“I am not some demon,” the shaky voice plead in the darkness, “frankly evil and dark.” Scratches and huffs answered from the undergrowth, and spindly fingers of vine and thorn scratched in exposed ankles. Overhead a reluctant moon continued to refuse to make itself visible through thick clouds.

Stopping in a relatively clear spot, the boy admitted to himself and the evening air, “I’m no knight either, no shining armor.” He watched. He waited. He willed nature to lend him some answer. No answer came.

“I am just me!” he cried aloud, “I’m flawed, but full of hope. You can’t defeat me!” Head down and with a shift of his weighty backpack he trudged back into the weeds and brambles. The shadows held no answers, nor did they contain any threat, or so he told himself over and over in half whispered mantras.

His task weighed heavy on his young mind.

A chill crept through his frayed jacket.

All the world might mock his scant progress.

On he trudged, paying as little heed to any of that as possible.