"Please, Dad? Just one more story?"

"Sorry, son, but not tonight."

"Oh, please? Can't you just tell the story of the Campfire Killer? That one's my favorite!"

"That's an awful story. Why do boys like to hear such awful, scary stories?"

"Puh-leeeese?"

"All right, all right. The story of the Campfire Killer, and that's it for the night."

"Hooray!"

The cheery orange glow of the campfire danced across Tommy Munson's face as he perched on a log, gazing expectantly up at his father. Behind them, a small green tent sat on the edge of the clearing. The smells of roasted hot dogs and burned marshmallows hung in the night air.

David Munson smiled, reaching down and affectionately tousling the boy's hair. Then his smile turned into a grimace, and he ran his fingers through his own brown locks to give himself a crazed, bedraggled appearance. Reluctant though he might have been to make the story too frightening, his own internal child couldn't resist putting on a good horror show.

"It was twenty years ago, on a night very much like tonight," he began, gesturing around him to take in the swaying trees, the beams of moonlight filtering through the branches. "A man and his son went on a camping trip, just the two of them. As a matter of fact, the boy had just celebrated his eighth birthday ...."

"That's the same age as me!" Tommy said delightedly, licking marshmallow goo from his fingers.

"Well, of course it is," David said, breaking character for a moment. He couldn't resist teasing his son. "The last time I told this story, I made the boy ten years old, just for variety, and you yelled at me and said from now on he should be eight."

"Oh yeah," Tommy said. "I forgot. Sorry for the eruption."

"Interruption," David gently corrected, laughing.

"Yeah, that. Anyway, tell the rest of the story!"

"Anyway," David continued, "they went on a nice hike, and the Daddy taught his son about everything they saw, told him the names of the trees and the animals and the birds."

"Like the red-shouldered hawk?"

"Yes, like the red-shouldered hawk. Are you going to let me finish the story, or not?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Dad."

"Anyway," David said again, "they finished their nature walk, never knowing that all the while, from behind the trees ... a madman watched and waited."

By this time Tommy had wrapped his sleeping bag around his shoulders, and he shivered, smiling and scared at the same time.

"Who is the Campfire Killer?" David said. "No one really knows. Some say he's a deformed hillbilly from up in the mountains. Others say he's a Boy Scout leader who went crazy when his whole troop got eaten by a bear. Still others say he isn't a man at all, but a monster, a Wendigo, an evil spirit of the woods. Who knows? The only thing we know for sure is that after the man and his son pitched their tent and snuggled into their sleeping bags, the killer crept into their campsite, wielding a big knife."

"A chainsaw!" Tommy corrected him.

"Oh, fine," David replied, rolling his eyes. "A chainsaw."

"Come on, finish the story!" Tommy commanded, grinning with boyish enthusiasm.

"Okay, so anyway, there was a terrible roaring sound as he fired up the chainsaw, slashing it back and forth in the night, attacking the little tent, shredding it to ribbons."

David paused. A grim, haunted look had overtaken him, and suddenly it didn't look like a performance, didn't look like a story.

"He cut the Daddy up first," David whispered. "Took his arms and legs, then sawed up the rest of him while the little boy watched. So much blood, more blood than you could ever imagine."

Tommy's eyes were wide with terrified fascination. He stared at his father, rapt, unblinking.

"Next, he went to work on the boy. And after it was finished, after all the screaming and the carnage, the Campfire Killer stood under the full moon and laughed at what he had done. He laughed a lunatic's laugh as he tossed their remains into the fire."

Tommy swallowed the lump in his throat, blinking at last. "And they never caught him? The police, and the detectives and stuff? They never found him?"

"Nope," his father replied. "As far as we know, the Campfire Killer stalks these woods still, just waiting for more unsuspecting prey to wander into his midst. They say his victims will never rest until their murderer is brought to justice."

"Wow, Dad ... wow," Tommy said, clapping his hands, shuddering with equal parts fear and morbid pleasure. "Great story. Super-scary! Even scarier than the last time!"

