October 04, 2026.

Despite the rough terrain you're able to check your watch, which your insurance gave you for free to monitor your steps to get a reduced premium. Your heart rate is, admittedly, still pretty high, but nowhere near where it was when you last were able to check, an hour and a half ago, hiding in the camp closet with all the fishing poles and tackle boxes and loose hooks that clawed up your legs and neck, waiting to be found.

Right now you're rocking about a 99 bpm. Pretty bad! You know that were at 180 or 185 in that closet, though, and you bet it spiked even higher when the killer crashed through the rotting sideboards and dragged you out by your hair and jammed a butcher's S-hook through the meat of your calf and started dragging you by it across the rough gravel of the camp and out past the flags that denoted the property line, into the woods.

For the first hour or so you really kept up a pretty good panic, but at this point you don't think you're going to bleed out, and the killer keeps stopping and looking at their phone. They seem to be lost, in fact. You wonder if it's appropriate to ask if they need directions.

Probably not, but frankly, you're getting quite bored. The initial shooting, blinding pain of the impalement has dulled and you've sort of gone into a comfy shock. It hurts a lot, you know that, but you don't really feel it.

"Hello, killer," you say, next time they stop by a tree, sort of hiding behind it as they breathe heavily. You're not a light person, something you've been meaning to work on, but now, because it is making the spree killer (who has murdered all of your co-workers and many of the wards entrusted to your care as camp counselor) really work up a sweat, you are glad you hadn't started hitting the gym quite yet.

They lift their mask and spit out a big loogie.

"Aw killer," you say. "Tough haul?"

They peek back around the tree, and, having not quite returned their mask to the original position, you now see it is the owner of the camp, Paul Gripley, who was in fact the one who technically bought you this smartwatch, by authorizing and paying for your health insurance.

You're not really sure why he's killing everyone, but the tremendous shock that has ripped through your system and the substantial bloodloss makes you fairly lightheaded and easygoing. You do not really care.

"Hi Paul," you say.

"Hi, Sofía," he says back.

"What's with all the killin?"

"I don't really want to talk about it."

"That's okay, I don't really-"

"It's sort of a sex thing, but not, like, I don't want you to feel like you're being objectified in any way. Sex thing, but in like a, uh, turned-inward, not in a- Is- nobody's feeling like this is, like they're being objectified, do- did they? Did anybody mention that they felt objectified or like the killer was being pervy while you were all hiding in the boat shed? God, god, I really freakin hope not, is anybody... oh, heck, I watched that same harassment-in-the-workplace training video as all of yous, I don't want... ah, jeez."

"I was just about to tell you I didn't want to know, Paul. But I guess now that you mention it, I do feel a little objectified, and certainly not that respected. You are treating me like meat."

"Ah, shit," says Paul, and lowers his mask, again, and removes the hunting knife from the holster hooked to his belt. It glints dully in the moonlight. There's some of Diego's blood still streaking up the blade and drying in brown matte on the soft leather handle.

You check your watch again as he approaches, and a smile spreads unbidden across your face. You show him the watch. "But hey, look at this, my heartbeat's at a solid 75 bpm."

He stops, confused.

"So you're not mad at me?"

"Oh, Paul, I'm mad at you. But I'm not stressin. You going to kill me now?"

"Yes, Sofía."

"Fuckin dickhead."

"Aw jeez."