The fire crackled, licking at the metal grate of the barbecue. Three pigs stood around it, clad in old-fashioned runner outfits, sweatbands clinging to their bristled foreheads. The night air was thick with the scent of roasting meat—something rich, smoky, strangely familiar.

Bruno adjusted his wristbands. “Anyone seen Oliver?” he asked, glancing around.

Silence. Just the hiss of dripping fat.

Ferdinand cleared his throat. “He was right behind me on the trail… but then—” He stopped himself, eyes flicking to the spit.

The thing turning over the open flame was small. Too small for a hog. Not quite a chicken. Its limbs curled in the heat, skin crisping to golden perfection.

Bruno flipped it, his snout twitching. “Well, whatever it is, it smells delicious.” 

The others shifted uneasily.

A gust of wind blew through the trees, carrying with it a sound—a faint, ghostly squeal.

Ferdinand swallowed hard. His wristband felt too tight.

Bruno carved off a piece and held it up. “Who’s hungry?”

2025-05-25