Look, I knew exactly where I was going. I had a plan. A very good plan. The best plan, actually.

  The only minor flaw in this otherwise flawless plan was that I didn't have a map. And even then I’d argue it was more of a feature than a flaw.

  Because who needs a map? Maps are for people who get lost. I don't get lost. I have an excellent sense of direction. Always have. My internal compass is legendary. People have written songs about it. (I haven’t heard any yet, but I’m sure they are working on it.)

  Also, maps are heavy. Why would I want to carry around all that extra weight? It's not like I was planning to wander aimlessly through the wilderness for days on end. That would be stupid.

  Anyway, I'd been walking for about three days when I decided to ask an old man for directions. Not because I was lost. Just to confirm that he wasn’t lost. I have a deep respect for my elders and a moral obligation to ensure they’re not wandering around because they forgot which direction their house was. Silesians are famously fond of their drink, and it’s been said that excessive alcohol combined with advanced age isn’t exactly a recipe for sharp navigation skills.

  The old man had squinted at me with glassy eyes and said the nearest town, Rybnik, was about a two days walk north. He'd also stressed, repeatedly, to go around the swamp.

  Naturally, I decided to save time by cutting straight through it.

  ***

  Four days later.

  Four days of dragging my ass through what I could only describe as a mosquito orgy with no signs of civilization in sight. Phisto had stopped talking to me somewhere around day two. Silent treatment ever since. Apparently choosing the swamp route was "reckless" and "suicidal" and "typical."

  As if taking the more efficient route was a crime.

  I swatted a mosquito off my neck, pushed a leafy vine out of my face, and nearly lost a sandal to a patch of hungry mud. I slipped, caught myself on a tree, and immediately regretted it when my hand came away covered in some kind of greenish slime.

  I looked around for something to wipe it off on, but everything looked equally disgusting. Eventually I just wiped my hands on my tunic—formerly white, now a depressing shade of brown-grey—and immediately regretted that too.

  "This is fine," I muttered. "Everything is fine. I am in complete control of the situation."

  Phisto, padding along a few feet ahead, didn't even twitch an ear.

  "Oh, so we're still doing the silent treatment?" I called after him. "Very mature."

  Nothing.

  "I'm just saying, the swamp was clearly the logical choice. Shorter distance. Straight line. Basic geometry."

  He kept walking.

  "You know what? Fine. Be like that. See if I care."

  I didn't care. I was perfectly content to walk in silence. In fact, I preferred it. Peace and quiet. Time to think. Exactly what I liked.

  Then I spotted it.

  A hut.

  Dilapidated, moldy, clearly on its last legs, but still. A structure made by humans, for humans.

  "By her pale grace!" I gasped, shaking my foot to get the mud out from between my toes. "Shelter!"

  "Tetanus," Phisto muttered.

  "He speaks!" I threw my arms up. "The curse is broken! The gods smile upon us once more!"

  Phisto gave me a withering look and went back to ignoring me.

  I didn't care. There was a building. With walls. And probably a roof. Maybe even a floor. After four days of sleeping on mud while mosquitoes used my face as a buffet, that hut looked like a palace.

  I stumbled toward it, already mentally cataloging everything I'd do once inside. Sit down. Lie down. All that good stuff.

  My hand was still reaching for the door when it exploded open.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A man burst out screaming. Shirtless, with horns jutting from his forehead and wild yellow eyes. He had a pig snout where his nose should've been and way too many teeth for any reasonable mouth. And the pants. Gods, the pants—furry and brown.

  My hand reflexively flew to my pistol. [Clean Entry] flared to life, draining most of my mana in one cold rush. I pulled the trigger.

  The white flash lit up the swamp, and where once was a face was now a big gaping hole. Blood and bits of what used to be part of that face splattered across the doorframe and walls. His body collapsed in a heap.

  [You have gained 1 level.]

  [You have gained 1 skill point.]

  [You have gained 3 stat points.]

  I stood there, pistol still raised, breathing hard.

  Phisto looked up at me. His expression was somewhere between mild annoyance and really?

  "What'd you do that for?" he asked.

  "He startled me!" I blurted, wiping something wet off my cheek and trying very hard not to think about what it was.

  "So that means he deserved to be shot in the face?"

  "I mean... did you see him? He was all monstrous and angry and—" I gestured at the corpse. "—didn’t you see his face?!"

  He looked down at the body. “He doesn’t have a face anymore, Hecate. Thanks to you.”

  “Well, I mean…” I waved vaguely at the gore-splattered doorway.

  Okay, so maybe shooting him in the face had been a bit of an overreaction.

