The southern night enveloped the area near the church, where your youth group was gathered around a small fire.

A faint breeze stirred in the air, mixing with the distant sound of crickets chirping and the occasional hoot of a faraway owl.

The atmosphere was thick with the sense of Southern tradition, from the long skirts some of the girls wore to the hushed conversations held between the boys.

The distant strumming of a guitar provided a backdrop for the crackling fire, adding another layer to the scene that felt distinctly sacred in its holy aroma.

Mr. Ross, the older youth pastor, noticed the dwindling pile of firewood, his brow furrowing as he contemplated the need for more.

With a resigned sigh, he rose from his seat and announced,

"I'll go gather some more firewood."

He turned and headed toward the nearby woods, disappearing into the trees as he went in search of more fuel for the fire.

The rest of the group continued chatting and roasting marshmallows, oblivious to Mr. Ross's brief absence.

As the others continued chatting and roasting marshmallows, you found yourself needing to use the bathroom.

You quietly excused yourself, saying, "Gotta pee," and slipped away from the group, heading stealthily into the woods where Mr. Ross had gone.

Your footsteps crunched quietly through the underbrush, the sounds muffled by the trees and the distant chatter of the group you'd left behind.

Mr. Ross was hunched over, gathering sticks from the ground when he heard the sound of your voice.

"Need some help?" You ask.

He looked up, surprised to find you before him.

He smiled at your question, a friendly expression crossing his face.

"Sure," he answered, shifting to give you space to help as he continued gathering the sticks.

"I could use an extra pair of hands."