"Too scary for little boys," David said, suddenly realizing that he'd gone overboard at the end.

"Nah," Tommy said. "I'm brave, right Dad?"

"Yeah," David replied, smiling lovingly at his child. A thick white fog had begun to creep into the clearing, snaking its way between the tree trunks. "Yeah, buddy, you're brave. You're just about the bravest kid I've ever known."

"Can't we go to sleep, Dad? Can't we sleep for one night, just this once? I'm so tired."

"I know you are, son." There was pain and regret in David's voice. "I know how tired you are. But you need to be a big, strong boy for me. You know we can't sleep. You know we have to keep on walking ... keep on walking ... keep on walking."

Tommy nodded resignedly, standing and shrugging the sleeping bag from his shoulders. It seemed to vanish into the blanket of mist that shrouded the ground.

David turned and walked into the trees, first as solid as a man, then an indistinct apparition that faded into the deepening fog ... or perhaps was made of fog itself.

Tommy slowly followed, eight years old tonight, eight years old forever. No snug tent beckoned him, no promise of dreams and slumber. No smoke wreathed his head, for there was no cheery campfire. The fire pit hadn't been used in years; moonlight glinted on what might have been a charred fragment of bone.

The two hazy figures disappeared into the trees, leaving the empty campsite behind.

The faint aromas of hot dogs and marshmallows stayed for a while, lingering in the clearing, teasing the sensitive noses of the creatures in the dark forest all around.

Eventually, these faded as well.

When you turn ten years old, you will be old enough to go camping with your troop. Camping is fun, but you need to know a lot before you are ready to go camping.

When you go camping you will not sleep in a house. You will sleep in a TENT. A tent is like a house, but it is made of cloth and it can be folded up and carried with you wherever you go. You will fold your tent up and carry it in a pack on your back when you go camping.

You will not sleep in a bed in your tent. You will sleep in a SLEEPING BAG. A sleeping bag is like a thick blanket. You will sleep in your sleeping bag on the floor of your tent. Your sleeping bag will keep you warm. You will carry your sleeping bag in your pack with you too.

You will carry many other things in your pack when you go camping. You will have a kit that has a plate and a fork and a spoon. You will have a bottle for water. You will have a flashlight.

The most important thing that you will carry when you go camping is your GAS MASK. Your gas mask will not go in your pack. You will strap your gas mask to your belt so that you can get to it. When your commandant blows his whistle, you will put your gas mask on. You will be very fast.

Sometimes the commandant will blow the whistle and it will just be a drill. If you are the first boy to put on his mask when it is a drill, you will win a prize. But, sometimes when the commandant blows his whistle it will not be a drill. If it is not a drill and you are the last boy to put on his mask, the gas will make you very sick. You may even die.

Don't forget to pack some extra clothes. You should wear shoes that are strong and fit well. You should bring your scouting book and your pocketknife. You will need a compass. Remember a good scout is always prepared.

You may walk a long way to find a spot to put up your tent. You will follow the marks on the trees to find the trail. You will use your compass to find the trail. The trail will show you where to go. It is safe on the trail.

You must not go off the trail. It is not safe when you are not on the trail. If you go off the trail, you may step on a LANDMINE. If you step on a land mine it will blow-up. When the landmine blows up it makes a big boom! When the landmine blows up, you will die. If it makes a very big boom, other boys will die too.

You will have a good time when you walk on the trail. Sometimes if the commandant things it is safe, you will sing songs. This will be so much fun!

Soon you will find a place to put up your tent. Scouts like to say that they PITCH their tents when they put them up. The place where you pitch your tent is called the CAMPSITE.

The commandant will pick the best spot for the campsite. The campsite must be flat and dry. The campsite must be high and clear. The campsite will not have any landmines. There will not be any snakes or giant ants close by. You will not need to wear your gas mask at the campsite. The commandant takes such good care of his scouts!

