I’ve always loved the vast emptiness of the desert—an escape from the usual hustle and bustle of life. It was during a camping trip with my girlfriend, Tikki, that things took a bizarre turn, one that neither of us could have anticipated. The first two nights were peaceful; we marveled at the stars, their brightness untouched by city lights. Yet, strange noises echoed through the stillness—howls that felt unsettling, distant yet piercing. We laughed it off, attributing it to the wildlife, convinced there was nothing to worry about. But on the third night, everything changed. I was jolted awake by soft footsteps outside the tent. The sound stopped, and then I heard the unmistakable flick of a lighter. As the tent illuminated in a fiery glow, panic surged through me as the flames roared, engulfing our space in a terrifying embrace. We scrambled to extinguish the fire, adrenaline pushing us through the chaos. In our frantic escape into the darkness, multiple screams surrounded us in the night, eerie and piercing. When we finally reached safety, I couldn’t shake the feeling of how close we’d come to disaster. The desert, once an inviting escape, became a haunting memory that would linger, reminding us of the unpredictable nature of adventure.