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areyoureadyforsomemeatballz · 1 year

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“It’s like looking at a poorly developed Polaroid--streaks of white rippling through your vision, flashes of technicolor dotting the corners.”

God, the imagery here is incredible! And it’s seriously in the first few lines of the story… Like buckle up, you know you’re in for a FUCKING good one! (Side note: I could literally pull a million lines and say this same thing. THE IMAGERY IS UNMATCHED.)

“You know, without really knowing, that you’re drenched in blood, too. Head-to-toe, top-to-bottom, caked in blood.”

And we’re offff! I don’t read horror often, but here we are… A full on ‘Carrie’ moment to fuel our nightmares. And don’t get me started on the disturbing descriptions of the “strange figure”. One word: HAUNTING!

“Mind dipping your finger in mine? I like mine extra sweet.”

AAAAAAA ROOSTER! I love him already (I’m not even sorry). The banter, you guys, the freaking banter! Screaming. Crying. Throwing up. That’s all…

No quote, but: JAKE WITH A MUSTACHE. I repeat, Jake with a mustache and it’s just to spite Bradley. This little blood drive section was complete perfection. Gale’s got a major choice with these two, I can already see it. Jake’s blood phobia is gonna be a problem, I can see that too! Also Hungry Like the Wolf playing feels like foreshadowing… I seriously cannot get over how well you right the whole Dagger Squad. Like ugggh! I. AM. IN. AWE. I also can’t get enough of this story and suddenly reading it in my dark apartment feels a little spooky. Something is definitely brewing at Camp Arcadia and it’s not just this monster storm. I can’t wait to read the next part!

♀ 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

♀ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐥𝐞) 𝐱 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 ♀ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You have a nightmare the night before the camp blood drive. ♀ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.8k ♀ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. ♀ 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ♀ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 ♀ 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐚𝐤𝐬, 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐚

When you see the figure for the first time, you’re dreaming.

Distantly, on some faraway plane where the tiniest sliver of your awakeness resides, you know you are dreaming. It isn’t obvious really except for the way everything looks. It’s like looking at a poorly developed Polaroid--streaks of white rippling through your vision, flashes of technicolor dotting the corners. Everything is murky, muddled.

You’re standing in the mess hall by yourself, which has never happened before, and every muscle beneath your sizzling skin is locked in place. You can hardly breathe, even--your lungs stunted at a deep exhale. The long, wooden picnic-style tables flank you on either side, expanding along the worn floorboards. You can still smell, very faintly, the charcoal from the grilled burgers last night.

It’s not a moment after you realize you can’t breathe that you make out the figure in the near distance. It’s something hunched over, shrouded in black, made up of something thicker than shadow and thinner than skin. It’s moving minutely, shivering almost. Something deep in your aching belly tells you--immediately upon first glance--that the figure is unfamiliar. This isn’t Rooster or Hangman or Phoenix: this is a stranger.

If you could speak, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t want to draw attention to yourself, not when you’re so near the strange figure. Fear is gripping your throat so strongly that it feels like a noose wrapped around your neck and being slowly tightened. You feel like you have to stand on the very tip of your toes to just breathe.

You can’t even blink, can’t look away even for a millisecond. There are tears streaming down your face, fat and hot, and you can do nothing but let them fall into your open mouth and dissolve on your tongue in puddles of salt.

Light floods the room--not sunshine, but artificial, like the flash of a camera bulb. For a moment, your vision is clear and crisp: that’s when you see the blood. It’s all over the floor, smeared across the benches, seeping between the floorboards, painting the windows, splattering the ceiling. And the figure contorts, stretching and cracking with sickly pops that burst on your eardrums like gunpowder exploding from a barrel.

Suddenly, your body is warm and your vision is grainy again. You know, without really knowing, that you’re drenched in blood, too. Head-to-toe, top-to-bottom, caked in blood. Beneath your fingernails, between your molars, soaking your roots, dousing your robe and nightgown.