Once the troop has found the campsite and the commandant has checked all over, you will pitch your tents. Pitching a tent is hard work, but it is fun too! You will pound the STAKES in the ground with your hammer. The stakes are made of metal and they will hold your tent in place.

There will be two boys in each tent. Each pair will work together to pitch their tent. They will help each other pound the stakes and pull the tent tight. The commandant will check to be sure they do it just right. If it is not just right, he will pull it all out and tell them to try again.

You and your buddy will get three tries to get it just right. If your team cannot do it, the commandant will send you away from the campsite. Remember, scouts are LOYAL and DEPENDABLE. If a scout cannot do his job right, then he is not dependable. Only boys who are dependable can be scouts. You do not want to die because one of your friends in your troop is not dependable.

Once all the tents are up, the commandant will light the fire. It will be time to stand at ATTENTION and say the scout pledge. When you stand at attention, you will stand up straight and tall. You will be very still and very quiet. You will stand at attention for a long time. It is good to learn to stand at attention and be very still.

Then it will be time to eat. You will get your mess kit and wait for the commandant to call your name. When he calls your name, you will get some stew from a big pot by the fire. The stew will have some bits of meat in it. You will get a hard, dry bit of bread to dip in the stew.

Imagine eating a bowl of stew and bread all by yourself. It is hard to do, but this is what will happen when you go camping. Some boys will get a bit of meat in their stew. You are so lucky that you get to go camping! You will not be hungry when you go to bed on camp night.

Soon your camping trip will be over and you will go back home. Your friends and family will be happy to see you. Your mother and father will be so proud. If you make it back from your camping trip, you will get a camping badge to wear on your sash.

When you wear your camping badge everyone will know that you are so brave and strong. You will never forget the good times you had on your camping trip.

Some things you never forget. I can recall the time me and my little brother Johnny ran away from home like it was yesterday even though sixty years have passed. It was the summer of '50, early August. My favorite books were the adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn and my home life wasn't too good. Plus that summer I had achieved Second Class in Boy Scouts so I figured I was ready to live free like Huck.

The reason Johnny tagged along is he saw me leaving. I'd tried my best to get up before him but I don't think anyone was ever able to get up before Johnny, not even the roosters. I told him I was leaving and not ever coming back and of course he begged to come too. I said alright, but that he would have to mind me and do what I said. He crossed his heart and swore he would.

The plan was to go to the Chenowee river by following a nearby creek. Me and Johnny rode our bikes to the creek and hid them in the bushes. I had my backpack with my camping gear and Johnny had some toys in a pillow case.

We started out walking on the creek bed. It was mostly dry but had enough water trickling to fill my canteen when we were thirsty. The wilderness always excited me, that day more than ever since it felt like a real live adventure. It's kinda funny that I'm writing this down now because I remember feeling at the time like I was a character in a story just like Tom and Huck.

We stopped every once in a while to rest and snack on soda crackers. Johnny kept trying to catch frogs and lizards, though they were usually too quick. I threw rocks at squirrels, thinking one would be good to roast over a fire for dinner, but I only managed to scare them off.

For lunch we ate baloney and cheese sandwiches with oatmeal cookies. I pulled out some of the magazines I had brought to read. They were mostly copies of Boy's Life along with a couple of pulp adventure story magazines. Johnny tried to take one but I pushed him away saying they were strictly off limits to him. Instead he entertained himself by pulling a toy cowboy gun from his pillow case and running around shooting at me from behind trees.

Our progress after lunch was slower. We were both tired of walking. The creek became wider and the water deeper so we had to walk along the side. When we found a spot that looked big enough for swimming I decided to stop for the day. We setup my pup tent and spent the rest of the afternoon just lounging around, playing, swimming and exploring the area. I loved it.

That evening I dug a pit and started gathering firewood. I was returning with an armful of sticks when I saw Johnny sitting there reading one of my magazines. Without thinking I dropped the sticks, walked up and slapped him straight across the face. He fell over and sat back up with dirt on his mouth.

