Campground. 9/6. Evening.
As it was their last night camping, Stana wanted to cook her dinner over her campfire, which meant she didn’t have to be back at the lodge at a specific time. It was good because it meant there was no schedule, but bad because she’d been distracted by the beauty of the lake and now had to walk back to her tent through the rapidly falling darkness. Suddenly, her foot caught on something, and before she knew it, she was flat on her face in the dirt. Where was that dancer’s grace she usually possessed? “Shit,” she groaned, as she sat up and dusted off her hands, mentally checking her body for injuries and hoping nobody saw her make a fool of herself.











