It was Brian who was first to laugh after the old man left.
“Backwater bozo,” he muttered. He followed up by snapping a branch in two and hobbling around the fire. “Get out while you still can,” he gibbered, waving the stick at us.
We finished the beer by midnight, then sat back to watch the last sparks of the fire spiral up to the sky. Such an idyllic spot, we thought.
We woke up to the howls.
I sat up. Brian fumbled for his light. Steve shushed us. We held our breath. In the dark outside, a branch broke.