He thought he had disappeared into the dense forest without a trace. He thought wrong.
Isiah stood on a flimsy tree limb, clinging to the trunk of the giant oak. He stared at the angry crowd raging far below. All pitchforks and torches.
The townsfolk had suffered. Now they wanted blood.
His.
And that wasn’t even his biggest problem. It was the two burly men with the oversized cross saw. They were busy at the tree base, moving with alarming speed. The sounds and smells of the saw biting into dense wood overwhelmed.
It was only a matter of time.
The Weekday One Hundred 