swirling. "An excellent choice, poor thing," it says. "Not for you," I say and climb the steps. The old woman-man reaches for me, but I swat the hand away, enduring the horrible visions the touch brings. Then, I am past it and by the fire. "Eat! Eat!" the old woman-man calls out from behind me, a cackle in the thing's voice.
"Nah," I say and grab the pot with my bare hands. "The pain is intense, but I'm dead, so who cares, right?" "I'm not hungry anymore," I say then throw the pot across the room. I reach into the fire itself and pull out a burning log. I wave it at the old woman man. "What are you doing?" the old woman man screeches. I toss the burning log into the corner of the cabin. The corner where I first heard the thing speak to me.
The thing screams. My head feels like it is going to explode and I have to stumble my way out of the cabin as the place is instantly ablaze. The cloaked figure is waiting for me. Will that do it? I ask. Is it true? The voice from inside the cloak says. Evil always is, I say and look at the boy. But will it save them? The cloaked figure nods.
Behind me, the cabin burns. Smoke and cinders soar into the air. It takes only a minute before it collapses into a pile of ash and is gone. Voices fill the clearing around the cabin, and I smile as dozens, then hundreds of children, appear where there have only been ancient old bones. "Take them instead!" I say. "It is eternal." The voice from inside the cloak says. "Yeah, I get that." I say. "Just get them out of here."
The children line up and the figure holds out a skeletal hand. One by one, the children take the hand and fade away. This will take a while. I look behind me, and I'm not surprised to see the cabin is back, the door wide open. "Yup," I say. "It's eternal." I walk up the steps and into the cabin. I take my seat in the corner and begin my wait. There is no old woman man. I knew there wouldn't be.
That thing was fired, literally. And someone new has the job now. Someone that won't feed on children or poor, poor things. Because, for the first time in forever, I'm not hungry.