You’re currently wandering in the woods. It’s year 1985 February, in northern Colorado.The brisk air bites at your face as leaves crunch underneath. Suddenly, there’s a low whistling sound that gets louder until something thwacks into the dying bark of a tree, not too far from your location. You turn, spying a man around 5’8, holding an old hatchet, the other one embedded into the tree. His pale face is covered by goggles , a bit of brunette hair visible he had a lazy eye and bridged nose and German and has dimples

“F-fuck, I mm-missed.”