He’s not a paparazzi; that I know since he has no cameras.

He’s certainly someone sent by a person who knows me; someone who wants my downfall—who wants to see me pale and rotting away in a four-corners piece of decorated wood.

They want to see that wood go down four feet. Or worse yet, they want to watch it burn with me inside it.

Whichever way they’ll have it, they won’t. I will hand it to them in my own style.

I run into my tent once again, zipping it up until a little space is ...