Chapter
Eight
KEANE
Istare at the pile of nylon, poles, and stakes spread across the grass. The tent bag had promised “Easy, five-minute setup.” Lies. Absolute slander.
Beside me, Oren is holding one pole as he would a lightsaber, swishing it around and makingwhoosh-whooshnoises.
“Serious question,” I say. “Do you think this thing’s supposed to stand on its own, or are we just building modern art?”
Oren giggles, then immediately slaps a hand over his mouth like he wasn’t supposed to let that slip. “It’s, um… definitely supposed to look like a tent.”
I bite back a grin. “Thanks, architect. Any idea which side is the floor?”
Ten minutes later, we’ve managed something thatvaguelyresembles shelter. Oren beams at it as though we just raised the flag on Iwo Jima. I’m sweating through my shirt, but his smile makes it worth it.
“Alright,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “Time to stake this thing down before a sudden gust of wind claims our masterpiece.”
Oren grabs a corner of the tent as he would a precious artifact, hopping slightly on his tiptoes to reach. I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes me.
“You sure you’re not part squirrel?”
He blushes and waves me off, trying to act nonchalant, but I can see it—the thrill, the excitement of doing something new. It’s contagious.
We kneel side by side, hammering stakes and looping cords. I notice how methodical he is, how carefully he watches each movement I make. It hits me how protective I already feel of him.
Once the tent is upright—miraculously—I step back to admire it. Oren claps softly, and I raise my hands in mock victory.
“Now for the sleeping arrangements,” I say. “We need a good strong base, or we’ll wake up looking like wrinkled pancakes.”
He dumps his sleeping bag on the floor and peers at me, brows raised.
“Where’s Quackers going?”
I crouch and pat a clear spot right at the front. “Right here, of course. Place of honor.”
Oren’s eyes go wide, and he kneels to carefully tuck the duck in.
“He deserves it,” he murmurs. “Been with me on every adventure since I was nine.”
I nod, understanding more than he realizes.
We’ve just finished fussing over proper lantern placement when Timmy’s shout cuts across the clearing.
“Theo! Your tent looks better than mine!”
Theo’s waving his arms like a proud general, and I glance over to see his orange nylon wobbling dangerously.
Then a panicked yelp followed by “I need a Daddy!”
Timmy’s tiny tent has collapsed right on top of him, and he’s flailing under the nylon heap.
Lane, of course, is sitting smugly under a perfectly staked tent, cackling like some tiny overlord surveying his domain.
Oren pipes up immediately, puffing out his chest. “You can borrow my Daddy! There’s nothing he can’t do!”
I feel my cheeks heat as every little eye swivels toward me. “Uh—well…” I glance at Oren, and he beams at me, eyes sparkling. “Come on,” I say, shaking my head with a laugh. “Let’s get Timmy unburied before he starts crying for real.”