I told him I had warned him not to touch my magazines. Johnny started crying, saying he was tired of playing and wanted to go home, but I just ignored him. I cooked us some beans that we ate with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. After a while I told him to stop sulking and just get in the tent and go to sleep. I knew hitting him had been a mistake, but it was too late to take it back.

The next morning when I woke up Johnny was gone. At first I thought maybe he'd gone to the bathroom or exploring, at least that's what I hoped. I ran around shouting his name, but no one answered. I realized he must have run away from me just like I'd run away from our father, and for the same reason.

My first thought was that he'd headed back home. I considered packing everything up and trying to catch him before he got there. But what if he hadn't gone that way? What if he had wandered off somewhere else in the woods? I wasn't sure how long he could survive on his own out there.

I walked around screaming Johnny's name for who knows how long. I was crying and near hoarse when I finally heard someone answer. It was Johnny, and with him was a man in a fish and game warden uniform. We were caught, but I didn't care. I was just relieved Johnny was alright.

The warden took us home and told my parents everything. My mother shied away from me like I was made of poison. She knew better than to get in the line of fire. My daddy let me have it of course. I remember showing off my bruises to the neighborhood kids the next day. I told them all about me and Johnny's adventure and said me and my old man had duked it out when I got home. The way I told it I had stood up to him. Johnny kept quiet and didn't tell anyone I had really cried the whole time.

Daddy used to say I was a crybaby, and I guess he was right cause here I am sixty years later writing down this boohoo story about how sad my life was when it really wasn't. Sure, my daddy beat me. That's the way some families did things back then. But I had clothes on my back, food on the table and a place to sleep. It's not like I ever wound up in the hospital.

My eldest son is grown now, but he won't speak to me no more. I abused him, he tells people -- says it was 'emotional abuse', which is fancy talk for I yelled at him too hard. He talks about 'the cycle of abuse' and how he's gonna stop it. It's going on eleven years since I've seen him.

Yes, maybe I was strict and wouldn't stand for back talk. I don't deny it. But I made myself a promise after me and Johnny ran away that I wouldn't be like my father, and I kept that promise in my mind my whole life. I raised three kids and Lord help me that wasn't easy, but no matter what they did, I never hit them. May the Lord judge me right or wrong for the other things I've done, but that's one thing that can never be lain at my feet. I never hit them.

I don't think God judges me harshly though. I still like to go into the woods. There's a few hundred acres nearby they turned into a nature reserve. It has a concrete trail that's easy to walk. If there's a better way to spend a day of good weather, I don't know it. Now why would God let me enjoy afternoons like that if he judged me harshly? Of course, it could be that forgiveness just comes easier for him.

"Starting a fire is tougher than ever now - just be patient!"

The survival guide was right. Steven was amazed he'd managed to get such a strong fire going considering what rotten old wood he had to work with. Looking behind him he noticed he was casting an ominously large shadow on the tent.

"Haha, wow!" He thought, "That'll really help with story time."

Satisfied with the fire, he called his two boys out for dinner. Just as he was opening up a packet of beef provisions his older son, Mark, spoke up.

"Hey Dad, can we cook the rabbit I caught earlier today?"

"Maybe, let me see it first."

Mark went back into the tent, and then quickly reemerged with the rabbit. Steven looked it over carefully. It looked fine, no obvious deformities or discoloration in the meat. But he still remembered from the survival guide:

"NEVER EAT ANYTHING THAT YOU FIND OUT THERE!"

He'd even heard rumors of people doing just fine eating what they'd hunted, so long as they cooked it thoroughly. Then there were the scientists saying that it had been "long enough" and that whatever wildlife was still alive should be "fairly clean".

He decided against the rabbit, though. He wasn't about to take any chances with his own two sons.

His younger son, Ryan, offered up a handful of sticks he’d picked out earlier, saying they could use them as skewers.