You don’t know whose blood it is. You don’t know who’s standing just before you, their body contorting and rippling as they leave the crouching position. And when the stink of rot fills your nostrils, coats your throat, fills your stilled lungs, that's when the figure finally makes a sound. That is when a deep and guttural--

Gulping the chilled air, you jolt out of the nightmare and wake up on your cot where you fell asleep hours ago. It takes a few moments for you to realize it, blinking up at the ceiling, glancing at the taper candle--the one you forgot to blow out--that’s almost burned to the wick, swallowing all that fresh Maine air hungrily.

Toying with the hem of your plaid felt blanket, you try to regulate your breathing as you flex your jaw and flatten your shoulders. Your bones are heavy with exhaustion and your face feels hot from sinking so deeply into the goose-down pillow.

You’re fine. It was a nightmare. You’re just worried about today. You’re going to be fine. It was only make-believe. It’s okay.

The morning light is still more black than blue and there is a distinct chill in your cabin, which has you reaching for the wool socks you always pack but never wear.

And it’s when you catch your breath, looking up at your collage of children’s drawings on your cabin wall, that your ears suddenly cease in their ringing and hone in on the very moment you’re living in.

Strange. You can’t hear anything except your own pulse.

The walls of your cabin stand silently around you in the dark, not settling or groaning. The birds are not awake yet and the crickets, the bullfrogs have retired. There is no wind tickling the leaves of the tall oak trees outside. No twigs snapping under the puny weight of a scampering gray squirrel, no goldfinches crooning as they hop from branch to branch.

Usually there’s splashing down near the water, the boys racing down the hill in their skivvies with brash laughter falling from their wide-open mouths. Usually there are children screaming during games of Red Rover or Statue or Spud. Usually there are whistles being blown and announcements being made over the loudspeaker. All emulsified, concocted a symphony of noise that is as effective as slipping headphones over your ears.

But the sun hasn’t risen. There are no birds or crickets or bullfrogs. There is no wind. No one else is awake on campgrounds, which is just something that you know. You’ve caught the earth in a rare moment of in-between, when night is becoming day, when the veil is so thin that it’s translucent. The kind of moment that you miss if you blink.

And instead of relishing in that, you’re overcome with dread. Something feels wrong about it all--Camp Arcadia is never supposed to be quiet. Again, your lungs feel heavy as if filled with damp sand and your fingertips are quivering.

But then, just as your skin gooses and your belly turns, the birds begin to sing and the wind begins to blow. Like it was waiting for you to notice--like something is taunting you.

“Jesus,” you whisper into the dark. You rub your palms over your eyes and let your hands rest there, leaving you in the pitch black again. “Fuck.”

“You okay, birdie?”

You’re not sure why--or how--you don’t scream, but you don’t. Instead, every bone in your body locks and your head is on a swivel, eyes scanning the dirty screens that line the wall by the front door.

There’s that fear again, the one that paralyzes you--but then there’s a warm glow that lights your cabin and oh. Oh. It’s only Rooster standing outside your front door, holding a lantern. He’s still in his pajamas, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Christ, Bradshaw,” you mutter, groaning as you sit up. The springs of the thin mattress groan louder than you somehow, crying under your every movement. “You’re really gonna make me freak out!”

Rooster’s only been standing here a few moments, just long enough to hear you curse and hold your palms over your eyes. He was taking one of his kids to the latrine, blinking himself awake, when he heard the strangled gasps coming from your cabin. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t overstated, but it was enough for him to hear on the quiet blue plane of Camp Arcadia. In fact, he felt like it was the only noise he could hear at all.

It helps that the altrine is right beside your cabin--which has meant that Rooster often gets to pass by your windows and make sure you’re alright when he’s taking his campers to potty after midnight. Sometimes, he’ll catch you still awake, reading in candlelight. Sometimes he’ll wave and you’ll wave, too. Other times, he’ll sneak back over after tucking his camper back into their cot, and share a drink of that brandy you brought with you.

“Sorry,” he whispers to you, genuinely apologetic. “Not trying to creep or anything. Just came to check on you.”

