She was cold, and tired, and her boyfriend was gone for the night.

Miserably, she sat on his old, ugly, fraying barf-colored plaid sofa, twisting her hands nervously, feeling so useless. Her ugly, boring old brown eyes were dark with worry. She imagined every single possible way Matt could be ripped to shreds by the monster.

She got up, popped some popcorn, scooped some ice cream, and got out a bag of Salt and Vinegar chips. When Matt was out on his life-threatening misisons, food was her final (but most effective) resort.

Just as she got settled with her old, comfy fleece blanket on the couch in front of the TV, her cell rang. She spilled the popcorn in her haste to get it—what if it was Matt?

Instead, a voice spat in her ear:

“We have him. Come get him if you ever want to see his ugly face again.”