He circled the small grove of trees but spotted no visible traces of Blake having been there. How the guy avoided getting scratched in a tunnel filled with thorny vines was beyond him. Only the mess of vines splayed out on dry grass, brushes covered in even more thorns and saplings barely reaching past them. He hid his bag between a small thorn bush and the tallest tree amongst the saplings. All the while, he remained vigilant for any signs of Blake and his people. And that's if Blake was even telling the truth to begin with, which given the circumstances, Samson doubted it, true or not, he just needed to find him alone, and that's all he needed. 

Samson walked back over to the hole he crawled out of, finding the mess of dirt and uprooted grass that he hurled from the earth along with the torn vines; clear signs of Samson's struggle and making Blake's escape seem more daunting.

 How did Blake manage to crawl out without leaving any signs himself? Maybe he had enough practice that he knew how to avoid getting caught by the thorns. 

Crouching down, Samson picked at a coiled vine where he noticed a piece of plastic torn from a bag. A bag much like the one Blake carried on his back. Blake had struggled, just not as much as him, so there must be a trail, however faint it may be. 

He stepped back, surveying the small grove. Plenty of small pieces of paper and plastic scattered about like confetti. Red, green, and yellow, but none matched the garbage bag Blake had been carrying, which was black. 

He turned away and searched adjacent to the mess. There was a field of high grass and beyond that woods. He was about to turn away when he noticed a glob of pale yellow paste dripping off the tips of a twisted wreath of dry grass. 

He plucked the paste by the bent straw and sniffed it; cheese. He loomed over the high grass spotting the impressions of footprints. Seeing a path of stomped dry grass and broken branches leading into the forest. Grabbing the thickest stick he could find, he marched in, making to step on the existing footprints that led into the woods.

The further he walked, the wetter his socks got. He hadn't bothered to bring any other footwear, just his lone blue sneaker that was still damp, the fabric now a marred dark brown. He had two socks on, one over the other on his left foot, which were now sopping wet. 

Whatever, I don't care. I'll wash it later and get more shoes and socks after kicking that bum's ass.

 The airy woods made loud creaks, and whines like a branch might snap off at any moment. The lonely sounds above his head unnerved him, and the idea that Blake might fall out of the trees like a spider to rob him again also crossed his mind. 

He tried convincing himself that Blake was a coward and wouldn't try to confront him like that, but he would probably try to catch him off guard and have fewer qualms about hurting him alone inside a wooded area with no witnesses around. His nerves further concerned, he kept his stick close and his eyes open. 

A flash of color stunned him in place as he readied to swing to the left of him but found no Blake but a reminder.

 A monarch butterfly laid out in the open for any predator to come upon.

Samson loosened his rigid shoulders and tightened his grip. As he followed, the feeble butterfly barely managed to keep flight with its wings frayed at the edges. It settled on the leafy ground laying flat on its side. Samson crouched down to pluck the lifeless insect, but to his surprise, it crawled on its needle-sized feet, its wing dragging on the surface. It managed to flutter out of his reach, landing a few feet away on a lichen tree. Its orange wings stood out against the mossed tree bark. He had the temptation to pluck the butterfly out of the air and put it out of its misery. He refrained, preferring to stare in awe at what it would do next. 

He had no time to waste, but still, he remained admiring the insect's frayed wings and poor attempt to escape. The family of insects was one of his favorites because it came in early September and left by the end of October. The ones that didn't manage the trip he would collect in glass displays. These cases hung on his wooden walls or, just as likely now, discarded in the trash. He sorely missed the inside of his musty bedroom; though it was cramped, it was his.

 The ache in his throat made him walk away from the sight.

He had no time to waste on an injured butterfly; he had a different target to pin down.

He ran his hand over the branch, snapped a part of it off, and left it bent as a marker. If Samson planned to find Blake and kick his ass, he'd better know his way out afterward. 

The autumn leaves blocked most of the daylight even though the sun was out. As he kept his eyes ahead, watching out for the tiniest shift.

Where would Blake have gone off to hide?

 He marched onward, shivering as he walked through a cold spot finding the ground sodden and matted with brown leaves and twigs. 

He noticed a trail of ants leading to chunks of pale yellow paste.

The savory scent wafted off the stick; cheese.

A bird squawked, and he jolted up. His hands trembled at the cacophony of creaks cracking around him. He wasn't scared, but the sudden break from silence put him on guard more than he already was. 

When a new array of sounds caught his attention, an echo of a splash like someone dropping pennies into a wishing well rallied him to walk towards the softened path of rotting tree bark and wet earth.

At first, he thought he imagined it until another sloshing of water burst. Hidden amongst the trees, Samson spotted Blake lounging back on a flat slab surface of a halved boulder angled towards the deep end of a shallow creek. The rotting wet tree bark mixed with the dry merengue of sticky cheese. Blake had spilled the contents of his circus goods on a mat of green moss. He was sitting with his pant legs rolled up to his knees. His feet were dangling over the edge at peace while cleaning the stuffed toy like it was a real kitten needing grooming.

