"Good morning, ladies' man. Forget to pack?"

Finn shoots out of bed so quickly you'd think his blankets had turned into lava. "Christ's sake. What time is it?"

"Time for you to get an alarm clock, buddy-boy."

"Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no..." He flings his curtain to the side and receives a sunbeam to the face. "No!"

"Need a hand?" I ask. Finn whirls towards me, expression hopeful— until I continue, "Oh, wait. I forgot you have a girlfriend now. Why don't you ask Becca to help you?"

"You are a bitter human being," he says. True. 

I smile at him as I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder. "As much as I'd love to stay and watch you try to dig yourself out of this hole, I'm already packed, and I don't want to be late to the Hike. I heard that Karen is giving kitchen duty to the last camper that arrives."

"No, no, no. I haven't packed anything. I don't even know where my clean clothes are. Please, Ronan, can't you just drop the wise-guy act and help me out?"

"Why, and let you miss out on such a valuable learning experience? I don't think so."

"Alright, fuck you."

My eyebrow raises on its own accord. "You should really research famous last words. Because that was shit."

"C'mon, you've gotta help me here. I don't want to get kitchen duty. I can't!"

"Look, any other day I would help you, I really would. But I still haven't forgotten the week of kitchen duty I got because of you. So, consider this as making us even."

"That literally happened two months ago!"

"Yes, and do you know what's happening right now? Justice. And I'm exacting it."

Finn waves his hands around frantically, like he's trying to direct air traffic. "Okay, I get it! I gave you the wrong size shirts, and I got you a week of kitchen duty, and I broke your nose— I get it. I'm a terrible roommate. I've given you plenty of reasons to want to get even. I mean, I punched you off a canoe. If I were you I'd want justice too."

"I'm not getting any younger here, Fish. Get to the point."

"Okay. Okay. My point is— I know that we've done a lot of terrible things to each other, but please, just this one time, could we not fight? Could we not try to get even, or exact justice— can we put aside all of our grudges and just be, I don't know— friends?"

He turns those stupidly brown, cow-like eyes on me, and I hear myself sigh.

"You don't have shoes," I tell him.

"Excuse me?"

I sigh again. "Giselle stole your hiking shoes the night of Jasper's birthday party. She hasn't returned them yet."

"Seriously? Why?"

I cough the words into my hand.

Finn's gaze turns severe. "Ronan, what the hell did you do?"

"I may have asked her to steal them."

"You may have what?"

"Oh, you heard me the first time. Don't be such a baby about it."

"I need my hiking shoes to hike, Ronan!"

"Whatever. How about I make it up to you by helping you pack?"

He narrows his eyes at me. "Is this some kind of prank?"

"No. Are you some kind of idiot?"

A loud exhale through his nostrils tells me he didn't find this funny.

"Okay, okay." I hold my hands out like I'm offering him an invisible olive branch. "So we've been treating each other like shit. That part is pretty obvious. You broke my nose, I stole your shoes... and, even though a broken nose is definitely worse than a pair of stolen shoes, I agree that we need to put the past behind us. Water under the bridge."

Some of the suspicion clears from Finn's face. He looks tentatively hopeful. "Does this mean we're friends?"

"Nah. Let's just be roommates for a while."

"I didn't realize there was such a distinction between roommates and friends."

"In life, there are many different tiers. Roommates is several tiers below friendship. Don't let it get to your head. It really is an honor to be roommates with me. After all, I'm so rich and famous."

"And humble, too."

"Out of the mouth of babes," I reply. This banter lets me know that things are okay between us— Finn has forgiven me, and I've (sorta) forgiven him. "So, are you going to sit around and feel sorry for yourself? Or are we going to pack this shit up and hit the road before Karen gives us both kitchen duty for real?"

***

It was the worst of times, it was... well, still the worst of times. To nobody's surprise, the eight-hour hike to the top of Pontoppidan Mountain sucked. The only thing that made it slightly tolerable was James.

He pops up next to me on the trail, shortly after I manage to ditch my roommate in the crowd. (Because that's what we are. Roommates. Not best friends in the Baby-Sitter's Club.) We've only been hiking for a brief twenty minutes when I spot his unmistakable buzz-cut jogging up behind me, and hear him say, in his usual clear, steady way, "Eight hours to go."

His backpack thuds against his spine as he moves. The straps are tied too loose, but I can't tell if this bothers him or not. James doesn't express many things outwardly, whether those things be emotions or spoken words. 

"Want to place bets on who's going to drop dead first?" I ask, a little grumpily. (Let's just say that while Karen didn't give us kitchen duty for running late, she also didn't give us the benefit of the doubt.) "Somebody's gotta go."

"That's morbid."

"Fifty dollars says it's Levi."

James tries to stifle his laugh as the bespectacled camper trudges past us, breathing hard and already looking miserable. "I thought we already discussed this. There's no way I'm taking that action against you, Richie Rich."

