"On a dark foggy night, a woman drove down a deserted highway. Behind her were a pair of lone headlights approaching fast. She kept an eye on the car from the rearview mirror, watching as it would occasionally swerve back and forth before appearing as if it were about to overtake her. The lights dimming and flashing, the car surging dangerously close to her bumper. Lights flashing, on and off, on and off. The car followed her like this for miles. Through steep curves, and sloping hills until she made it home. The strange car screeching to a halt in her driveway- lights flashing constantly. The woman tore from her car and stumbled in the rush. The driver of the strange car leapt from the driver's side, light gleaming off the barrel of a raised pistol, yelling, 'There's someone in the car! There's someone in the car!' The woman heard a gunshot, a thump, and a clatter. Next to her, lying in a fresh pool of his own blood was a man holding a butcher's knife. The man who had shot the gun raced to her side and said, 'You're okay now! I flashed my high beams every time I saw him raise the knife!'"

When the story finished only a handful of people were still actually listening. Most had lost interest in the campfire story and turned back to other conversations.

'No appreciation for the classics.' Margaret sighed to herself and placed an elbow on her knee, head in hand, absentmindedly looking towards the people who cared to stay. Ms. Cormier was downing her fourth can of beer while her grandson sat on the ground, staring back at Margaret, eyes wide as saucers. The boy fidgeted with his hands, unkempt brown hair falling in his face, "Did you like my story?"

He violently shook his head back and forth causing her to flinch away, "N-no! It was scary!"

She exhaled from her nose and smirked, patting him gently on the head, "That's kind of the point of a scary campfire story."

He pouted, his lip comically curling downward. Evidently, he didn't take the reassurance well, seemingly more upset than he already had been. Getting up, he walked over to his mother who sat only a few chairs away. Margaret couldn't make out what they were saying but she was confident by the daggers the mother stared back at her that she was no longer welcome to share her 'stories' with him ever again. She scratched the back of her head and averted her eyes, looking back to Ms. Cormier who burst out laughing at the sight of her flustered state, spittle flying from her lips. Margaret's cheeks flushed a rosy pink, accentuated by the dancing glow of the flames.

"Don't worry bout her. Too overprotective of the little tike. He'll get over it in no time", Ms. Cormier chuckled, leaning her head in just enough to whisper, "He's got a flair for the dramatic just like his mama!"

"I noticed." Margaret muttered back, a coy smirk tugging at her lip. The two looked at each other and then back to the fire, lost in a comfortable silence.

The roaring fire of the communal pit was tapering off, the last few flames licking at the charcoal logs for sustenance, fuel to carry them. A large group gathered, some coming and some going, all varying age, size, and color sat in joyful contentment. Chattering away amongst themselves about the festivities of the day, drunk on life. Or maybe it was the Sazerac and Daquiri's. In the thick of them sat a girl with hair the color of autumn, eyes boring deeply into the fizzling embers of a dying fire. The magical, lambent curls of flame were so tantalizing to watch, so beautiful, so distracting, so- gurgle, gurgle.

A persistent knot welled in the pit of Margaret's stomach, loudly asserting itself and making its presence known. She placed a hand to her abdomen, willing the beast to silence. It wasn't until she acknowledged her hunger that she became hyper fixated on all the intoxicating scents that permeated every sense of her being. A sublime concoction of aromatic herbs atop sizzling meats, bubbling pots of delicious Cajun surprise, buttery goodness of corn on the cob and the welcoming scent of freshly cracked brews. This was an amalgam of pure olfactory heaven. Too much to bear, the hunger pangs willed her to stand and go hunt for her next meal.

She picked herself up off the chair with a relenting groan and cry from her back, having sat in that lounge chair for way too long. Hands rubbing circles on a particular knot, rooted in place by her spine.

The sudden movement catching the attention of a tipsy middle-aged woman who met her gaze from underneath a pair of dark sunglasses. "Turnin' in early Rita?" Asked Ms. Cormier.

Margaret gestured over her shoulder, pointing to another firepit, "Gunna see if I can go steal a plate from Georgie. I'm starving! Want anything?"

