A peaceful night in the woods was shattered when a stray dog appeared at our campsite, anxious and ignoring the food we offered. His strange behavior unsettled us, but the real terror began when we heard a menacing rustle. The dog was warning us about a much bigger threat lurking in the dark.
The marshmallow caught fire for the third time, and Tommy squealed with delight as I blew it out. The sticky sugar was now charred black and smoking.
“Mom, you’re terrible at this!” he laughed, his gap-toothed grin illuminated by our campfire. My husband, Dan, shot me a playful look from across the flames, where he was helping our daughter Sarah craft the perfect golden-brown masterpiece.
“Some of us prefer our marshmallows with a little character,” I defended, popping the burned blob into my mouth.
The summer evening wrapped around us like a warm blanket, crickets providing the soundtrack to our family camping adventure. Little did we know how quickly the night would take a dangerous turn.