  But also, he'd startled me. In my defense, if he didn't want to get shot, he probably shouldn't have burst out of a creepy swamp hut screaming and wearing those hideous pants. Really, if you thought about it, this was his fault. Poor decision-making on his part. In fact, I was the victim here! His family should probably compensate me for the emotional trauma.

  ...Then again, I did level up. So maybe I’d let his many transgressions slide, just this once. No use staying upset about it.

  I walked over to the body, feeling pretty good about myself despite the circumstances. Time to loot the corpse. See if pig-nose-man had anything useful.

  When I got close, the smell hit me like a fist to the face.

  "HURK." My breakfast tried to stage a violent escape. I stumbled back, eyes watering, gagging.

  "He smells like he wrestled a dead pig covered in garlic," I wheezed.

  "No loot is worth that," Phisto observed.

  "Gods, I can taste it," I gasped, backing away faster, fighting for my life. “It’s in my lungs, Phisto. I think it’s in my soul.”

  I looked at the hut. The shelter. The first structure we'd seen in four days. The thing I'd been praying for for the past forty-eight hours. The doorway was painted red. Well. Not painted. More like... splattered. Someone had made a real mess of the place.

  "Fuck," I said.

  "Is shelter worth that?" Phisto asked, staring at the blood-soaked entrance.

  Double fuck.

  This was the first building we'd found in four days. Who knew when we'd find another? We could be out here for weeks. (By choice, obviously. Since I wasn’t lost.)

  "That's going to soak into the ground," Phisto said, tilting his head toward the corpse. "You should move him before he starts attracting things."

  "You move him."

  "Oh yes, let me just use my opposable thumbs." He held up a paw. "Oh wait. I'm a cat."

  I looked around desperately for something to plug my nose with. Eventually I settled on a pair of soggy mushrooms I found growing on a log.

  "You owe me for this," I said, voice muffled and nasal.

  "I owe you?" Phisto's tail lashed. "You dragged me into this swamp. You shot a man in the face. You refuse to admit you're lost. I don't owe you shit."

  "Technically," I said, "you're right."

  I grabbed the corpse by the wrists. My eyes immediately started watering again.

  "Why must the gods punish me," I whimpered.

  "Why must you shoot everyone you meet?" Phisto asked.

  "Shoot a couple of guys, and suddenly it’s ‘everyone you meet.’"

  Phisto just stared at me.

  "What? Statistically I’ve shot an insignificant number of people I’ve met. Statistically it counts the same as never having shot anyone at all. I’m basically a pacifist."

  I dragged the corpse into the underbrush, found a slightly sunken patch between two trees, and dumped him in. Then I scattered some leaves and sticks over him.

  One horn still poked out. So did a strip of those disgusting furry pants. But unless someone tripped directly over him, he was hidden well enough.

  I started to wipe my hands on my tunic, caught myself, and just stood there holding them away from my body like they belonged to someone else.

  The smell was worse up close.

  "WHY," I cried, flapping my hands like that might shake the stench off. It didn't. "Why is this happening to me? I've only ever been kind to everyone!"

  I spotted a puddle and bent down to wash my hands. The puddle turned out to be mud. I tried anyway. Now my hands smelled like a pig covered in garlic and fresh dirt.

  I turned back to Phisto, hands still stinky, divine favor clearly revoked. He was already at the entrance, peeking inside.

  "You want to go in first?" I asked.

  "No," he said immediately. "I'd feel bad if I died. Less so if it's you."

  "Rude." I shoved past him into the hut.

  Dark. Damp. Half the floorboards were missing. Against one wall stood a moldy armoire. In the middle of the room sat a surprisingly intact couch. The ceiling dripped something I couldn't identify and didn't want to. In the corner stood a cracked chamber pot. Full.

  "Wow," I said.

  Phisto walked in behind me, looked around, and sighed. "A bit of a fixer-upper."

  "Well," I said, "since he's not using it anymore, I think he'd want us to have it."

  "I think he'd want to not be dead."

  "I don't see how that's my fault." I shrugged. "He's the one who died."

  "We were supposed to be passing through," Phisto said. "You remember that part, right? The part where we were going to a town?"

  "Plans change" I said. "Especially after someone graciously offers you free real estate."

  "Free. After you shot the owner in the face."

  "He forfeited his housing rights the moment he burst out of that door wearing furry pants and a pig snout." I crossed my arms. "That's just common sense. Everyone knows that."

  Phisto stared at me for a long moment. Then he walked over to the couch, jumped up, and curled into a ball. "Wake me when you've made the next terrible decision.”

  I looked around the hut. At the missing floorboards. The dripping ceiling. The full chamber pot.

  Home sweet home.

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