They darted past trees, one boy armed with a rock in his hand, the other holding a long fallen branch as a makeshift weapon.

    Somewhere else in the dark, another boy slipped on a patch of grass, but the girl held him by the arm before he could fall any further down. The boy quickly got back up, rising from a sort of kneeling position. And they ran on beneath the shadows of the canopies, moonlight slipping through the cracks.

    "Shhh." Jack held up a hand, halting Damien in his tracks. They could hear footsteps coming closer, louder by the second. Jack's hand secured its grip around the rock. Damien held the branch up, ready to strike. They inched forward, two men approaching closer and closer . . .

    Jack held the rock above his head. Now they were close enough for him to see, to make out two figures running in the dark. Then he realized. The rock remained motionless above his head, as Jack called out, "Damien, don't—"

    But the branch came swinging toward them, the targets dodging the blow just in time, someone tall and heavy falling onto the forest floor.

    "Bruh!"

    "Max!"

    "Oops."

    "Dude, why?"

    Jack dropped the rock and lowered himself closer to the ground, kneeling, his eyes on Max lying spreadeagled on the forest floor. Lyn was kneeling down on the other side. Max breathed in and out, once, twice, and winced, and brought himself up to a sitting position.

    "Sorry," said Damien, as Jack stood and reached a hand out to Max. "Thought you were those creeps."

    Max grabbed on, and Jack pulled him up to stand. "It's cool," he replied. "Just don't whack me in the head with some branch next time."

    Lyn rose to her feet, looked around. "Has anyone seen Sander?"

    Jack and Damien exchanged looks. Damien simply shrugged. Jack glanced around the place, then to Max, he said, "Bruh, you—"

    "Haven't seen him since we ran off the trail," said Max, a low-level panic clouding his features. He was quiet for a moment, then, "You don't think they—"

    Jack cursed under his breath, the image of Sander kidnapped—or worse, dead—invading his headspace. The ways he could've died, he didn't want to imagine, pushing them out of mind.

    "Then we've got to move fast," said Damien. "He could still be out there, running from those creeps."

    "Or he could be here," said a voice. "Safe and alive."

    Damien, Jack, Max, and Lyn looked back and up, catching sight of a silhouette of a man walking downhill, toward them. In his arms was a body, moonlight momentarily shining down on a boy and his dark blond hair and his black-rimmed glasses.

    "Sander?" muttered Lyn, trembling at the sight.

    Damien tightened his grip on the branch, holding it up. Jack reached forward, and grabbed the bloodstained rock by the tree nearest to them, and he yelled, "What have you done to him?"

    "Jack, I'm okay, I'm okay," said Sander, raising up a hand to him. He and the man were close enough now, stepping into the light. "I'm—" The sting in his wound peaked up. So suddenly that Sander winced at the pain and drew a deep long breath, blood flowing gladly into the cloth wrapped around his leg.

    "He's injured," said the man, coming to a halt before them. "We need to get him to my house, quick. And there I could tend to his wound. We shouldn't waste any more time." He took his steps past them, making his way further into the trees.

    Damien, Jack, Max, and Lyn stood rooted to the spot, exchanging looks of bewilderment mingling with fear. Then Jack said, "How can we be sure to trust you?"

    The man stopped in his tracks, and looked back, his eyes intent on the four youths.

    "I trust him," piped up a voice.

    They all shifted their sights over to Max, who nodded and said, "I'm serious, I trust him."

    Jack opened his mouth to speak, but the man said, "You don't have to trust me completely now. But have a little faith in me, please." Bright blue eyes glanced down at Sander, then he continued, "The blade cut deep into his flesh. If we stay here any longer, the longer Sander would have to endure the pain." And with that, the man walked on, without another word.

    "Can we really trust him?" asked Lyn, her voice a little more than a whisper.

    "I do," said Max, taking his steps forward. He halted in his tracks, and turned to his friends, who still stood there, watching the man walk farther away. "Come on. You heard him, we can't waste any more time." He paused, breathed in. "Sander needs us." And with that, Max resumed his steps.

    Lyn sighed, and jogged over to Max, catching up to him in no time.

    Damien groaned, then said, "What happened to 'don't talk to strangers'?"