“Yeah just dangle a flimsy piece of wood over the fire,” sneered Mark, “That’ll work.”

“Mark, be nice to your brother. And go grab the metal skewers. They should be in my pack.”

As Mark slumped back into the tent Steven turned to Ryan.

“That was smart of you to get those sticks,” he reassured him, “but the metal ones are safer and they’ll help the meat cook faster.”

Steven wasn’t sure if that was technically true, but it seemed to spark Ryan’s curiosity.

“How’s that?”

As Mark returned with the skewers and began to cook some of the beef squares, Steven described to his sons how metal can retain heat. Ryan seemed satisfied with this.

"Mark, make sure you tear that beef small enough to fit through your suit's feeding chamber."

"I know Dad!"

“So can you tell us a story Daddy?”

Steven took a seat by the fire. All the ash and detritus on the ground made for a suprisingly soft place to sit. He took a deep breath in and imagined how good the fire must have smelled. He couldn’t really smell it though, not through his scrubbing apparatus.

“What kind of story?”

“Ghost story!”

“Maybe later kiddo,” Steven chuckled, “Gimme some time to think of a good one.”

“How about a story from the Old Times?” Mark suggested.

Steven wasn’t surprised that Mark asked that, even though he’d hoped it wouldn’t come up. Still, his suggestion gave him a bright idea - a story that could please both of the boys.

“Old Times, eh?” he said, cocking an eyebrow, “You two ever hear about Big Foot?”

“What’s that?”

“No.”

“Well,” he began, “the legend goes that Big Foot is this great big ape creature - eight feet tall, all covered in matty old fur. A pretty imposing figure, and that’s with the slouch.”

“Whoa, he sounds scary!”

“You think that’s scary? That’s not even the worst of it!”

“What’s the worst?” asked Mark, trying not to show too much interest.

“The worst part is that Big Foot is really really sneaky!”

“How could he possibly be sneaky?”

“Nobody knows. But the one thing they do know is that it’s impossible to ever find or capture him. All the’ve ever found are footprints and a handful of really blurry photos.”

“Where does he live?” asked Ryan, wide eyes showing through the glass plate of his hazard suit.

Steven cracked a wry smile and answered him, “In the forest.”

By now even Mark was looking a little tense, so Steven decided it was time to unleash his secret weapon.

“And they say his favorite meal is campers.”

“No way!”

“It’s true! They bring lots of snacks with them, the usually can’t run to fast, and they light big ol’ fires that make them easy to find!”

“Does that mean he’s gonna come get us?” whispered Ryan, the quiver in his voice made more dramatic by his rubber hood.

“Well, I dunno! They say they’ve seen him in just about ever forest around the - hey, what was that?” whispered Steven, with a dramatic point to some tree behind the boys.

“Where?”

The boys heads whipped around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive monster. After a few seconds of puzzled silence, they turned back to look at their father.

“RRRRAAAAGGGHHH!” he roared.

The boys both screamed, then paused, then burst out laughing once they realized it was just Steven all along. Ryan, now exhausted from story time, asked if he could go to bed.

“Go ahead kiddo, we’ll catch up with you in a few.”

As Ryan climbed into the tent Mark looked thoughtfully out into the forest. After a moment of silence, he turned to his father.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You said Big Foot was hard to find, right?”

“Yes I did.”

Mark paused.

“I don’t think he’d be able to hide in this forest. The trees are all tiny and brittle, and there aren’t any leaves or bushes.”

Steven didn’t say anything.

“I bet if there even was a Big Foot, he didn’t survive the Fallout.”

Steven bowed his head. He wanted to say something in return, but his throat tightened at the mention of the Fallout.

“Didn’t people used to go camping to see the beauty of nature?”

“I guess.”

“Well then what’s the point of people going camping now?”

