Grow up, Archie.
Besides, there’s no way I’m giving up or even complaining about it. The lads would never let me live it down.
Just as I swing the curtain open, a dark spot in the corner catches my eye. I flinch back, heart leaping into my throat as a shriek escapes me. Another volunteer passes behind me, and I pretend I didn’t just squeak like a toddler. I peer closer, but thankfully, it’s just a stain on the concrete, not an eight-legged monster.
I step inside, turn the knob, and wait. Water splutters out, then flows steadily—lukewarm but with decent pressure. I tilt my head back and let the water run down my face. It’s actually kind of nice. Makes you forget, for a second, where you are.
I hear the curtains of the next stall rustling, and I wonder if Katherine just got in. It’s all so surreal. What is she even doing here, the posh princess? At home, she complains about everything—water pressure, heating, the lighting in the garage. How on earth did she end up in this primitive camp without hot water or electricity?
I finish rinsing off and wrap a towel around my waist. When I step back out, she’s nowhere in sight.
I go back to my hut to change, then set off to the common area for breakfast. The camp is slowly coming to life—friendly chatter, the distant clang of pots, and someone humming a tune near the water tank.
The food is once again set up buffet-style on the long wooden table. Slices of fresh pineapple, bananas, bread, peanut butter, and some kind of maize porridge steaming in a big pot await us. The kettle whistles on the open stove nearby, and a few of the women are already gathered at one end of the table sharing stories with mugs in hand. One girl—Heidi, I think—waves me over with a smile.
“Well, if it isn’t the camp celebrity,” she says, scooting over to make room. “How are you adapting to your first camp experience?”
I grab a mug of tea and sit beside her. “Great, actually. Only got bitten by three mosquitoes and mildly insulted by a goat, so I’d say I’m thriving.”
That wins me alaugh. Someone across the table snorts into their tea, and a few more people look over, grinning.
“You’re taking it well,” Heidi says. “Most first-timers are traumatised by the cold showers their first morning.”
“Honestly, it was kind of refreshing. Might take one every morning for the rest of my life.”
“Liar,” someone mutters, which triggers another bout of laughter.
“Oh, yeah,” says another girl with short curls and a sharp sense of humour. I think her name is Clara. “You’ll be begging for a nice warm shower in a few days. Happens to the best of us.”
“Yet you keep coming back,” I say, genuinely curious, and maybe a little impressed. “Why?”
She pops a cube of pineapple in her mouth and grins. “Yup, every year. There’s nothing like it. You get addicted to the feeling that you’re actually making a difference, you know? Even if it’s just holding a kid’s hand in the clinic while they get a dressing changed, or helping build shelves for a classroom. It sticks with you.”
“And Jim runs a tight ship,” Gina chimes in from further down the table. Her short silver hair matches her calm, no-nonsense vibe. Reminds me a bit of my mum, especially with the way she stirs her tea like it’s a science. “I did a mission with a different organisation once—total chaos.”
“I’m glad I picked the right one, then,” I say with full honesty.
Heidi nods. “Jim’s great. Wait till you see him in action. He’s got a spreadsheet brain but a farmer’s heart.”
That elicits a few chuckles.
As the laughter fades into more casual chatter, I glance across the table. Katherine has just arrived, plate in hand. She doesn’t look around, doesn’t say anything. Just takes a seat at the far end of the bench where no volunteers are clustered. Her posture is a little too straight, her expression too carefully blank.
She spreads a dollop of peanut butter on her bread with the back of her spoon, like she’s in a hotel lounge rather than a dusty camp in rural Uganda. She was on her own at dinner last night too, and I have a feeling she has trouble making friends. To be honest, I’m not that surprised, given the attitude she carries around. Still, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her. That’s who I am. I was that one popular kid in school who would take the underdogs under my wing and include them in the group. For a split second, I consider calling her over, but I stop myself just in time. This is Katherine Lennox we’re talking about. The woman who’s made my life a living hell since she moved into my building ayear ago. I don’t owe her anything. In fact, I should stay as far away from her as humanly possible.
They weren’t joking when they said volunteering is intense. I was expecting to maybe put some furniture together or paint a fence, not spend a full day hauling bricks in the sun like I’m back in preseason training. My arms are turning to jelly, I’ve got blisters in places I didn’t know could blister, and I’m pretty sure I’ve sweated out all the tea I drank at breakfast by noon.
Still, weirdly enough… it feels good. Real, somehow. Not like winning a match or getting recognised in a shop. Something simpler. Tangible.
The camp has already gone quiet. Everyone turned in early, and I’m about to call it a night myself. I stretch out on my narrow cot, the mattress thin but not insufferable, and let out a groan. My muscles are definitely going to hate me tomorrow.
Then, I see it.
Movement.
Near the corner of the wall, where the faint moonlight streaming in from the small window hits the plaster.
Nope. Nope nope nope.
