The child pushed the branch aside and watched the hatchet drop. Something fell. Thunk. It wasn’t a tree. Thunk. Not a tree. The child moved closer and the man raised his hand. Stop, it meant. Or, just a minute. The child wasn’t sure which. The man started walking toward the child, walking slowly, still holding his hand up, now smiling, now gradually picking up speed. The man’s strides swept weeds aside that snapped back to cover his path. The child watched the man coming, coming closer, now coming faster, now running. Why was he running? What is he running for? The child turned. The child fell.