You rolled over in bed and felt a piece of paper underneath your face. You clumsily felt for it, holding it in front of your face and reading the message scribbled in my bad handwriting last night: "Meet me in the field, under the oak tree at 11, don't be late xx". You fumbled for your phone and saw it was 10:15. "Shit," you mumbled to yourself before stumbling out of bed and into the bathroom. I sat cross-legged in a cle...