The middle-aged woman gave her a cheeky grin, holding up an empty case of beer made into a makeshift trash can, its contents of stained paper plates, meekly picked rib bones and crinkling cans spilling out. "Might've already sampled the goods. Might've taken some without askin'."

Margaret crossed her arms, smirking. "Ms. Cormier, how could you!" She said in feigned admonishment.

"Honey, that man's as old as the mountains and got twice the dust. Go get some before it's all gone. Now gone-get!" Ms. Cormier smiled, playfully swatting her away with a pink visor.

"Taking off now! See you later!" Margaret called over her shoulder with a renewed pep in her step. The middle-aged woman gave her half a wave before turning back to her own devices.

Carefully, she picked her way through the remainder of the group, stepping over feet and awkwardly shimmying between chairs and tables until she stood at the outer rim where dirt met grass. Just beyond the pitched tents, dangling rope lights and bright balloons, purely for aesthetic; where nature was privileged to grow as it was intended to. Insects filled the void of the night with an even susurrus of sound just now audible past the noise of banter. Soft radiating glows from firepits further away could be seen past looming tree branches and thick foliage. She sniffed the air and followed her nose, the tantalizing scents seemingly coming from somewhere off to the right. In that direction was the lakeside site, closest to the water activities recreation area along Little Mink Lake and the RV area where her Winnebago happened to be parked.

She considered just heading there now instead of going to see Georgie and his family. True, they were pleasant enough people with cooking skills that could rival any world renown chef. But well, socializing was hard. Occasionally her days were filled with the quiet of nature or jamming to music on her tape player. Most days were filled with a slew of jobs over at the rehabilitation facility or at one of the many campsites she visited. The best of days were spent shut away from the rest of the world. But those days were far and few in between. And as life would have it no other way, responsibility would eventually come crashing through the door.

But Mardi Gras had been the exception. Everyone who's anyone would be there to celebrate and have fun at the biggest party this side of Louisiana. Socialization hadn't seemed like such a daunting exercise in her ability to deal with crowds of people, especially with the promise of booze to smooth things over. Unfortunately, she was on call right now. Which meant no booze. Sigh

As if put on que by another worldly being determined to keep her from any form of rest and food, her phone began to ring. The obnoxious ringtone clashing violently with the otherwise somber vibe of the quiet glade. Margaret felt her heart catch in her throat, willing her feet to stay on the ground instead of jumping in the air like they wanted to.

"Fuc- Fudge!" She fumbled around in the darkness, twitchy hands nearly dropping her brick of a cellphone into the muck as she fished it out of her pocket and brought it to her ear, "Hello?"

"Rita, Rita, Rita!", Olivia shouted, "We have a good samaritan who's found a patient who is, and I quote 'is in a pretty bad way'. Think you can swing around and bring it back to the facility? Actually, ignore that first part, are you still in Louisiana? Because I'm going to be really sad if you left without telling me and then I'm not going to know what to tell this man on the phone and-"

God this woman had an odd sense of priorities, "Olivia!"

"And I- yes?"

"Focus." She paused, "First off, yes. I'm in Louisiana. Mardi Gras... remember?"

"Biggest party this side of Louisiana." They said in unison, Olivia's voice overpowering Margaret's neutral tone.

"Second off, it wouldn't make sense for me to be on call for transportation if I wasn't in the area, right? Third off, what's the case?"

"That's… a good point. Ignore me… long day."

There was the sound of shuffling coming from the other end of the phone as Margaret began to pick up her pace, making a beeline for the Winnebago. "Olivia?"

"Sorry! Back to business, got a call about an injured amphibian. Local that goes by the name of Chester said its head is bashed in with long gashes. He said there were no other visible injuries he could see but you know how that usually goes. Fractures and subtle broken bones aren't always the easiest to see with an untrained eye. Could even have a dislocated bone." Olivia said.

Margaret was about halfway back to her RV as she skirted around the length of a campsite, the party long dead and the attendees passed out in their tents. "An amphibian? Are we talking salamander, frog...?"

"He described it as a mutated salamander. My best guess is maybe a tiger salamander but as usual I would be prepared."

"I swear if this is another Hulk Hogan..." Margaret trailed off. Remembering her first and hopefully last time wrangling a gator that must've been a pro-wrestler in a past life, born again as an alligator and very angry about that fact.

