The man hands you one and you don't look at it and you think it will be hot but it isn't. He has a big smile, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. There's a low hum coming from somewhere. You want to look at the thing he gave you, the thing in your hand, but you can't look away from his smile. The sense of terror is almost abstract, like you are looking at a wound that will scream with pain when the adrenaline wears off. When you can finally bring yourself to look at what he put in your hand, you see it is gone, and somehow you know it is inside you.

Don't worry, he says. It's just dessert under the stars