You nod, raking your hands through your hair. And then you heave yourself out of bed, slip into your robe, and unlock the screen door of your cabin. Rooster’s grinning at you, hands on his hips, eyes washing over your robed figure.

“Had a wicked nightmare,” you tell him, closing the door behind him. “It was major.”

Rooster inhales the scent of your cabin--you always manage to make it smell so sweet, just by living here for a few months. It smells like old oak and dust, but it’s hidden beneath a layer of vanilla and jasmine that he always attributes to you and your perfume.

“Yeah?” He asks. With the glow of the heavy lantern lighting your little cabin, he squints at your bedside table. And there, beside the glass of water and the reading glasses you’re too embarrassed to wear in front of anyone, is Carrie by Stephen King. “Gee, I wonder what the nightmares are about.”

Busted.

Rooster sits on your unmade bed, which is still warm from your body, and sets the lantern on the ground before picking up the book and raising his brows at you.

“Oh, what’s that have to do with the price of tea in China?” You sigh, smiling.

You lean against the door, just a few paces away from him as he flips through your dog-eared book, and take him in while he’s drenched in golden light from the lantern--his red shorts, which get tighter every summer, and his cropped top that sports a very faded image of Wile-E Coyote.

“Have a blood-soaked dream?” Rooster asks, glancing at you over the novel. When you bite your lip and wrinkle your nose, Rooster laughs and closes the book. “Nurse Nightingale, don’t you know better than to watch Jaws while you’re swimming in the ocean?”

With that, he tucks the book beside the lantern, fully intending on taking it with him.

“Oh, you’re gonna confiscate my summer reading, then, huh?” You ask, shuffling across the floor until you’re standing before him. When you’re this close, you can smell the sweat that dots his hairline and the incense that stains his skin. “Way to stick it to the man.”

“Listen,” Rooster defends, biting his lip hard to stop himself from wrapping his arms around your waist. “When I hear a damsel in distress, I do what I can!”

You scoff.

“Damsel in distress?” You ask, gesturing to yourself and the quaint cabin around you. “Let me know when you locate her, clydesdale.”

Rooster beams. He likes the back-and-forth you and him have. You’re really on his wavelength, always quipping back. It’s refreshing. He looks forward to it every summer.

“Listen, you were crying out in your sleep! You’re lucky I didn’t break down your door,” he tells you, smirking as he leans back on his palms.

A bit of his belly peeks out from under his shirt, tanned and toned, and you swallow hard. Shit. Even his mustache seems like it’s smirking at you, which makes you tighten your robe in fear that it will magically fall off your body and leave you in your little nightgown in front of him.

“I was, huh? Bizarre. I’m usually such a log when I sleep. Anything good?” You ask.

Rooster beams at you.

“Just the usual, you know? Oh God, give it to me! Yes, yes, yes--!”

You smack his shoulders, biting your bottom lip as his laughter fills your cabin. Heat has pooled in your chest and throat, but you can’t help the grin that pulls on your lips.

“Can it,” you tell him.

“Aw, birdie, I’m only joshing you!” He tells you when he sees the way your eyes have gone glossy with embarrassment. “Listen, you’re our precious thing, alright? Gotta protect you!”

“And by precious you mean virgin?” You ask, brow perched.

It isn’t something you’re secretive about. And it isn’t like you haven’t done anything at all. You absolutely have--with several different men--but you just haven’t found any one of them to be worthy of going all the way. It’s somewhat of a joke between all the counselors now, something they tease you for.

Rooster swallows hard now, shrugging.

“Sure.”

“Well,” you start, tucking his curls behind his ears and then patting his smooth cheeks. “This cherry’s intact. And she wants to start a pot of coffee before the gremlins rise from the dead. You down?”

Rooster grins at you. His chest is tight from your touch, like it always is when you’re this close to him. But he nods, very cool and collected.

“Mind dipping your finger in mine?” He asks. He stands up, collects the lantern and your book. Then he grins down at you, chest grazing yours. “I like mine extra sweet.”