Olivia laughed, "No more Hulk Hogan's! This one should be a cake walk."

"Here's to hoping. Follow up questions, does Chester know how it got injured? Does it seem sick or orphaned? Is he willing to keep it contained until I arrive? Keep it monitored? Get his number and find out which part of the swamp will I be visiting today."

Olivia paused, swearing under her breath. "Cripes. Hold on a second."

"Yep yep." Margaret said, slipping between two campers and an extra-long modern Fleetwood expedition that put her dingy 1980's Winnebago to shame. This was the type of RV that screamed "I have money and I'm not afraid to flaunt it". If she wasn't in such a rush, she might have marveled at how nice it was for longer than a split second before crashing through the door to her own RV.

This sudden commotion sent a flurry of paws into action along with a very unmenacing growl that came threateningly from beyond a pair of bared sharp yellow canine teeth that needed a good brushing.

"Blondie boy!" Margaret screamed in a high-pitched voice that turned the hardened protector into a jittery mess of excitement and joyful barks. Playfully jumping up to greet his owner was a yellow furred, floppy eared golden retriever, a bright sky-blue bandana loosely tied around his neck.

Placing the phone on speaker, and setting it on the counter, Margaret shut the door of the RV with a prompt click and lock. Carefully maneuvering around the excited pup at her feet, she went to searching through her cabinets for anything that would suffice as a quick snack since meal prepping was off the menu. In the very back of the cabinet sat a packet of saltine crackers and a sad little cup of apple sauce. She frowned and grabbed her sad rations, fisting them into her hoodie pocket. Just need to add another line to her ever growing mental checklist to buy some food. And not Chinese take-out, pizza, or fast food, but actual food that involved real effort outside of microwaving or (cringe) social interaction. Ugh.

Pulling the pantry door open, she eyed the waning reserve of supplies she had on person. She'd need to top off soon once she got back to the facility. But for now, a field kit, a pair of binoculars, baby wipes, a multi-tool, flashlight, an extra pair of weathered boots, a catchpole, three old wool blankets and a canvas bag of assorted medical supplies, good for animal and human alike, would have to do.

The phone crackled back to life just as she began pulling a large atlas and phonebook from underneath the counter. "Sorry for that but I'm back now. Our caller says he doesn't think it's going anywhere anytime soon but he'll keep an eye on it from a distance. No outward signs of it being sick but he's not sure. Said it's way too big to be a baby and I have sort of an address whenever you're ready."

"What is sort of an address?" she asked, digging free a post-it note and pen from a nearby drawer.

"General vicinity sort of deal. I have the name of the road and the town he's in but that's the best I could do. He said he's on Bayou Sorrel Road just where the road bottlenecks to a single lane. Right off the main road of a town called Far Creek. Says he's driving an old blue Jeepster. And before I forget his number is -."

"Tell him he'll be expecting company in roughly twenty minutes, give or take."

"I'll get things ready for our incoming patient here and fill him in. Keep me updated and call if there's any changes, okay?"

"Can do. See you later!" Margaret replied, cutting off Olivia mid bye.

The shift in demeanor was sudden, from hungry camper yearning for the simplicity of a night drunk on beer and blinded by fireworks, to EMS professional prepping for an ambulance in leu of a critical situation. She opened the phone book with a great thunk. Thumbing through the yellow pages, scouring the local maps until she found the name of the location she was after. 'No not there, next town over? No, no, zip, nada…a-ha!' Course plotting came fast enough once she knew her orientation in reference to where she needed to go.

Silently she thanked her past self for thinking diligently ahead of schedule and not setting up any of the usual connections as she settled into the driver's seat, reaching over, she patted the passenger's seat and turned back to look at her dog.

"C'mon space cadet!" What a weird nickname? Where did that come from anyways?

Eager to please, Blondie padded over and settled awkwardly into the seat, staring out into the darkness of the night with this sense of smug satisfaction on his face that totally would have said "I called shotgun and won."

She ruffled his wispy golden hair and popped a mixtape into the cassette player for some much-needed background noise. A couple button clicks later a choppy version of Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again" started playing as they started the journey from the campground to their destination. 'Here's to hoping we don't get lost or eaten by a gator!'