Exactly one year ago, August 4th meant nothing to the hacker. At worst, it was a call to the summer when his mother turned up missing. With every year that passed, the pain subsided, however, and gave way to a sense of determination that never seemed to falter, not even with his entrapment.
But August 4th, now, had come to mean something different, something special, something he had to look forward to on the isle had it not been for the phantom of the culling.
He was never any good at making food, let alone baking -- a subset that required steadfast loyalty to a recipe lest you wind up with a dense block of gummy flour covered in something vaguely reminiscent of icing. But like dead men told no tales, girls buried six feet under did not eat cake.
Bold of you to call this thing a cake, Emmett mused to himself. No matter, he thought. He could have gotten Ren or the resident patissier to make it or, really, just picked something up from the store, but it wouldn’t have carried the