West clears his throat. “Alright, campers. This is our trauma talk circle. Here we share stories, feelings, fears—anything you’re carrying. Nobody laughs, nobody judges, and whatever you say here… stays here.”
He passes a plastic flashlight. “When you’re holding the light, it’s your turn to speak.”
The flashlight is immediately dropped. Twice. Then accidentally turned to strobe mode. Once Jax fixes it—mutteringWhy is this thing set to nightclub panic?---the circle settles.
Brandt goes first. He clicks on the light and points it at his own face. “Hi. I’m Brandt. I once peed my pants during a surprise fireworks test. I was thirty.”
The kids snort.
“I remember that day,” West laughs. “You said your hydration pack leaked.”
“I lied. But I learned something that day,” he adds. “Being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. And peeing your pants makes you wet. But still human.”
Giggles ripple through the circle.
The flashlight passes to McCormick. He holds it under his chin. “I once cried because I thought my dog died. Turns out he just ran off with a raccoon. They came back two days later. As friends.I kept them both.” He pauses. “But that kind of grief? Even if it’s temporary? That ache in your chest? It’s real. You don’t have to wait until it’s official to feel sad. Your feelings matternow.”
Jax takes the light. He glances right, then left, as if considering if sharing is worth the ridicule later on. “Hi. I’m Jax. One time I got so anxious at a middle school dance, I hid under the bleachers and stress-ate half a box of Thin Mints. To this day, I can’t smell peppermint without wanting to run.”
A small kid nods solemnly. “Same.”
Then it’s Nash’s turn. He stares at the light like it might detonate.
Silence.
“You don’t have to,” West says gently.
But Nash clicks it on and keeps it aimed low.
“I get jumpy,” he says. “Loud noises, sudden movements, too many questions. My brain starts looking for exits. Even if nothing’s wrong.” He pauses a beat. “I used to think that made me dangerous. Now I know it just makes me alert. And tired.Verytired.”
The kids are quiet. One of the twins scoots closer to him and leans her head on his knee like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
Next is Mandy. He hesitates. Long enough that Jax reaches for the light, but Mandy grips it tighter, raises it, and shines it right at his own face.
“My name’s Mandy,” he says, voice steady. “I got hurt in the Army. A lot of surgeries. A lot of time alone. Sometimes I still feel like people are staring. Like they’ll laugh.”
The kids are dead still.
“I almost didn’t come to this camp,” he says. “I didn’t want to scare anyone.”
He glances down at his hands. “But this kid—” He gestures vaguely across the circle. “He gave me a Starburst and said I looked like Wolverine.”
The kid gasps. “That wasme!”
Mandy smiles. “Yeah, it was.”
The flashlight clicks off. Someone sniffles. It’s Nash.
“Shut up,” he says preemptively. “Allergies.”
West takes the light but doesn’t turn it on. Just cradles it in his lap like he’s holding something fragile.
“You guys did good,” he says. “Better than most adults I know.”
Then a small, sticky hand shoots up.
“I wanna share,” the kid says. “Sometimes I get scared when my mom works late ‘cause she’s a nurse and the house creaks and I think maybe the ghost of the raccoon dog is back.”
