"Lost in the Pines: A True Camping Nightmare":
I was sixteen, on a camping trip with my scout group in northern Minnesota, near the Canadian border. It was supposed to be a week of adventure—five of us kids, two chaperones, out in the wild with nothing but our tents and backpacks. The drive up was long, the pavement turning to gravel, then to a narrow dirt path winding through towering pines. Our campsite sat in a clearing, surrounded by dense forest, with a shallow stream nearby that gurgled constantly. It felt like we’d stumbled into a hidden world, far from everything. At first, it was perfect.
We spent the first day setting up camp. Jake, my best friend, was joking as we struggled with the tent poles, nearly collapsing the whole thing. “This is why we’re not architects,” he laughed, his curly hair flopping over his eyes. Anna, another scout, was organizing the cooking gear, shaking her head. “You two are hopeless. We’ll be sleeping under the stars at this rate.” The younger kids, Tim and Ellie, were running around, collecting sticks for the fire. Our chaperones, Tom and Lisa, were unloading supplies from the van, their voices calm but firm as they reminded us to stay close.
That night, we sat around the campfire, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. The flames cast long shadows, flickering across our faces. Tim told a goofy story about a runaway cow, making everyone laugh. Lisa shared a tale about her old dog getting lost in the woods, which felt a little too real out here. As the fire died down, the forest seemed to close in. The air was thick with the scent of pine and smoke, but there was something else—a weight, like the darkness was watching. I brushed it off, blaming the late hour.
The next two days were fun but uneasy. We hiked narrow trails, the ground soft with fallen needles. We fished in the stream, catching nothing but laughs when Jake slipped and soaked his shoes. We swam in a deeper part of the water, splashing until our fingers wrinkled. But I kept noticing things that didn’t sit right. A branch snapping behind us when we were alone on a trail. The crunch of leaves at night, too heavy for a squirrel or deer. One morning, I found a single footprint near the stream, bare and human, too big to be any of ours. I showed Jake, and he frowned. “That’s weird. Maybe Tom was out here?” But Tom wore boots, and this print was deep, uneven, like someone had been standing there a long time.
I wasn’t the only one feeling off. Ellie clung to Lisa more than usual, saying the woods were “too quiet.” Jake admitted he’d heard footsteps the night before, stopping just outside our tent. Anna scoffed, braiding her hair tightly. “You’re all paranoid. It’s just animals.” But even she glanced at the trees when she thought no one was watching. Tom and Lisa tried to keep things light, leading us in campfire songs, but I caught them whispering to each other, their faces serious.
It was the third night when everything changed. I was in my tent with Jake, drifting in and out of sleep, when a sound yanked me awake. A low, pitiful whimper, like an injured animal, coming from the trees. My heart started pounding, loud in my ears. Jake sat up, his sleeping bag rustling. “You hear that?” he whispered, his voice tight. I nodded, my mouth dry. The whimper came again, closer, almost human. I unzipped the tent flap just enough to peek out. The campfire was down to glowing embers, barely lighting the clearing. The other tents were dark, everyone else asleep.
“We should check it out,” I said, though my legs felt like jelly. Jake hesitated, then grabbed his flashlight. “Fine, but we stay together.” We slipped out, the ground cold under my socks. Jake’s flashlight beam swept across the campsite, catching glints of dew on the grass. The whimper was louder now, mixed with a soft sob. It was coming from the edge of the trees, where the light didn’t reach. My skin prickled, every instinct screaming to go back.
Then we saw him. A man stumbled out of the shadows, moving like his body could barely hold him up. He was old, maybe seventy, and he looked wrong—horribly wrong. He was naked, his skin pale and sagging, stretched tight over bones that jutted out. His legs were a mess, covered in scabs, some crusted, others fresh and oozing. His hair was thin, matted with dirt, and his eyes were wide, glassy, darting like he was being chased. I froze, my breath catching. Jake’s flashlight shook, the beam jerking across the man’s chest.
“Who… who are you?” Jake stammered, his voice barely audible. The man stopped a few feet away, swaying, his bony hands twitching at his sides. “Help me,” he whispered, his voice cracked and raw, like he hadn’t spoken in days. “Please, help me.” He took a step closer, and I backed up, my heart slamming against my ribs. His smell hit me—sour, like sweat and decay. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” I asked, my words stumbling out.
