OK. This really happened.

We were sitting around clearing a dungeon -- this was about a week or so before the Labor Day, what were supposed to be the last few days of lake-time at the resort our families always went to outside of Wisconsin Dells. We should probably have been outside doing lake-stuff -- looking back, it seems liked a missed opportunity -- but it was getting dark, and nothing is worse than messing around under lights in the woods.

Bugs. So many bugs.

Besides -- the last time we'd hit this dungeon our party had been wiped. Down to the last man. Elf. Whatever. There was paying back to be done.

So, into the lodge, tablets under our arms -- and minutes later, we were knee deep in Skeletal Warmongerers.

Twenty minutes later, and it was starting to look like another wipe.

Then we heard the scream.

Our blood curdled. It was that kind of scream.

Louis (”my name is Loueee not Louise Louis”) was out the door first. That kid's fast -- and doesn't always do a lot of thinking before doing. Poor impulse control. Fast. Not a great combination if you want to keep out of trouble. Which Louis didn't. If you know him, you know exactly what I mean.

I can at least say this -- I was next. It was a distinctly feminine scream. Damsel. Distress. I'm there.

I know. 2018. Damsels take care of themselves.

Believe me, I learn my lesson as events unfold. You’ll see.

Ben brought up the rear. As always. But, as always, I knew, fast or not, he was there, ready to back me up.

Here's why we figured that scream wasn't just another camper jumping into the lake and finding out the water's still a little on the cold side even in August. Or some kid up from Chicago seeing a deerfly for the first time. Or some fangirl or boy sighting some pop star parachuting in for a publicity stunt. On a motorcycle. Wearing a suit made completely of sparklers. And cheese. Because it’s Wisconsin.

Not likely, you say?

Stranger things were known to happen in deepest, darkest Wisconsin.

Most of the time, any one of those might have been the first thing we thought of when we heard a girl screaming. Well, maybe not the parachuting motorcycle riding sparkler suited pop star.

Now things were different. For the last week, the whole place had been buzzing with rumors of a bear sighting. And not the cute, cuddly little black bears that anyone with a raspberry bush in the backyard sees at least a few times a summer. Nope. Something bigger -- way bigger. Maybe a grizzly, down from Canada. Lost. Confused. Looking for easy prey. Maybe carrying a knife. Or a gun.

Wisconsin, after all.

We should have run the other way. Gone in search of an adult. Called 911. But we didn't.

I can't tell you exactly why -- but those options didn't even cross my mind. Stupid? Probably. But in my defense, it wasn't like Louis or Ben were any smarter.

I know -- that's not a great defense.

So -- when we hit the main drag through the resort, we headed right for the trails that wound back into the woods, our blood re-curdled by another scream just ahead of us.

Our feet pounded on the packed earth of the trail. Our hearts raced. Our brains scrambled to figure out what we were going to do if we actually did find a rampaging grizzly bear at the end of our run.

Racing hearts. Scrambling brains. Running feet.

Louis was starting to pull ahead. Ben and I, not so much. Ben does OK when we have the archery unit in phys ed. Archery and dancing. Go figure. I can throw a mean murder ball in a pinch.

But running. That wears a guy out.

I knew that there was no way we were ever going to get to whoever was doing that screaming in time to find anything but scraps of clothing and a satisfied grizzly bear, patting its tummy and working a toothpick.

Then I saw it: an ATV parked not thirty feet from where the trail went under the trees.

You can probably see where this is going.