[The last Thanksgiving dessert pie hasn't even been cleaned out yet, and already something is astir in camp. Small flat boxes are falling from the sky, pounding loudly on cabin rooftops and littering the campgrounds and floating in the duck pond. Upon closer inspection, they're advent calendars, with a little note attached to them: "31 more days
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I'd be worried about myself.
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I don't think there's anything wrong with adapting. Although if you preferred blood after, then I think we'd have a problem.
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