He looked at me, his eyes wet with tears. “They’re keeping me here,” he said, his voice breaking into a sob. “They won’t let me go.” The words sent a chill down my spine. Who was “they”? Where was he from? I glanced at Jake, his face pale, the flashlight beam wobbling. “We need to get Tom,” he whispered, barely moving his lips.
Before we could do anything, Anna’s voice cut through the silence. “What’s going on out there?” She unzipped her tent and poked her head out, her braid swinging. When she saw the man, she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my gosh, stay back!” The man flinched at her voice, his head jerking toward the trees like he’d heard something we hadn’t. His breathing was ragged now, almost a wheeze.
Tom and Lisa emerged from their tent, alerted by Anna’s shout. Tom held a lantern, its light spilling across the clearing, making the man look even worse. His skin was almost translucent, veins visible under the surface. “Sir, are you okay?” Tom asked, his voice steady but cautious. “We can call for help.” The man’s eyes snapped to Tom, wild with panic. “No! No rangers!” he shouted, his voice shrill. “They keep me here!” He clutched at his chest, sobbing harder, a horrible, choking sound that made my stomach twist.
Lisa stepped forward, her hands raised like she was calming a scared animal. “It’s okay, we just want to help. Come sit by the fire, get warm,” she said, her voice soft but firm. She took a step closer, and the man staggered back, tripping over a root. “No, no, no,” he muttered, his eyes flicking between us and the trees. Then, without warning, he turned and ran, crashing through the underbrush. His footsteps were clumsy, branches snapping, until the sound faded into the dark.
We stood there, stunned, the lantern’s light shaking in Tom’s hand. My legs felt weak, like they might give out. “What… what was that?” Anna whispered, her voice trembling. She was still half in her tent, clutching the flap. Jake’s flashlight was pointed at the ground now, his face ghost-white. “He looked terrified. Like someone was after him,” he said quietly. Ellie and Tim were awake now, peeking out of their tent, their eyes wide. “Is he gone?” Ellie asked, her voice small.
Tom set the lantern down, his jaw tight. “I’m calling the rangers. No signal here, but I’ll drive to the station at first light.” He looked at us, his eyes serious. “Everyone back in your tents. Stay put.” Lisa nodded, herding Ellie and Tim back inside. “Try to rest,” she said, but her voice was strained, like she didn’t believe it herself.
None of us slept. We crammed into Tom and Lisa’s tent, sitting in a tight circle with blankets around our shoulders. The lantern cast long shadows on the canvas, making every rustle outside feel like a threat. “Maybe he’s lost,” Lisa said, rubbing her hands together. “Could be dementia, or he wandered off from somewhere.” Jake shook his head, his voice low. “He said ‘they.’ Like people are holding him. That’s not just getting lost.” Anna hugged her knees, her braid fraying. “He looked like he’d been out here forever. Did you see his legs?”
I couldn’t stop picturing him—his scabbed skin, his desperate eyes, the way he’d begged for help. “What if he’s telling the truth?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “What if someone’s out there, keeping him?” The thought made my chest tight. Tim’s eyes were huge. “Like kidnappers?” Lisa put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. The rangers will figure it out.”
Around 2 a.m., we heard it again—slow, deliberate crunching in the leaves, circling the campsite. Anna grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. “That’s not him,” she whispered. Tom grabbed the flashlight, shining it through the tent flap, but the beam caught only trees and shadows. The noises stopped, then started again, closer, like someone was testing how near they could get. Jake’s voice was barely audible. “What if it’s ‘they’?” No one answered. We sat there, holding our breath, until the sounds faded just before dawn.
When the sky lightened, Tom drove to the ranger station while we packed up, moving fast, barely speaking. The forest didn’t feel peaceful anymore—it felt alive, watching us. Anna kept looking over her shoulder, her face pale. “I just want to go home,” she muttered. Jake helped me roll up our tent, his hands shaking. “You think he’s still out there?” he asked. I didn’t know how to answer.
The rangers arrived an hour later, two of them in green uniforms, radios crackling. We told them everything—his appearance, his words, how he’d panicked and run. The older ranger, a man with gray hair, took notes, his face unreadable. “Sounds like he could be a drifter,” he said. “Or maybe mental health issues. We get cases like that out here.” His partner, younger, looked less sure, his eyes scanning the trees. “We’ll search the area, see if we can find him. You kids did the right thing.”
