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The forest is singing its usual quiet chorus.

You hum to yourself, gentle fingers picking through the bush. Berries are getting scarce, with the tribe preparing for the upcoming occasion. You aren’t certain what exactly would happen, but anyone could sense the barely restrained tension suffusing the whole tribe. Supplies need to be gathered, and the forest is rich in food, even this late in the year.

Your fingers brush across a cluster of berries, but they slip from your grasp. Frowning, you lean forward, thrusting your shapely behind back as your developed chest is engulfed by leaves.

Body-wise, you aren’t the most eye-catching, but the other women of the tribe assure you that your body isn’t a problem, with your modest curves and soft face. Light freckles play across your nose, accentuating your youthful innocence, and your uniquely auburn hair blazes in the sunlight. Either the Mother or the Daughter would happily breed you, so they say.

Finally, grasping the clutch of berries, you strip them clean of the bush, carefully placing them in the basket beside you. With a sigh of relief, you think that you gathered enough, and that you should hurry back to the tribe. After all, dark would fall soon, and being caught outside wouldn’t do.

Suddenly, a sound rings out, like that of a twig snapping. You freeze, eyes scanning the nearby trees for danger. The whole of the world grows silent. You begin to breathe harder, inhaling deep and holding, panic rooting in your breast.

Eventually, the feeling subsides, and you release the breath you stored up. Life returned to the forest, the birds resuming a chorus you wish you paid more attention to. Gathering your haul, you make to leave.

That is until, another twig snaps, this time much, much closer. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and you knew you aren’t alone.

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