Running. Running. Running. I glance back, see no one, but keep my speed. This path is full of hidden dangers. A gnarled tree root here, a rabbit hole there, a log under a pile of dead leaves. One misstep and I could break my leg, hit my head, or do something even worse to myself, but I try not to think of those injuries. Any sane person would watch the path and never run, but I have left sanity behind. The years of exploring this forest have payed off, I know where every tree root pokes up, the location of every hole. My eyes never stray from my destination—forward. I hear the sound of dogs in the distance; I have seen how fast those beasts can move, how vicious they are when they catch their prey. My eyes sweep the trees, but none have branches low enough for me to climb. I can see the sun setting in front of me, I have an hour of daylight left, maybe. The dogs are getting louder and now I can hear men's voices shouting to each other. I am running on pure adrenaline as I pick up speed to put some distance between me and the hunters. I know this burst of adrenaline cannot keep me going for much longer. I need somewhere to hide and catch my breath.

A memory flashes in my mind of my brother and I when we were little, before the mess that turned me into the hunted. In the summer that my father died, the two of us practically lived in these woods. My mother was depressed and drunk most of the time, so most days I would take my little brother and hide in the woods while she raved. Sometimes we spent an entire week in the forest, depending on how much food we brought with us. At eight, he was too young to hunt, and I found no pleasure in killing, even if it was just a pesky squirrel. We found a cave, more of hole really, dug into the side of a miniature hill in a small clearing. This is where the two of us lived that summer. I can almost see him brandishing a stick outside our hill, proclaiming the hill his castle and himself a knight.

The sound of dogs jerks me back to reality. I decide to head toward the place that was once my sanctuary. I can see the hill by the last of the sun's rays, so much for an hour of light. I begin to rethink my hiding place. The dogs will still be able to find me, and it might be to cramped now. There was barely enough space for a ten-year old and eight-year old to sleep. As I approach the hill, I notice a branch barely low enough for me to reach if I jump off the hill. The moon has shown itself in a crescent shape, giving just enough light for me to see the branch, but little more. I run up the side of the hill and launch myself onto the branch. It wobbles under my weight, but I pull myself up and grab another branch. I can hear the branch begin to crack. I pull myself onto a larger branch as the first breaks and falls to the ground below. I continue climbing and get about three branches up when I see the lights. They have at least 10 lanterns among them and not even half the group has lights.

As they approach the hill, I pray that they won’t notice the broken branch laying at the foot of the tree. My heart is pounding so loud as they pass beneath the branch I am balancing on, I’m sure they can hear it. The dogs sniff around my tree and my hill. The group of hunters conjugates in the clearing as the leader steps onto my hill to address the others. “Are you sure this is the place?” the deep voice of leader sounded pointed at one of the hunters in the back of the pack.

“Without a doubt,” a familiar voice replies coolly, the speaker moves up to the front while everyone else moves aside for him to pass. “Don’t you think you’d remember your favorite place in the world?” I suddenly find it hard to breathe: the speaker is my little brother, now 16, and hunting me.