They combed the woods for hours but found nothing—no tracks, no clothes, no sign of anyone. The older ranger came back, wiping sweat from his brow. “If he’s out there, he’s good at hiding. We’ll keep looking, but you folks should head home. Better safe than sorry.” Lisa nodded, already loading the van. “We’re leaving now,” she said, her voice firm.
As we drove away, I kept glancing back at the forest, half-expecting to see the man standing among the trees. Anna was next to me, twisting her braid. “What if he needed us? What if we left him out there?” she said, her voice breaking. Jake stared out the window, his jaw tight. “Or what if he wasn’t alone? What if someone else was watching us?” The thought made my skin crawl.
We never learned who he was. No missing person reports matched his description. No news stories mentioned a man in those woods. The rangers said they’d follow up, but we never heard back. Sometimes, I lie awake, his voice in my head: “They’re keeping me here.” I wonder if he was running from something real—people, not just delusions. Maybe he’s still out there, lost, or worse. I haven’t gone camping since. The woods feel different now, like they’re hiding something I don’t want to find.
"Swallowed by the Taiga":
My friends and I planned a hunting trip deep in the Siberian taiga, a wild maze of pine, birch, and shadows that stretched forever. We’d camped before, but this time we pushed farther, chasing tales of elk and boar in untouched forest. I never imagined I’d end up alone, fighting to survive for two weeks in a place that seemed to breathe danger, waiting for me to slip.
There were four of us: me, Ivan, Alexei, and Dmitri. We packed light—rifles, a small tent, a week’s worth of dried meat and bread, and a couple water bottles each. The plan was straightforward: hunt for a few days, camp by a river, and head back to the village. We drove hours from Krasnoyarsk, the road turning to dirt, then nothing. We hiked in, laughing, bragging about who’d bag the biggest prize.
On the third day, I got restless. We hadn’t seen much game, just a few tracks. I volunteered to scout a ridge alone, thinking I’d spot something worth chasing. “I’ll be back by noon,” I told Ivan, slinging my rifle over my shoulder and checking my knife.
He grabbed my arm, his eyes serious. “Stay sharp out there. This place doesn’t forgive mistakes.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, grinning. “I’ll mark my path. See you soon.”
The forest was thick, branches clawing at my jacket. The ground was a tangle of roots and moss, slick under my boots. I followed a faint deer trail, carving small notches into trees with my knife to track my way back. The air was heavy, filled with the sharp scent of pine and damp earth. Hours passed, and I found nothing—no tracks, no signs of life. My watch read 11:30. Time to turn back.
But when I looked for my marks, they were gone. I retraced my steps, heart thumping, searching for the shallow cuts I’d made. Nothing. The trees all looked identical, their bark unbroken. Panic clawed at my chest. I shouted, “Ivan! Alexei! Dmitri!” My voice bounced off the trees, swallowed by silence. I tried again, louder, but the forest stayed quiet.
I told myself to stay calm. I’d find the trail. I walked, then ran, scanning for anything familiar—a rock, a bend in the path. But the deeper I went, the more lost I felt. The light faded, shadows pooling under the trees. By dusk, my stomach was a knot of fear. I was alone, miles from camp, with no food, half a bottle of water, and a rifle that felt useless against the vastness around me.
That first night, I found a hollow beneath a fallen pine, its roots curling like fingers into the earth. I crawled in, pulling my jacket tight. The cold bit through the fabric, seeping into my bones. Every sound made my heart race—twigs snapping, leaves rustling, a distant howl that might’ve been a wolf. I gripped my rifle, eyes darting, imagining glowing eyes in the dark. The taiga was alive, and I was a stranger in its world.
Morning came, gray and unforgiving. My mouth was dry, my water bottle nearly empty. Hunger gnawed at my gut. I remembered my father’s advice from childhood: “Water leads to people. Follow it downhill.” I found a trickle of a stream, its banks muddy and steep. I followed it, slipping on rocks, my boots soaking through. Blisters burned my heels, but I kept moving, driven by the hope of finding a village, a road, anything.
