Feeling hot, Sam reaches up to wipe sweat from his brow, but instead streaks something thick and viscous across it.

What is that?

He looks at his hands.

Lacquer? No.

“Oh!” He exclaims, a nervous laugh erupting from the pit of his stomach. “It's just sap.” He laughs again, this time more forced, as if to chase away a deep-seated worry.

He wrestles a difficult log up onto the block, centering and securing it. He reaches out to a long slender piece of wood, his axe, resting against a nearby tree, hefting it into his other hand and moving into position.

The wind bullies the trees to his left, and Sam’s head darts up; nothing. His neck whips from left to right, eyes frantic, searching the surrounding woodlands.

Wolves? No.

This time, he can’t force the laughter out. He turns back to the task at hand, grips near the head of the axe, letting it slide the length of the handle as he puts his whole back into the swing.

The blade falls heavy. Tina’s screams become gargled as blood spills out onto the block.

What is that?

“Oh! It's just sap.” He laughs, hefting the axe above his head.