"First of all, that's offensive. Second of all, you're just afraid to bet against me because you know I'm right."

"Oh, can you see the future now?"

"No way," I say, a bit uneasily as I think, but I know someone who can.

James smiles at me. It's a goodhearted smile, one that can only be shared among friends. I guess that's what we are now. Friends. The word sounds weird in my head, like it doesn't fit right. Part of me knows why. The other part just keeps repeating, denial, denial, denial.

Maybe the key to this whole relationship is not thinking. I've certainly been doing my fair share of that lately. Sneaking out after dark, damning the rules, damning the counselors... I packed my bag before I met up with James last night. We never really hang out alone, thanks to James' crazy roommate Daniel, but last night was an exception, as Daniel, despite being lactose intolerant, had fallen prey to a cup of ice-cream served after dinner, and was paying the price in the camp bathroom. His absence left James and I to ourselves for once. It was strange but not too strange and in the end, it worked.

We walked down to the lake and just talked. Well, it was more like we sat on the Dock and occasionally spoke between long bouts of silence. (James isn't big on conversation.) But the counselors rarely ever check the Docks for miscreants after lights out, so there was no real fear of being caught. For the first time in a while, maybe since that nap I took during the game of Capture the Flag, I felt calm inside.

Like I said before. It works out well between us.

(Sometimes, I do feel like... well, I can't really explain it. Sometimes I feel things. And I do mean that in the vaguest way possible.)

I've been in a weird mood since my phone call with Jesse.

Not thinking about it.

"Huh?" asks James. It takes me a moment to realize I was thinking out loud.

"Don't worry about it," I say hastily. My temporary brain-lapse has got me feeling pretty alarmed (if I start spewing my thoughts now, what the hell might I say in the future?) so I leap haphazardly to the next topic. "Hey, have you heard the joke about the giraffe and the Republican who walk into a bar?"

James shakes his head. "No, but I get the feeling you're about to enlighten me."

"Man, you are so not ready for this punchline."

"Well, then, enlighten me."

We stop for thirty minutes to eat breakfast, but after that, it's just walking, walking, walking. And it's all uphill, too. At a certain point, not even talking with James can improve my mood. It feels like my legs are about to snap like twigs. What's left of them, anyway. My feet are basically two big blisters. I took my shoes off during breakfast to empty out the dirt, and my socks were already spotted with blood.

About five hours in, the trail starts to become overgrown and dense with vines. Just like the hero Bonnie Tyler always wanted, Owen unsheathes his whacking knife and starts whacking things with it. Still, despite his effort, he's not very good at whacking— or maybe the plants are capable of spontaneous regeneration— because no matter how many plants he hacks in two I still feel like I'm an ill-fated explorer trying to make his way through the depths of the Amazon rain forest. Fortunately, I decided to wear jeans today, and the thick denim material takes the brunt of the vegetation onslaught for me. My bare arms aren't as lucky. I have to grimace and brave my way through the moshpit of pointy, prickling objects that seem to reach out to me as I pass by.

The one perk of the grueling trek is the stunning vistas that pop up out of nowhere between the trees. I can't help feeling moved by the sight of the tumbling green mountains, the bright blue sky (not a cloud in sight), and occasionally, the snaking path of a creek cutting its way through the trees. It's all so huge, so untamed. No civilization in sight. Nothing for miles and miles and miles. Finally, I grasp the true prowess of the Alaskan wilderness. 

The mountains are a city bigger than New York, and they are a city not built for humans like us. It makes me feel both minuscule and gigantic at the same time.

Sometimes we catch a glimpse of the lake. (We're basically walking a circle around it.) The water is just as black from a bird's eye view, and just as smooth. It looks like a mirror reflecting the image of a starless night sky.

As I gaze out into the wilderness like John Muir himself, my jeans chafing my legs and the salt of my sweat stinging the cuts and scrapes on my arms, I don't feel entirely unhappy. The view from the mountain redeems the horrendous, ass-sucking struggle of the eight-hour hike, and almost makes the whole ordeal somewhat "worth it". (I use air quotes because nothing could really make an eight-hour hike worth it.) I get lost in the views and in talking with James, and it's not an altogether miserable existence.

Six hours in, there's quite a large commotion near the front of the line that draws my attention. I pause my conversation with James to pull myself up onto the carcass of an immense fallen pine and get a better look. One of the campers has fallen. It's Levi.

Looks like I'm about to be fifty metaphorical dollars richer.

It appears that Levi has tripped and banged up his leg pretty good, but I can't tell for sure because of all the chaos surrounding him. I wade up through the clamor of campers to check things out. The counselors have formed a protective circle around him, but I can still see the blood trickling down his leg through the gap between Maria's elbow and Sun-Lee's hip. What a wimp. It doesn't look like more than a scrape.

