“Hey,” McCormick yells at a kid holding his dog between his legs and swinging it in circles. “Don’t play with your meat. You gotta handle it with care.”
Jax also groans. “Somebody’s parents are going to report us for indecency with a minor.”
Once the meat is cooked, the kids settle, mouths and hands full of hot dog buns and juice boxes. All is calm.
“This isn’t so hard,” McCormick decides. “We got this shit on lock.”
There’s one final moment of peace, and then?—
BOOM.
A small explosion echoes from the campfire pit. Everyone freezes. A single flaming hotdog arcs through the air and lands with a wet splat on West’s clipboard.
He glares at the semi-circle of kids, then at the adults, a term he uses loosely. Then calmly, he says, “Brandt. Your children made a bomb.”
Brandt, sitting cross-legged and surrounded by a pack of nine year olds with mustard-smeared faces looks proud. “We call it the Weenie Blaster 9000.”
Nash, who’s got his shirt pulled up over his head, says, “Swimming’s out!” His voice sounds muffled beneath the cotton tee.
Mandy looks haunted with his thousand-yard stare, like he’s just returned from a year-long deployment. “You good, Mandy?” West calls.
“Why won’t they stop askingwhy? It’s their favorite word!”
West chuckles. “He’s good.”
By the time sunset hits, Mandy is sticky with what might be jelly or blood, Brandt has adopted three kids who keep calling him “Daddy Thunderpants,” Brandt is shockingly good at face-painting and has a line around the picnic table, and Nash is sitting by the lake muttering about frogs being government spies while a kid braids dandelions into his hair.
McCormick claps his hands. “Okay. You know what? Today was a win.”
Jax hands him a wet wipe. “Amessy,smoky, deeply concerning win. But yeah. A win.”
Mandy sits down beside them, quietly munching his Starburst. “One kid asked me if I was Wolverine. I didn’t correct him.”
“Hell yeah,” West says. “Next year, we’re making MREs and field kits.”
And from the smoky distance, a child yells, “CAMP BAAALLLLLLLS!” before cannonballing into the lake fully clothed.
No one even reacts. They just watch the ripples in silence.
West smacks Jax on the back. “He needs a swim buddy. You’re up.”
“I’ll grab him a dry shirt from the giftshop,” McCormick volunteers.
Everyone nods and watches him walk off, but Mandy yells, “Not the one that says My Daddy Loves BALLS!”
“Or the one that says A Summer With BALLS changed my life,” West calls.
The guys sit scattered around a long cafeteria table, all in varying states of physical and emotional disrepair.
West’s shirt is smeared with something orange—possibly ketchup, possibly blood, possibly the crushed remains of a Cheeto-based uprising. His clipboard is singed. He doesn’t look angry. He looks… tired in hissoul.
Jax has removed his shoes and is holding one upside down. A small handful of marshmallows fall out.
“Not even surprised,” he mutters.
Brandt is humming quietly while three kids braid yarn into his arm hair. One of them hands him a drawing labeledTo Daddy Thunderpants.He accepts it like it’s the Purple Heart.
Mandy is nursing a Capri Sun looking shell-shocked. His Camp Balls shirt is crusted with something sticky and pink.
