I rest my tired back against a large tree, the rough bark biting hungrily against my skin. My backpack I've held dear lies against my aching feet; the somewhat cold exterior helps relieve the pain. Although I haven't examined them thoroughly, I know small scratches and a few spots of dried blood decorate them, most likely from the hazardous terrain.
I groan as I wiggle the backpack off my toes to examine the full damage. The bottoms are nearly all black from the debris littering the forest ground. Small remnants of leaves and broken twigs are still clinging to the skin, so I softly brush them away. With them gone, small wounds open and slowly trickle warm blood from the places they had punctured the skin to stay put, almost like an annoying thorn.
It could be worse, I guess. Perhaps my