    "Dunno," said Jack, as he and Damien followed suit, trailing behind the rest of them. "I just want this living nightmare to be over."

A lamppost stood in the clearing, fire burning bright within its glass walls, its light striking upon the house nearby, sharpening half of its facade. The place had been quiet for the past hours, since he left earlier that evening, but now footsteps thudded louder, closer, and five figures walked out of the trees, out of the shadows, into the light.

    "Whoa," Max mouthed, as he and the others fixed their eyes on the log house that stood before them.

    The stranger walked straight on, leading them up to the porch. He paused a moment before the front door—a Renaissance-style lion's face carved into the wood—and tapped his foot down on the floor. The door swung open, then, and he stepped in sideways, refraining from giving Sander any more injuries. The four youths filed in, light and warmth enveloping them upon their entrance into a pine-paneled living area.

    The man set Sander down carefully on the longest of the couches. Then he looked up, at the others who stood a short distance away, and pointed to a door at the far right, and said, "There's the bathroom. Max, you'll find a basin in the sink. Bring it here. Jack," he said, pointing at the fireplace. "There's a kettle above the fire, and I believe the water in it is warm enough. When Max comes back with the basin, fill it with water. Lyn," he said, pointing to the dining table in the open kitchen. "As you can see, I left a small pile of hand towels on the table. I'm going to need one of those. Please get one for me. Damien, the blade struck the back of Sander's leg. Help me turn him over. All instructions clear?"

    They exchanged bewildered looks, and nodded, puzzlement clouding their features.

    "Well, don't just stand there. We wouldn't want to keep your friend waiting, would we?"

    And with that, they moved without further question, Max walking over to the bathroom, Jack to the fireplace, Lyn to the kitchen, Damien to the couch where Sander lay. The man placed his hands on the boy, and Damien followed suit, helping Sander turn to lie facedown, propping his wounded leg on an armrest. The stranger reached out for a chair nearby, pulled it over next to the couch, and took his seat.

    "I've got the basin."

    "Here's the towel."

    "Got the kettle," said Jack, sliding a rug forward with his foot. Then he set the kettle down on the rug, next to the stranger.

    The stranger glanced at Jack's right hand, and looked up at the boy, and said, "I think you better wash that hand of yours."

    Max's eyes widened at sight. "Jack, what did you—"

    "It's nothing," Jack responded, hiding his bloodstained hand from everyone's sight. He nodded to the stranger and said, "I'll wash it off." Then he strode over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

    Silence washed over the place, then Damien said, "Jack saved me." A pause, as all eyes turned to him, save the stranger's. "He knocked one of the creeps out with a rock, hit him many times over. If it wasn't for him, the creep would've killed me then and there."

    "They were never out to kill," said the stranger, unwinding the bandage around Sander's leg. "They have other intentions in mind. And I must warn you that they are trained men, skilled men. Killing would merely be second nature to their kind."

    "Who are they?" asked Max, Jack returning from the bathroom, taking his place beside him.

    "Servants of the enemy," said the stranger, removing the bloodstained strip of cloth. He carefully rolled up Sander's pant leg, revealing two wounds—a gash stretching out across his calf, a shorter vertical one crossing somewhere in the middle of the first—and his flesh coated in blood.

    "We better call the hospital," said Jack, sliding his phone out of his pocket. "Ask them for an ambulance and a couple medics to come over. And maybe we'll call the police as well."

    "There's no need for any of that," said the stranger, smiling up at them. He picked up the towel off the backrest of his chair. "A good clean ought to do."

    Damien, Max, and Lyn exchanged bewildered looks.

    "Wait, what?" muttered Sander, glancing back at the stranger.

    Jack slid a palm down his face, then snapped, "Are you insane? Don't you see what the hell that creep did? Sander's leg is freakin' cut up long and deep. Blood's freakin' everywhere. And you still think this isn't a good time to freakin' call for medical services? Or the freakin' police? Is this some joke to you?"

    The stranger was quiet for a while, the smile fading from his face, then he said, solemnly, "This world has made you fearful, skeptical, cynical even." His eyes travelled from Sander to Damien, to Lyn, to Jack, to Max. "But not all of you," he added, with a smile. "Have a little faith—"

    "Look, we can save this talk about faith for Sunday mass," said Damien. "Sander needs medical attention, now."