Steven lapsed deep into thought. He wanted to say it was nostalgia, or an attempt to return to some kind of normalcy. That wouldn’t work for Mark, though; he was born and raised in the bunker.

“You don’t think this is beautiful?” asked Steven.

Mark glared at him skeptically.

“Ok well maybe beautiful isn’t the right word, but it is different. Out here you don’t have all the noise of the bunker. There’s no echo of people shuffling around the halls, no humming from all the electronics. Just the sound of your own breathing, your own heart beat. It gives you a chance to think.”

Mark looked out into the trees.

“Dad? What did the forest look like before?”

Steven took a deep breath in, lay back on his hands, and started describing how there used to be giant trees, all covered with lush green leaves that would catch little bits of the sunlight so that if you stood underneath everything looked all speckled. He talked about lakes and rivers and all the deer that would dance nimbly through it all, and as Mark lay down on his back he imagined how beautiful it must have been.

Everybody has had a friend in need. Mine was Joey “Squash” Weedler. We called him Squash because of the large zucchini shaped birth mark on his forehead. Squash was a friend in need only when he wasn't beating me up. Ours was a mutual understanding, Squash needed somebody to pulverize several times a week and I unselfishly worked it into my schedule.

Squash Weedler was a magnet for trouble. I wasn't, but for whatever reasons, the gods of nature decided there was an obvious imbalance in the force and they used me to correct it. Once I had crossed over to the dark-side any imbalance in the force was only exaggerated a hundred fold. This might have gone unnoticed except when Squash and I were within three miles of each other planes fell from the sky, dormant volcanoes erupted and wildlife mysteriously vanished. Never-the-less, we continued our weekly ritual of beatings on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Tuesday was reserved for family events and Saturday was our fishing day. That left Thursday ”“ an entire day set aside for nothing but fun. Mind you, a teenager's idea of fun is eerily different than the rest of the sane world.

As summer came to a close and the long, hot days shortened, we grew tired of the usual summer-fare activities. Setting the woods on fire and kidnapping the neighbor's dog just didn't have the same appeal it did when the summer was young. Starved for something new and exciting, Squash suggested we push our luck. Our Luck, as it turned out, was a fourteen foot canoe complete with paddles. We pushed Our Luck right off of the owner's dock and into open water. Right away Squash assured me that we hadn't stolen the boat as it appeared we had. No, instead we were simply testing its sea worthiness and this was a noble and caring thing to do. It made sense to me. To the best of my knowledge no other neighbors cared enough to test the boat, which by Squash’s account, made us local heroes.

We were two heroes on the open water without so much as a care. We were two heroes who couldn't possibly count on anything good coming out of this latest adventure…yet we did. For some odd reason we counted on exactly that. Once we had reached the mid-section of the lake Squash looked right at me and said,
“I count on something good coming out of this latest adventure of ours. How ”˜bout you”?
Surprisingly I felt the same as Squash and I said so. “Yes, Squash, I do believe something good shall come of this.” We made small talk for a while reminiscing about some of the more memorable beatings Squash had bestowed upon me. He laughed and I shuddered.

We spent the rest of the afternoon on the lake and eventually grew weary of paddling in circles. It hadn't occurred to either one us to paddle from separate sides of the boat. Coming to a stop we were now poised with a new dilemma, should we return the canoe and risk being seen or dump it somewhere and forget about it? Squash, not one to be weighed down by such a trivial matter, stood up to get a better view of the lake. In the fraction of a second it took Squash to stand up, the canoe rolled onto its side with a sickly twist and angrily spat the two of us into the water.
“Nice going jerk!” This was a first for me. I had never so much as disagreed with Squash let alone called him a name. I immediately let myself sink below the surface of the water afraid to ever resurface again.

