The heavy canvas of our cabin tent smelled of dry rot and dust as I pulled it from the trunk of our station wagon. Thomas lifted the blue plastic cooler, his shoulder tensing under his plaid shirt as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. Nearby, our six-year-old son Noah sat on a flat log, marching his green plastic Tyrannosaurus toy across a patch of dry moss. The toy had a chipped tail and a missing left eye, but Noah refused to leave it behind.
We had paid the sixty-two dollar fee at the entrance gate ten minutes ago, and already the mountain air felt heavy. The scent of damp pine needles was thick in the clearing, reminding me of summers I had spent decades trying to forget. From three sites down, the low, mechanical hum of a portable generator rattled through the trees, a constant vibration that made the back of my neck tight.
“He needs to wear a hat, Amanda,” Thomas said, his voice dropping into that rhythmic cadence he used when he wanted to build a barrier against my anxiety. “The canopy here has structural gaps, and the sun is direct. We have to establish the perimeter before we lose the light.”
“I have his yellow bucket hat in the glove box,” I said, leaning into the back seat to search the door pocket.
Thomas set the cooler on the wooden picnic table with a hollow thud. “A solid foundation is the only way to keep the structure from shifting. We agreed we would give them this one weekend.”
A twig snapped near the edge of the clearing.
Emily stepped out from the shadow of a large cedar, her light blue windbreaker zipped to her chin. She was smiling, but her eyes remained flat as she looked at Noah. She twisted a strand of her blonde hair around her index finger, a habit she kept from childhood when she was about to tell a falsehood.
“Look who decided to join the living,” Emily said, her voice carrying that high-pitched, sing-song tone she used when she wanted to soften a sharp edge.