    "Or we can settle it this way," interjected Lyn. "You can give his cut a good clean for now, while we make the call and wait for medical services to arrive."

    "Or if the cut doesn't get any better," said Max, "then we call the hospital."

    "That's settled, then," said the stranger, before any of the others could object. "If his wound doesn't get any better, we call for medics and an ambulance to come over. Would that satisfy you?" Silence. "Good," said the stranger, dipping the small towel into the water. He brought it up, gave it a good squeeze and twist. Then he began to rinse the wound, sliding the drenched cloth down the cut, across the gash, wiping the deep red substance off his flesh. Sander's calf was clean of blood now, leaving a gruesome red cross etched on his skin.

    "I'm calling the hospital now," said Jack, searching through his phone contacts.

    The man held a hand up. "I'm not through," he said, eyeing Jack. Then he dipped the towel again, the water in the basin turning a tinge of red. Squeeze, twist, water poured back into the basin. He placed the cloth back onto Sander's calf, and slid the towel down the cut, across the gash, down, across, down, across . . .

    And just like that, with each run of the cloth down and across his scathed skin, the wound closed, then faded, and all that was left was a mark, like an old childhood scar.

    "How are you feeling?" asked the stranger, giving Sander's calf a gentle pat.

    "Better," said Sander, the stranger helping him up to a sitting position. "It doesn't hurt anymore."

    The man nodded, looked at Jack who stood quiet with the others, his phone still in hand. "You can call for medical services now."

    Jack shook his head, pocketing his phone. "There's no need for that," he said, in a tired, defeated tone.

    "I'm guessing you're a licensed doctor," said Sander, slowly kicking his leg to and fro. "Or you used to be one. You did a good job, stopping the bleeding, treating it, stitching it up painlessly." He placed his supposed injured leg up, his forelimb sitting on his right knee, and pulled the pant leg up. "Didn't feel any needle for the anesthe—"

    Sander's eyes widened at the sight. He glanced up at the man, looked back down at his calf, ran his thumb across and down the strange-looking cross mark, on smooth yet scarred skin. "H-How—What—This isn't possible."

    "Is this some sick joke?" asked Damien, looking around the living area for cameras, waiting for someone to appear out of nowhere and tell him this was all part of some stupid reality show. And when this is all done and over, the crew will apologize for all the trouble, and take them back to their dorms, and give them a good night's rest from this hell of a night. But there were no cameras, and this was no reality show.

    "I believe not," said the stranger.

    "This can't be real."

    All eyes turned to Lyn, the raven-haired girl heaving in deep breaths, a nauseating sensation quickly creeping through her system.

    Lyn blinked, and shut her eyes, and covered them with her hands. "This isn't real. This is just another nightmare. I'm asleep. I collapsed again." She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her mind to pull herself out of the blackness, into reality. But everything was still—no floating feeling, no feeling of falling back into consciousness. Her hands fell back down, and her eyes flew open to find all four boys staring at her curiously.

    Sander gulped. "Uh, Lyn . . ."

    But Sander said nothing more, as the stranger cleared his throat, turning all their attention to him. Then he smiled a hospitable smile, and said, "I believe it would be best that you all get some sleep. The hour is late, and the night's events have left you all with very little strength."

    "Eleven twenty-seven," said Sander, looking up from his watch. "We can't make it back to the dorms now. We're locked out."

    "I know," said the man, nodding. "And there's no use in worrying, really. I've prepared the guest rooms for you all to spend the night here."

    "But—"

    "You're all exhausted to journey back to your dormitories. Moreover, those men are still out there. It would be too dangerous to travel through the forest at such a time and circumstance as this."

    "But how are we going to explain this to—"

    "I'll take care of it, Sander," the man assured him. "Just trust me."

    He smiled at them all, the smile one sees on the face of a host trying to calm down his troubled guests, the kind that said everything would soon be okay and that there was absolutely nothing to worry about and that everything will be taken care of. Yet, even after tonight's events, they still found no concrete reason to trust, to "have a little faith" in him. But the night had done them in, and all they wanted was some sleep, not another argument for him to win again.

