I was strolling across a field as part of my morning hike when a woman on horseback approached me from the hillside. She wore a solid red T-shirt with the word SARAH in block lettering.

“What’s your name?” she demanded, crossbow in firing position.

“Um,” I said, not used to being on the wrong end of a crossbow, “Angelica Tran?”

She relaxed her grip on the weapon, but did not lower it. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just going for a walk,” I said. “Is your name Sarah?”

“You better get out of here.”

“Alright, I will,” I said. “Just please don’t hurt me.”

“Right now.”

I began to walk back the way I came. First a brisk walk, and then a trot. Sarah kept an uncomfortably close distance behind me.

“If I may ask,” I called to her, “what’s happening?”

“Battle. Very soon.”

“Over what?”

“The correct spelling of Sarah. The bastard Saras, no H, refused to back down. Gave us no choice.”

“What?”

At that moment a throng of women in blue appeared over the other horizon. A dim commotion in their direction, a rumble slowly rising to a deafening battle cry.

“That’s the bastard Saras. No H,” she spat.

Atop the hillsides whence Sarah came, a sea of women in red materialised. In seconds they were rushing down the hillsides, a coursing avalanche of red.

“And those are my fellow Sarahs, with an H,” she beamed. “Run.”

I was caught in between.

At once Sarah galloped away on her steed, leading the charge toward the blue Sara lines. I ran as fast as I could off the battlefield, but the two army fronts were endless, and before long the air was thick with whistling arrows.