Certain of the beating that was coming my way I realized I had only two choices; face the wrath of Squash’s fury or swim away very, very fast. Treading water and contemplating my next move I noticed that Squash was no longer with me. I did a quick look-around realizing that the only two occupants on the lake were me and a noisy wood duck. Where was Squash? I grabbed the front side of the capsized canoe (that would be the bow for those who require a more technical description) and tried to catch my breath. I teased the notion that Squash had been swallowed by a giant catfish. Or better yet he had simply disintegrated when his body touched the water. I saw a movie once where aliens had taken over the world and the only way to defeat them was to get them wet. Sadly, Squash wasn't an alien nor was he planning to take over the world.

Any panic I had for my own fate turned into panic for Squash. Could he swim? How long could he hold his breath? What would I tell his family? Who would beat me up if Squash was gone? For crying-out-loud; he still had my GI Joe walkie talkies. Would I ever see them again?

I continued to hold onto the upturned canoe hoping a McGyver moment would come to me. It did but I lacked any of the tools McGyver would have used. Besides, I didn't need a bomb, I needed to find Squash. For the second time in as many minutes I let myself sink beneath the surface of the water. With my eyes open and my nose pinched I scanned the murky water for anything that looked like a body. I counted the seconds knowing I could only hold my breath for so long. I realized at that moment I would hold my breath forever if it meant saving my friend. Finally, with my lungs burning and my cheeks aching I resurfaced gasping for every ounce of air I could suck in. I was cold and I was tired but I refused to give up. I sank into the oily depths of Lake Chakakahn again ”“ this time on a mission; I wouldn't return to the surface until I found Squash. I managed to hold my breath for thirty seconds this time. I went under again and again each time coming up without so much as a clue. Squash had simply vanished ”“ and so had the canoe.

I kicked my legs allowing me to rotate and scan the entire lake . The canoe was gone. Had it sank? Did it drift away in some other-worldly current? Not likely. On the far side of the lake was Camp Hope, an all girls camp run by a local church. There on the beach surrounded by a group of giggly, teenage girls was Squash…alive and well. He looked out in my direction, gave me a mock salute and then wandered up the hill and away from the lake with twenty girls in tow.

“We should go camping,” Lisa suggested one morning at breakfast.
They were at Jonas’ Café, where they always had breakfast together because of its convenient location as being right down the street from Lisa’s apartment.
“Meh,” Ken grumbled as he picked at his cereal. He actually thought that camping would be fun, but not with her.
“Why not?” she pouted. “I think it would be great. Communing with nature, going back to basics of existence without modern conveniences and trappings, sleeping under the stars...” as she continued to confabulate about the romance of camping, Ken played a game with himself, trying to guess where she had picked up such a notion.
“--a huge campfire at night!” she was gushing when Ken snapped his fingers and interrupted her.
“Harriet. She gave you the idea.” Harriet was an athletic girl, a bit of a tomboy.
Lisa stared at him, somewhat hurt. “No, I just thought--”
“Or was it Jessica?” Jessica read a lot and, as a result, was an expert on things she hadn’t done.
Cutting the pieces of cantaloupe on the plate before her agitatedly, Lisa said, “Why can’t you just listen to me when I say how nice it will be to go camping? I didn’t get the idea from one of my girlfriends, if that’s what you’re hinting at (and I think you’re being rude about it). If you must know, I read about it in a magazine...”
From her purse she pulled a rolled-up copy of a ladies’ publication which usually carried methods to attract the attention of men, how to discover if your man were cheating on you, new makeup tips (how many different ways could there possibly be to put on makeup? Ken always wondered), romantic date ideas, and workout regimes.
“They say camping is a great way for couples to bond and really get to know each other.”
Ken pushed the bowl of soggy cereal away from him and stood, adjusting his pants and smoothing his tie. “Listen, sugarpop, I’ve been camping.”
“You have!” Lisa said excitedly, and with a note of jealousy.
“Mhmm. And it’s not all gentle-green-grass-between-your-toes and kumbaya-around-the-campfire. If you want to know the truth, I don’t think you’d like it.”
“But Ken, I want to.”
“I know you do, honey, but just listen to what I’m trying to tell you. I’m saying you would have a bad time. I’m trying to spare you. Why don’t we go to a movie or something else instead?”
She said nothing.
“I’ve got to go now, Lisa. I’ll talk to you later.”