Blake looked at peace with himself and distracted, which was perfect for Sam, who ran and knocked him into the water. 

Blake cried out as he plummeted into the creek and whirled to face up at his attacker. He blinked away the dirt and marred creek water, and his eyes went crazed as they settled on Samson.

"Uhh," He gaped at Sam, stunned, before sputtering, "you're, um you."

"Yeah, me," Sam drawled and said. "It took me a while to find you, but seeing you left a mess wasn't too hard." Samson withdrew the metal pen from his back pocket. He clicked it open, revealing the sharp blade; it was no bigger than an inch but no less dangerous. 

Samson waved the switchblade grabbing Blakes's attention.

 "Where's my money," Samson pointed the blade at Blake.  

Blake shrugged, but his eyes flicked between the knife and Samson's face. 

Half-submerged in the muddy water, he said, "I don't know." 

Samson glared back at him, "you don't know."

He shrugged before saying, "no, I don't know. I only took your shoes. That's it."

"That's it," Sam parroted.

"Yeah, that's it. Now put the knife away before you get hurt."

 "Get hurt- Piece of shit, I got hurt coming in here looking for you." Samson stepped closer, pointing the knife at Blake. "Now give me back my money, and do not bullshit me. I know you took it," Samson yelled.

Blake cringed back under the surface, muddying the water further and obscuring the lower half of his face. He didn't seem to mind the dirty water and cold air.

Blake seemed more enthralled with the mud he was sitting in as he mumbled, "stop pointing that shit at me."

Samson balked at that. Was he seriously ignoring him? He clenched his jaw, trying to hold back the tirade of curse words welling up in his chest. Maybe this was his way of working Samson up, another way to get under his skin. Well, if it was, it was working.

"You look like a swamp rat," Samson drawled before kicking the stuffed white leopard in the stream. 

"Asshole," Blake bolted up and sent a splash of water hurling in Samson's direction.  

Samson backed away, managing to dodge the water but cried out at the sudden blow to his shoulder. He sucked in a breath as he dropped the knife. He kneeled, pressing down on the sore spot. "Ow," Samson muttered out through clenched teeth. 

The sloshing water caught his attention as he watched Blake crawl out, struggling to climb up the ledge. His dirty hands clutched fistfuls of stones while the other reached for Samson's knife. 

"Shit," Samson lunged, snatching the weapon back.

Blake, on his part, chucked another rock at Samson's face.

Samson jerked his neck to the side and rammed his foot into Blake's chest.

"Ah gah," Blake wheezed as he fell back to the creek, but to Samson's disappointment, he landed on his feet with a loud splash, getting them both wet.

Samson gripped the knife and leaped off the slab to rush at Blake, landing on him. Making Blake yelp as the blade embedded itself in his shoulder by half. They toppled backward into the creek with freezing mud water engulfing them. 

Blake thrashed his arms, beating at Samson's arm and chest. 

Samson punched at Blake, sending him tripping back into the filthy creek. 

As he jerked away, Blake thrashed, sending mud blooming from the creek bed. He managed to steady himself but shouted, "shit!" and slipped back on his knees.

 Samson clutched the knife like it was a lifeline. He stood back up, knees shaking, and planted his feet on the slippery bed of mud and rock. He watched as Blake rummaged through the stream again and scrambled to stand back and wield another rock half the size of his head. 

  For a moment, there was only the tranquil sloshing of the steady stream, the creaking of crickets, and cries of birds unbothered by the heavy breathing of the two lads staring each other down like feral alley cats, that is until a toad leaped into the fray of the stream between them. The tiny toad hopped back and forth, disrupting the steady rhythm of the clearing waters and making the creek muddy again. Despite the tension moments before, they snorted at the poor toad's attempt to find its way back to land, as if the toad's haphazard roaming was their permission to break their stare down. Maybe the toad was a sign, relaying their foolish behavior to them and an opportunity to extend a hand of friendship.

"Fuck you!" Samson said.

"Fuck you too," Blake said.

Sam gripped his knife tighter with his left hand and lunged, aiming for Blake's gut. 

Blake lifted the rock and raised it to crack Samson's head open. 

Each takes pains to avoid stepping on the toad.

There were only four feet of space between them, and neither covered the distance because neither knew what hit them.

"Ah," both boys screamed in unison as they stumbled away from the stones raining around them. 

Samson rubbed the sting on his throbbing temple. 

Blake reeled back, hunching over as he too hissed in pain. "Aw fuck!" He struggled to keep his grip on his weapon, favoring it over nursing his wounds.

"Drop it," a voice boomed out of the forest as they were both pelted by pebbles.

Samson fell back and yanked his soggy sweatshirt over his head to better shield away the worst of the raining rocks, still clutching his knife. 

Blake laughed, making his stomach clench.

"Ah," Samson, still rubbing his sore temple, bared his teeth and yelled, "why are you laughing, dumbass!" 

Samson's eyes went wide as he backed away from Blake, grinning back at him.