“GOD HATES US,” A SMALL, sodden man with straight, brown hair that was plastered in streams across his forehead informed Heathcliffe. “It’s been one terrible thing after another. I just want to go home and the re-enactment hasn’t even started yet.”
Heathcliffe crossed long arms over his chest and stayed silent. He knew that what was going on had nothing to do with God. But the truth was even more terrifying, so he said nothing. He had to agree with the small, wet man about one thing though. Heathcliffe had only been there a few hours and he already wanted to go home. He couldn’t imagine how those poor people felt after two days of it.
The rain was coming down so hard they had to shout to be heard. It filled the historically accurate cabin with a thunderous roar that shook the walls and r