    "I'll lead you to your rooms for tonight," he said, after a moment of silence, gesturing them to follow him. And without question, they went, past the couches and the fireplace, up the stairs, into a corridor. The stranger walked over to a door, turned the knob, pushed it open. "Damien, Jack, Sander, Max," he said, switching on the lights to reveal two bunk beds and a wardrobe in a small, uninteresting room. "You four will be sleeping here. And Lyn," he said, taking his steps to the door opposite, "you'll be staying here."

    "Lyn."

    Lyn paused in her steps and looked back, at Max who went on to say:

    "You sure you're okay being alone?"

    Lyn nodded. "I'm sure." She transferred her glance down to the floor for a second, and looked up at Max, managing to smile a stiff yet reassuring smile. Then she said, "Don't worry about me. I'm used to it."

    "I'm taking this one," said Sander, dragging his feet to one of the lower bunks. He kicked off his shoes, dropped down onto the bed, tucked himself into the sheets. And without another word, he shut his eyes, and went to sleep.

    Jack climbed up a ladder, onto the bunk above Sander's. He sat there for a moment, running a hand on the fresh sheets. "Hey," he said, shifting his sights to Damien who had hoisted himself up onto the other top bunk. "Don't you find it hella weird how these beds are already made? It's like he knew we were coming."

    Damien shrugged, and lay himself down, and muttered, "I'm tired. Let's talk about it tomorrow."

    Jack sighed, and dropped onto the soft mattress, pulling the blanket over himself. "Guess we're just gonna sleep on this wacko situation, huh?" He glanced at Damien, eyes closed, mouth open, fast asleep so quickly. "Still don't trust that guy," he muttered, more to himself.

    The man walked into the doorway, flicked the light switch off, darkness flooding the room, save faint moonlight that spilled in through the window. "Goodnight," said the man, in the tone of a gentle farewell. And with that, he left the door ajar, and walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing, then fading into the distance.

    Max glanced around the room, at his friends who lay asleep, at the ray of moonlight that pierced through the window, at the shadows of leaves and branches that swayed in the patch of light down on the wooden floor. His eyes turned to the narrow gap that led back into the hallway. And he listened, as the man walked farther and farther away.

    He wanted to know. He had to know.

    He wanted to be sure. And if it was him, he had to tell him, now.

    Max pulled the sheet away from himself, slid his legs off the bed. He quickly pushed his feet into his shoes, tied his shoelaces hastily. And without a sound, he slipped out of the room, into the dimly lit corridor.

The man stood on the porch, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He stared out into the night, the silhouettes of trees against the vast moonlit darkness. He raised the cup up to his lips, and took a sip, and said, "Couldn't sleep, Max?"

    Max stepped out of the doorway, out of the warm firelight, into the moonlit shadows. He took his place next to the man, breathed in, then said, "I've got questions, and things to say."

    "I'll answer the first," said the man, with a small smile. He reached down, placed the cup on a small wooden table. Then he turned to the boy, and said, "Hold your hand out."

    Without hesitation, Max reached a hand out to him. The stranger turned the boy's hand up, placed his own hand on Max's palm, and there, in the center of the man's palm, was a scar—a bullet hole that once burned deep into the inside of his hand, the same hand that saved his sister and his mom the night the men came.

    Max looked up, at the stranger's blue eyes—deep as the ocean, bright like the warmest flame. "We didn't have a chance to thank you," said the boy. "You saved my family. You took the shot for Mom and Brienne." A pause, as a smile crept to his lips. "Thank you."

    The man placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, and said, with a gentle smile, "You didn't know me, then. Yet, even before you saw what you would have seen that night, you trusted me. And when we met again tonight, you didn't question, didn't hesitate to follow." The stranger patted the boy's shoulder, looked him straight in the eye. "In this dark world and in these dark times, that, Max, is a rarity—that faith of yours, like a child's."