I rationed my water, sipping only when my throat felt like sandpaper. I found a patch of red berries and ate a handful, their sour juice staining my fingers. Were they safe? I didn’t know, but hunger didn’t care. They did little to fill the ache in my stomach. My rifle dragged at my shoulder, its weight a reminder of how unprepared I was.
Days bled into each other. I lost count, my mind foggy from exhaustion. My body weakened, each step heavier than the last. One afternoon, a low growl stopped me cold. I scanned the trees, breath shallow. There, through the branches, was a bear—massive, its black fur matted, eyes locked on me. It was 20 feet away, sniffing the air, its breath steaming. My heart pounded so loud I swore it could hear. “Don’t move,” I whispered to myself, fingers tightening on my rifle. I backed away, one slow step at a time, praying it wouldn’t charge. The bear snorted, pawed the ground, then turned, vanishing into the brush. I collapsed, trembling, tears stinging my eyes.
Nights were worse. The forest played tricks, sounds turning into voices. “Hey! Over here!” I’d hear, spinning toward it, heart leaping, only to find nothing but trees. Once, I saw a figure in the distance, waving, wearing Ivan’s red cap. “Ivan!” I shouted, stumbling through thorns, but when I reached the spot, it was empty. My mind was unraveling, hunger and fear twisting reality. I’d talk to myself to stay sane, muttering, “Keep going. You’re not dying here.”
My body was breaking down. My boots rubbed my feet raw, one toe swollen and purple after smashing it on a rock. Frostbite crept into my fingers, turning them stiff and numb. My jacket tore on a branch, leaving me exposed. I found a small cave one night, its entrance barely wide enough to crawl through. I squeezed inside, huddling against the damp stone. Then I heard it—a soft growl. In the dark, two eyes glinted. A wolf, lean and gray, bared its teeth. I yelled, swinging my rifle like a club, my voice cracking with fear. It backed off, disappearing, but I sat awake all night, clutching the rifle, certain it was waiting.
One day—I think it was the eighth—I stumbled on an old trapper’s shack, its roof sagging, walls splintered. Inside, I found a rusted tin with a few moldy crackers and a tattered blanket, stiff with dirt. I ate the crackers, gagging on their sour taste, and wrapped the blanket around my shoulders. It smelled of rot, but it was warmer than my shredded jacket. I sat there, staring at the shack’s broken window, and whispered, “Someone find me. Please.” The silence answered back.
The next day, I heard a snuffling outside the shack. I peered through a crack and saw another bear, smaller but closer, its claws scraping the ground. It was sniffing, probably drawn by the crackers. I held my breath, pressing against the wall, praying the flimsy door would hold. “Go away,” I mouthed, not daring to speak. After what felt like forever, it wandered off, but my hands shook for hours.
By the second week, I was a ghost of myself. My ribs showed through my skin, my legs wobbled with every step. I’d lost my water bottle crossing a stream, and now I drank from puddles, the water gritty with mud. Hallucinations grew worse. I saw Alexei by a tree, smoking his pipe. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, smiling. I reached for him, but he dissolved into air. I fell to my knees, sobbing, “Why isn’t anyone here?”
On day 14, I was barely moving, dragging myself along the stream. My rifle was gone, abandoned when it became too heavy. My feet bled, leaving red smears on the rocks. Then I heard it—a sound that wasn’t the forest. A motor, low and steady. I staggered toward it, branches tearing at my face. The trees opened to a dirt road, a battered truck idling nearby. Two men were loading crates, their voices carrying.
I tried to shout, but my voice was a rasp. I waved my arms, collapsing to my knees. One of them, older with a gray beard, spotted me. “Hey! You okay?” he called, jogging over.
“Lost,” I croaked, my throat burning. “Two weeks. Help.”
“God almighty,” he said, eyes wide. “You’re half-dead. Vasily, get the blanket!”
The other man, younger, ran to the truck. They wrapped me in a wool blanket, gave me water that tasted like heaven. “What’s your name, kid?” the older one asked, helping me into the truck.
I mumbled something, too weak to think. They drove me to a village, where a doctor cleaned my wounds and warmed my frostbitten hands. I learned I’d wandered over 50 miles, deep into the taiga. My friends had searched for days, but the forest was too vast. When I saw Ivan, he grabbed me, voice breaking. “We buried an empty box for you. Thought you were gone.”
