That Damn Ankle..

Shit, ouch. Another sharp pain as your left leg meets the ground.. However, this is no ordinary left leg. Oh, no. No, good sir, it's the left leg. The left leg with the bad ankle. Which you've realized more and more, which is really just step-by-step, as you work your way back toward the cabin, re-tracing your steps through the forest. Though the footprints heading away from civilization are a little more evenly spaced, a little less staggered, than those headed back. Though, you would hesitate to really call it 'civilization'.

Mike insisted you come with him, all the way to a place called Dripping Springs; Which just happens to not be on any map, anywhere, and has a population of less than two dozen crazed survivalists, tree-huggin' hippies, and your regular, run-of-the-mill, plain old rednecks. This place is nothing like the city, and you can't stand it. Mostly because you don't fit in, which is obvious considering that you couldn't go for a quick jog without rolling your ankle over a large tree root.

And, about that rolled ankle.. Yeah, it rolled. A lot.. You were only a mile from the campers, and it's still hell to get back there.

Mike.. Yeah, your buddy from work. The same buddy that said camping would be, you believe he said, "Good for the soul." and that it would, "Take away some of that big-city stress." Well, he was right; Work is the last thing on my mind. The first thing on my mind, of course, is the mosquito nibbling my scalp.. Ouch.. Actually, ankle just took first-place. Mosquitos are gonna have to be number two on the list.

You can see the side of the camper through the trees, mostly tinted green and brown from years of sitting in the woods, but still showing enough white to remind you of it's original color. You're a hundred feet from the camp site, where you can finally sit down and g-



"You son-of-a-bitch, fuck you!"

That sounded like Mike.