Hardly anyone dies at flight camp.

Windy Willows flew frantically through the trees, the sharp limbs grasping at his wings and scratching into his sides.

Hardly anyone dies, or at least that's what Spitshine said last night. But then Spitshine was always trying to scare Windy, or make fun of him, or beat him up.

Windy was pretty far off course now. The counselors wouldn't have intended for him to be flying through this much underbrush, right? It was the middle of the day, but the thick canopy of trees blocking out the sky overhead, plunging everything into creepy shadows. Windy pressed onwards, ignoring the twinge of pain in his wing.

Spitshine used to live on the ground, a fact he reminded everyone of regularly at Cloudsdale Flight Camp. That's why he said he knew all about the monsters that lived there, the ones that would chase and eat scared baby pegasi.

When Windy paused for even a second, he could hear twigs snapping behind him as something pursued him. He put on another burst of speed, almost crashing into the trunk of a huge oak, desperate to put more space between them. Then he heard the cackling.

The worst of all was the gruesnipe, Spitshine said. It would track down, torture, and kill foals for [i]fun[/i], not even because it was hungry. Though of course the more scared they were, the better they tasted. And when he said this, he stared directly at Windy.

Windy could have flown upwards maybe, tried to break through the branches above and get into open sky, but he knew that the only advantage his weak wings had was in their agility, not strength. He bounced from branch to branch, careening through the undergrowth and falling closer and closer to the ground.

At least Spitshine couldn't pick on Windy at flight camp the way he could at school. The counselors watched them too carefully. It was almost a relief, actually getting to eat his lunch. Not worrying about being shoved into a thundercloud. Not having to make up excuses for the bruises to his parents.

Windy almost slammed into the ground when it rose up in front of him, but beat his wings backwards just in time, still getting a mouthful of dirt for his trouble. His right wing screamed in agony, and Windy knew flying any more would be impossible.

That was the wing that Spitshine had broken, several months ago. It never had healed right. The doctor had said it was probably going to be a permanent problem. He wasn't sure if his parents believed the excuses that time, but he made them anyways.

Windy scrabbled through the dirt, looking for shelter. He saw a cave—well, hardly more than a hole, but close enough—and galloped towards it, his wings twitching painfully as he still tried to use them to speed himself along.

After Spitshine had broken his wing, he had explained exactly why Windy wasn't going to say anything about it. He had talked very clearly about what he would do if Windy squealed. Not to Windy, no. Windy already faced the worst that Spitshine could do on a nearly daily basis. But Windy could still taste the blood and vomit in his mouth as he laid in agony, looking up at Spitshine's cruel smile as he described in detail exactly what he would do to Windy's little sister Violet.

Inside the cave, Windy's hooves found a rock, heavy and sharp along one edge. He let out a breath. His lips absently found a smile as a new sense of clarity settled around him. He didn't feel particularly scared any more. He didn't feel much of anything.

An equine silhouette appeared at the mouth of the cave, peering around as it made growling noises, in between snorts of laughter. Windy waited for the right moment.

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The camp counselors were in a total panic by the time Windy finally dragged himself back to the clearing where they were supposed to meet, several hours late. When they saw him, covered in dirt and scratches and even some dried blood, they were horrified but also relieved. He explained how he had gotten lost. When they asked him if he had seen anypony else out in the woods, he said no, and they sent him on to the nurse.

The search teams started looking for Spitshine that night.

Hardly anyone dies at flight camp. But sometimes, every now and again, a kid goes missing.