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I kept running, twigs and branches whipping my face every second but I didn’t care. It had been four days since my helicopter had crashed in the jungle, leaving just a stranger and myself as the lone survivors. Starvation and anxiety took over during the freezing cold nights, and my only human contact during this time began to go slowly insane. I slowed down, listening carefully. Silence. He was gone. I continued walking, unsure of where exactly I was even going, but frail with hunger and looking for some sort of salvation I persevered. To my surprise, I soon stumbled across a cabin in the woods, with a blood red cross drawn across the door. It looked derelict, and as I debated whether or not entering to search for help, well aware that it was unlikely that any fellow human wouldn’t speak English, the distant roar of a lion made up my mind. I ran straight inside, slamming the door shut behind me. The room was empty with the exception of a wooden box in the corner. Immediately, a small child poked her head out inquisitively. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and a small kitten pattered around her dirty socks. I froze, unsure what to say and feeling broken by the day’s events I slumped to the floor.