Lisa told her roommates about it that night.
“I just think it would be a great experience for us as a couple, and he didn’t even want to talk about it.”
Harriett was at the stove, lazily stirring a pot of noodles. “He’s got some sexist notions, is probably what it amounts to,” she said as she consulted the back of the noodle box for further instructions.
“”˜Sexist notions?’” Lisa repeated.
“Mhmm. Like that women belong indoors, safe and sound.”
“I don’t think Ken’s like that,” Lisa said doubtfully. “He doesn’t ever open car doors for me, or pull out my chair or any of that stuff.”
Harriett waved the wooden spoon at Lisa. “That doesn’t mean he’s not sexist, it just means he’s not a nice kind of sexist.”
“Why are you dating him, again?” Jessica said from the couch where she was immersed in a book. It wasn’t actually a question, and Lisa ignored her.
“It rained today,” Lisa said.
“Random,” Jessica judged her.
“Don’t you just love it when it rains? And everything smells wet and clean.” She inhaled slowly, as if taking in the scent of rainfall. “I suppose that’s why I want to go camping, you know? Get to experience nature with all five senses.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Jessica laid the book aside. “When’d you get all googledy for nature, anyway?”
“Something she read in a magazine,” Harriett said dismissively.
Lisa snapped. “Stop making fun of me for this. I just want to go, okay?”
“Okay, girl, here’s what we’re gonna do,” Harriett turned around and cocked the spoon in the air elegantly. “We’re going to plan our own camping trip. And you can tell that Kendrick that he can come if he wants to, but we’re going anyway.”
“But he doesn’t want to go camping with me.”
“I know. So, we’re going to invite a bunch of guys to go with us, and Ken will have to go then because he’ll get jealous. Go ahead and call him.”

A few weeks later, Harriett, Jessica, and Lisa pulled up at the park. Ken was waiting for them, smoking, leaning against his car with his camping pack on the ground beside him. As the girls got out of the car, Jonas, the owner of Jonas’ Café, and his brother Lennox also pulled up. Harriett had revealed herself to be very good friends with Jonas, who was an avid outdoorsman.
“Hey, baby!” Lisa greeted Ken, hoping he would be a good sport about all this.
He grunted and stamped out his cigarette. “You ready?”
The group made good time as they headed up to a well-known camping site a few miles away from the park. Lisa handled herself well, she thought, trying to stay upbeat and positive in all the heat and humidity. The forest around them was wild, and she could hear a thousand bugs chirping in sync. She could tell she smelled like the outdoors by now, and she was sweating a little even though she wasn’t doing anything strenuous. The pack on her back was heavy, but she tried to keep her thoughts on that to herself. She didn’t know that Ken's pack was three times as heavy as hers, as he carried their tent.
They reached the campsite before nightfall and set up their tents. Lisa, in fresh clothes and spritzed with perfume, felt happy and comfortable leaning on Ken’s arm by the fire.
“Did you have to spray that stuff?” Ken asked. “We’re out in the middle of the wilderness and you spray perfume? What is wrong with you?”
Lisa went to bed early, leaving the rest to a nice campfire chat that didn’t really miss her.
“What’s with her?” Jonas asked.
“She’s not very good at this,” Jessica said kindly.
“No kidding,” Harriett snorted. She didn't want to be seen as weak and girlish, like Lisa, in front of Jonas. “She keeps pretending to be happy and excited about everything to keep from complaining. That’s her way.”
Jessica defended their friend. “It’s her first time. Give her a break.”
Eventually the girls retired to their tent for the night. Lennox and Jonas, foregoing a tent, rolled our their sleeping bags and lay awake talking, until they drifted off to sleep. The fire burned down low, but Ken was still sitting by it, staring down into where everything was blue.