Q is for quicksand.

We spent hours together as children, plotting our escape from the unknown, the unknowable. I still have no idea if our fears were unfounded, if quicksand traps lurked in the woods and wetlands where we rambled. But I remember the debates - whether the burial would come fast or slow, whether we’d have time enough to catch our breath before we were overcome. It seemed like the scariest thing to me, sinking uncontrollably into the abyss. I’ve since discovered that I was right, but not in quite the same way I had envisioned.