    "There was something different about you," said Max. "Like a light. And I just knew I could trust you. And after I saw what you did back there, how you saved my family, I don't think I'll ever think of the impossible the same way again." The wind blew hard, and Max wrapped his arms around himself against the sudden cold. He then glanced at the front door, the wind having left it ajar, at the lion carving painted dark in the evening shadows, at the firelight that spilled out the narrow gap. "There's more to this world, is there?" the boy asked, transferring his glance back to the stranger. "Something more than what we see with the naked eye?"

    The man nodded. "A whole lot more." He turned his sights to the moon, then said, "And it's going to take some time before your friends believe that, too."

    "You healed Sander like it was nothing," said Max. "That's got to do, right? For them to believe?"

    The expression on the man's face turned somber. "That won't be enough," he said. "As I said, this world has made them cynical, wounded them in pain and anger and fear." He looked at Max. "They have their reasons, Max. Stories they haven't told you. Scars they've hidden beneath facades."

    "I don't think I'm any different," said Max. "Always showing everyone else this 'fluffy' layer of me, and just hiding behind that. And I can't say that that night didn't change me and how I see people now. You hear about mass shootings almost every year. Then you hear about some story of someone driving by on a motorcycle, and someone pulls the trigger, and some stranger dies on the spot, then people crowd around and take their phones out, and all these stupid phone cameras click away for their entertainment. I never thought something like that would ever happen to us. Until that night." The boy breathed in, deeply. "Now I see why they can't take this all in just yet. We're kids grounded by reality and all these things we've learned to fear."

    "Tragic reality," said the stranger, his eyes on Max. "It's the way of the world, and how people lose faith in good things unseen."

    "So what about Damien, Jack, Sander, Lyn?" said Max. "I don't know what to do to convince them to believe that there's more to this than a couple of serial killers running loose."

    The stranger simply smiled, and said, "That is nothing for you to burden yourself with, Max." He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Your friends will believe, soon enough. But right now," said the man, leading the boy back to the front door, "it is about time you get some rest. The night has left you with little energy left. I shouldn't keep you awake any longer." The stranger opened the door, and Max stepped in, without question.

    Without a sound, the door to the room swung open, light from the corridor falling upon three figures laying fast asleep. Max stepped a foot in, the man holding the door open for him. But the boy turned to face the man, and said, in almost a whisper, "After tomorrow, after we leave, will I see you again?"

    The stranger smiled a gentle, reassuring smile. "You will, sooner than you think."

    Max nodded, and smiled at the stranger, and said, "Thank you, for saving me and my friends tonight, for giving us a place to stay. Without you, we wouldn't know where to run. Heck, those guys might've had us by now."

    The stranger patted the boy's shoulder. "I look out for the people I care about."

    "Thank you."

    The man nodded once more. And with that, Max walked over to the empty bed, lay himself down. He pulled the blanket over himself, as the door swung closed, the slab of light shrinking to nothing. Then he shut his eyes, and drifted off to sleep, and dreamt of a young boy running through sunlit corridors of ivory and gold.

Sunlight struck Damien's face, waking him. He reached a hand up to his face, wiping the sleep off his eyes, shielding them from the sun.

    He could feel an ache to his bones, the kind that comes after an exhausting night. Or a stupid nightmare, he thought, turning his sights to the shaded parts of his dorm room. Sander had woken up, too, he could see that. The blond boy was stretching his arms out, then tilting his head side to side. Yet he was wincing with each movement, as if he felt the same pain he did.

    Damien looked away, shifting his eyes over to nothing in particular, and he sighed.

    All he wanted to do was sleep in. Screw the fact that he fell asleep in the clothes he wore to the party last night. He was exhausted. What happened in the graveyard, coupled with that hell of a dream, had done him in. Besides, there was nothing better to do on a Saturday morning, he thought to himself. He'll meet up with his girlfriend and his friends this afternoon, he decided. But first, he had to get rid of this annoying ray of sunshine.

    He rose to a sitting position, rubbed the sleep from his eyes once more.

    "Hey, Damien?"

    Damien looked over at Sander, his pant leg pulled up to reveal a strange-looking scar on his calf—a long line that ran across, a shorter one that crossed down somewhere near the center of the first.

    Their eyes met, then, panic evident in Sander's green ones, the same fear creeping through Damien's system.

    Sander breathed in, then said, "That wasn't a dream, was it?"