I didn’t talk much after. The taiga left scars—on my feet, my hands, my mind. I still wake up some nights, hearing growls, seeing eyes in the dark. I survived, but the forest took something from me, something I’ll never get back.
“Lost in the Wild: A True Nightmare”:
I’d been dreaming about this trip for months, maybe even a year. My wife and I were always happiest in the wild, where the world felt bigger and we felt small in the best way. We planned a two-week camping and kayaking adventure in a provincial park in Ontario, 50 miles north of Chapleau. It was a place of endless lakes, thick forests, and silence that made you feel alive. We packed with care: dehydrated meals, a sturdy tent, a first-aid kit, bear spray, and my Swiss Army knife, always tucked in my pocket. We’d taken wilderness safety courses, learned how to store food, make noise, and handle bears. We thought we were ready for anything.
The first few days were perfect. We paddled across glassy lakes, set up camp on a small peninsula, and cooked over a fire. Our campsite was simple: the tent near the water, a fire pit we’d ringed with stones, and our food hung high in a tree 100 yards away, just like the guides taught us. That night, we sat by the campfire, the flames dancing as we sipped hot tea from metal mugs. My wife’s eyes sparkled in the firelight, her hair tucked under a wool hat.
“This is it,” she said, her voice soft. “This is what I needed. Just us, no noise, no rush.”
I grinned, leaning closer. “Better than any city, right?”
“Way better.” She laughed, nudging me. “Tomorrow, let’s paddle to that island we saw. Bet it’s got a great view.”
“Deal,” I said, squeezing her hand. Her fingers were warm, and I felt that quiet joy we always found out here. We talked for hours, about the stars, the fish we’d catch, the life we wanted. The fire crackled, and the night felt safe.
Then it changed. A rustling came from the bushes, just beyond the fire’s glow. I stopped mid-sentence, my hand tightening on my mug. “You hear that?” I whispered.
She nodded, her smile fading. “What is it?”
“Probably a raccoon or something,” I said, trying to sound sure. But the noise came again, heavier, like branches snapping under weight. My heart started to thud. I grabbed the flashlight from beside the fire and stood, shining it into the darkness. The beam shook in my hand. Two eyes glinted back, low to the ground, too far apart for a small animal. My stomach twisted.
“Bear,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Stay close.”
She stood, gripping my arm. “What do we do?” Her voice trembled, but she stayed steady.
“Make noise. Look big.” I’d memorized this in the safety course. I raised my arms, shouting, “Hey, bear! Get out of here!” She clapped her hands, yelling too, her voice sharp in the quiet night. The eyes didn’t blink. Then, with a low, guttural growl, the bear stepped into the light. It was a black bear, enormous, its fur matted and patchy, its head swaying side to side. Its eyes locked on us, not curious or scared—hungry. Predatory. This wasn’t a bear sniffing for scraps. It wanted us.
My mouth went dry. “Back up slow,” I said, stepping in front of her. We moved toward the tent, 20 feet away, keeping our eyes on the bear. It followed, its paws silent on the pine needles, closing the gap with every step. My mind raced. Our food was hung far from camp. The bear spray was in the tent. Why was it still coming?
“Get in the tent,” I told her. “Zip it tight.”
“But you—” Her voice cracked, her hand still on my arm.
“I’ll be right there. Go.” I tried to sound calm, but fear was clawing at my chest. She hesitated, her eyes wide, then ducked into the tent. I heard the zipper as I kept shouting, waving the flashlight in arcs. “Go on, bear! Leave!” But the bear didn’t flinch. It lowered its head, ears back, and charged.
It was like a nightmare, too fast to process. The bear hit me, 400 pounds of muscle and claws, knocking me flat. Its paw raked my shoulder, pain exploding as skin tore. I gasped, the air crushed out of me. From the tent, she screamed, a sound that pierced my heart. The bear’s head snapped toward the noise. It lunged, ripping through the tent’s nylon like tissue paper. She was inside, scrambling back, her hands raised as she shouted, “No, no!”
