Kenny was lost. It was the dead of winter in the plains of Nebraska. Dead of winter. Kenny and the dead of winter would have something in common in a matter of minutes. The dead part.
It was just after a snow storm and all the twigs and brush he could find were sopping wet. There was no chance he could make a fire. Kenny was freezing to death.
Kenny knew there was little chance of survival. Foolishly, he had been hiking with himself and when the storm hit he lost the trail and now he had no idea where he was. He knew he was going to die but he had to fight. And then he saw it. An old cross made out of twigs. The date 1847 was carved into one of the twigs. It was the grave of someone who had been crossing the plains.
"My gosh," Kenny whispered as he began digging.
He didn't have to dig much before finding an old breadbox. He opened it and nearly threw-up when he saw the remains of a small baby inside of it. But luckily the wood of the breadbox was still dry. So he carefully put the bones back into the grave and found the driest spot of ground he could. He then stomped on and broke the breadbox. He rubbed two pieces of wood together and made a fire.
The fire kept him warm the rest of the night and helicopters from search parties looking for him saw the smoke. Kenny was found and flown back to the hospital in Lincoln, where he was treated for hypothermia.
The reason he survived the bitter cold of the Nebraskan winter: a breadbox.
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Who could ever connect breadboxes and death together as frequently as Natascha?
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