First-Aid certified Owen is crouching down next to the fallen camper, whispering words of comfort and cleaning out the cut with a gauze pad. I notice that he's set the whacking knife down on a nearby tree root. Huh. Leaving sharp objects unattended around many sticky-fingered teenagers can't possibly be camp protocol, but all of the other counselors seem to be too preoccupied with Levi's injury to catch Owen's slip-up.

"Looks like you were right," James whispers to me. "Levi dropped first."

"Something like that," I murmur distractedly.

While all the other campers watch Levi being bandaged up, I keep my eye on the knife— at least, until the counselors move even closer together and my view of the weapon is obscured. I try to crane my neck for a glimpse over Emily's broad shoulders, but then she turns around and gives such a scathing evil eye that you'd think she caught me sizing up her ass, so I sigh in righteous indignation and turn away.

After a good few minutes of groaning and griping, Levi declares that he's fine, and heaves himself to his feet. The crowd of counselors part. Of course, when I look back to the tree root, the knife is gone.

Lightlake can be so predictably awful sometimes.

I scan the group of campers located close enough to the crime scene to be considered suspects. It's not hard to pick out which one of them stole the knife. Clancey, now re-zipping his bag and flinging it over his shoulder, was both near enough to grab the knife and looks flushed in the face like he's got something to hide. Suspect number one.

This night is not boding well for Finn. Or me. I keep forgetting that I'm on Clancey's hit-list now, too. It's hard to keep track of who hates who at this camp.

I slip forward through the crowd and snatch up the roll of bandages Owen left on the ground, discreetly tucking them away in my back pockets. If things are going to end in blood, I might as well be prepared. Nobody wants to get stabbed and get sepsis.

The counselors yell at us to get moving, and so we do. I don't say anything about Clancey stealing the knife and I don't plan to. Why not? you ask. Why would I let a dangerous individual get away with stealing an equally dangerous weapon, especially when it's so obvious who he's going to use it on? I could have easily alerted the counselors to what I saw. And, after performing a quick bag-check, Clancey would have been caught and possibly even kicked out of camp. Victory. Or so you'd think.

My answer is simple. Clancey is an asshole that deserves worse than just expulsion. He thinks that by stealing the knife, he's in control. But he's wrong. The moment he picked up that knife I took control of the situation. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and with the lingering aftertaste of a clever plan.

Hour seven. We're almost there.

The closer we get to the top of the mountain, the sparser the foliage becomes. Owen, so unassuming, doesn't feel the need to take out his whacking stick— and therefore doesn't discover its absence. We keep walking. Nobody notices a thing.

"To your left, you will see the tree-line suddenly end," Owen tells us, gesticulating energetically to the vanishing tree line and adopting the tone of an overzealous tour guide. "That is where the mountain gives way to a three-hundred foot dropping leading directly into the lake. During a mining accident in the 1940s, a huge explosion triggered a rock slide on this side of the mountain, causing over thirteen tons of rock to give way and fall into the lake. The rockslide left a magnificently smooth cliff-face in its wake. You might be able to catch a glimpse of it from the campsite."

Eric shimmies his way towards the edge, but Owen barks an order at him before he gets too far away. "That's close enough, camper. The cliff is quite treacherous. I don't want any of you getting near it."

James hums quietly to himself. I cast a wary look at the cliff, then tighten the straps on my duffel bag and soldier onward.

We continue our journey. Owen points out more details that he probably considers mindbogglingly interesting— a snakeskin left behind by its previous inhabitant, a mound of dirt where something small and fuzzy built its nest, a two-hundred-year-old tree, a violently yellow fungus. I notice Finn watching Owen with rapt attention, and a laugh bubbles up out of my throat. What a wonderfully oblivious life Finn leads. He wouldn't notice Clancey stealing the knife if he was getting stabbed in the gut.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, we arrive at the campsite. There's not much to it— just a fire-pit in the middle of the site and a few patches of woods cleared out for tents— but it looks like nothing short of heaven to me. After such a long hike, my standards are dialed down to level zero. I'm ready to lie down on the cold, hard dirt and hibernate for the rest of the summer. 

The counselors get a fire going and we all roast hot-dogs over the flames (Finn, being vegetarian, is handed a PB&J sandwich by an exasperated Karen). We prop our feet up and massage our aching legs. The entire camp, counselors included, is collectively exhausted, so nobody complains when Owen orders us to bed a nine.

Finn assembles our tent with some difficulty. I watch, but don't contribute. (It's so much more fun to watch him struggle.) Then we unload our backpacks and unroll our sleeping bags, and, not even bothering to change into pajamas, promptly retire to sleep.

Finn conks out the second his head hits the sleeping bag, but I don't even bother closing my eyes. For one of the first times in my life, my insomnia works in my favor. I stay up late into the night, listening to the sound of Finn breathing and the wind murmuring and occasional far-away howl. I lay there awake, and I listen, and I wait.

Tonight is not a night for sleeping.