I staggered to my feet, blood dripping down my arm. “Get away from her!” I yelled, fumbling for my Swiss Army knife. The blade was tiny, barely three inches, but it was all I had. I ran at the bear, stabbing into its side, aiming for anything soft. It roared, a sound that shook my bones, and swung its head toward me. Its jaws snapped, teeth grazing my sleeve. I stabbed again, feeling the blade sink in, blood hot on my hands. I didn’t know if it was the bear’s or mine.
“Run!” I shouted to her. She crawled out of the wrecked tent, but the bear was faster. It turned, swiping her back with its claws. She fell, crying out, a sound so raw it tore through me. I threw myself at the bear, stabbing its shoulder, its neck, anywhere I could reach. My vision blurred, pain screaming from my shoulder and chest. The bear reared up, towering over me, and swiped again. Its claw caught my leg, ripping through muscle. I stumbled but kept swinging, screaming, “Leave her alone!”
Finally, the bear staggered, blood matting its fur. It growled, low and furious, then turned and crashed into the trees. I collapsed, gasping, my hands shaking so bad I dropped the knife. Blood soaked my shirt, my leg barely holding me. She was on the ground, curled up, her breathing fast and shallow. Dark blood pooled beneath her, spreading on the dirt.
“Hey, hey,” I said, crawling to her. “Look at me.” Her face was pale, her eyes half-open, fluttering. I touched her cheek, my fingers leaving bloody streaks.
“It hurts,” she whispered, her voice barely there. “So… much.”
“I know,” I said, my throat tight. “I’m getting you out. You’re gonna be okay.” I grabbed my jacket, pressing it against her back, trying to stop the bleeding. The wounds were deep, too deep. The first-aid kit had bandages, not miracles. I had to get her to help. The kayak was by the lake, maybe 50 yards through the trees. I lifted her, biting back a scream as my shoulder burned. She was so light, her head limp against my chest. Her breathing was weaker now, a faint rattle.
As I stumbled toward the water, I heard it—crashing in the trees, branches snapping. The bear was back. Its growl rolled through the dark, closer every second. It was tracking us, wounded and angry. My leg buckled with every step, blood soaking my pants. “Hold on,” I whispered to her, my voice breaking. “We’re almost there.”
At the lake, the kayak gleamed faintly in the starlight. I set her inside, her body slumping against the seat. My hands shook as I pushed off, climbing in behind her. My shoulder was useless, my arm hanging limp, so I paddled with one hand, each stroke agony. The bear reached the shore, its shadow huge against the water. It paced, growling, its eyes glinting as it watched us. I kept paddling, my vision spotting, the paddle slipping in my bloody hands.
“We’re okay,” I whispered to her, over and over. “We’re getting help.” But her head didn’t move, her hand cold in mine. I don’t know how long I paddled—maybe an hour, maybe more. My body was shutting down, my head swimming. Then I saw it: a faint glow across the lake, another campsite.
“Help!” I shouted, my voice raw. “Please, help us!”
Shadows moved on the shore. “Who’s there?” a man called, his voice sharp with alarm.
“Bear attack!” I yelled. “She’s hurt bad! Please!”
They ran to the water, three or four people, their flashlights bobbing. “Bring it in!” the man shouted. I paddled harder, my arm screaming, until the kayak scraped shore. Hands pulled us in. A woman knelt beside her, checking her pulse. “I’m a doctor,” she said, her voice calm but urgent. “Let me see.” She tore open the first-aid kit, wrapping bandages, pressing on wounds. I held her hand, whispering, “You’re okay, you’re okay,” even as her fingers went slack.
The doctor’s hands slowed. She looked at me, her eyes heavy. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “She’s gone.”
The world stopped. I sank to the ground, still holding her hand, her face blurred through tears. The campers called for help on a satellite phone, their voices distant. A helicopter came later, its blades thumping in the dark. They airlifted me to a hospital, where doctors stitched my shoulder—over 300 stitches—and patched my leg. I barely felt it. They told me the bear was found later, wounded, and put down.
Months later, they gave me a medal, called it the Star of Courage. People said I was brave, but I didn’t feel it. I kept hearing her scream, seeing her eyes fade, feeling her hand go cold. We’d planned for everything—food storage, bear spray, safety rules—but not this. The backcountry was our refuge, our joy. Now it’s a shadow I carry, a place I’ll never return to, no matter how many stars fill the sky.
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