One summer, many summers ago, I met a man by the seashore with a similar pirate-style prosthetic leg. No one called him by his real name; in fact, it still doesn't come to mind- everyone knew him only as "Monster." Once I saw him destroy a wasp nest with his bare hands- he was as hardworking as he was prone to letting loose.

That summer, Monster was running from something. His wife came to visit him with the children and set up a tent in the nearby forest- apparently, it was a desperate last attempt at reconciliation. I never found out how this story ended, yet when I look back at that particular summer a worrying yet warm feeling takes over.