♀

Right now, you’re basking in a moment of aloneness in the nurse’s cabin and wondering why you took that glorious silence this morning for granted. And you’re kicking yourself for not having that second cup of coffee that Rooster offered later on.

“That’s cheating!” A camper screams outside in the yard, quivering your eardrum.

It’s amazing how easily sound travels here, which probably has a little bit to do with the lake and a lot to do with how small campgrounds really is.

“Buzz off, fart-breath!” Another one returns.

A piercing whistle breaks through the air and makes you wrinkle your nose as you tilt your head towards the ceiling and fan your sweaty neck. It’s not even noon yet and that whistle has raddled your eardrums a record-breaking amount of times today.

“Hey!” Phoenix calls. “You’re gonna have to get off my turf if you’re gonna use that language, Abernathy! Capische?”

You can’t see Phoenix from where you’re standing with your back towards the door, but you can imagine the serious rise of her eyebrows and the flat line of her lips as she coaches.

“Capische,” Abernathy groans. You can’t see him either, but you can imagine the 10-year-old pressing the toe of his Chuck Taylors into the gravel with a pout planted firmly on his lips. “But--!”

“Abernathy, if there’s more you have to say, then let’s sideline this and talk our feelings out, huh?” Bob asks.

It makes you grin, even as beads of sweat drip down your spine. Bob is the newest counselor, this only being his second summer, and his approach with disputes between campers has been wildly effective.

“No, no,” Abernathy quickly yells out, his voice sounding farther away than before. “I’m cool, Mister Bob! No heart-to-hearts!”

Bob’s pleased with himself, pushing his glasses up his nose and nodding at Abernathy as he slinks back off towards Phoenix’s side of the field. Phoenix shoots Bob a thumbs up and he keens--they make a great team. Built-in good cop, bad cop.

The noise gradually builds again, all the children playing. The nurse’s cabin is not very well insulated so you can hear most everything that happens outside, even the distinct sound of rubber soles dragging on the gravel and stopping just outside the threshold of the open door.

Coyote clears his throat, holding Jake’s shoulders firmly, and beaming at you as you turn to face them. Your face looks warm, little pieces of hair matted to your temples with sweat, but your grin is warmer than the sun that’s been beating down on everyone relentlessly today.

“Who’s there?” You call, already knowing who it is.

“Your next victim,” Coyote introduces, shoving Jake past the threshold of the cabin and promptly blocking the doorway with his broad body. “Can I watch?”

Jake, who is grumbling and smoothing out the wrinkles Coyote left on his shirt and his dignity, gives you a pleading look. His mustache wilts above his frown, his green eyes wide.

Please don’t let Coyote watch.

Holding your hands on your hips, you give Coyote a sweet smile, then shake your head.

“Someone’s gotta watch the kids,” you remind Coyote. You step towards Jake and lace your arm through his, much to his enjoyment. “In fact…jinkies, if you’re here and he’s here, then who’s driving the bus?”

“Zoinks!” Coyote says, playing along. Then he blows you and Jake a kiss.

And at that, Coyote is sauntering back off to where he left his gaggle of campers, still grinning from Jake’s utter lack of bravery about donating blood.

“Thought he’d never leave,” Jake sighs, wrapping an arm around you. For a brief moment, all you can smell is him--deodorant and sweat and grass. “So, you’ll just pop a bandaid on my arm and I’ll be on my way, huh? Our little secret.”

You wrap your arm around his waist, too, and guide him to the little examination table that you’ve just disinfected. You tut, letting him take a seat. He’s cocksure as ever, which is nothing new. Even the way he’s sitting right now in his little ringer shorts, legs spread and a grin dominating his features.

“What makes you think you’re getting out of donating?” You ask him, brows raised.

Oh, fuck. Jake didn’t think you would actually make him do it.

“I thought we had…an understanding?” He tries. He knows already that it’s for naught--the two of you have precisely zero understanding on the grounds of him donating today. “A rapport?”

You purse your lips, unimpressed.

“I don’t recall,” you tell him.

He swallows hard.

“C’mon,” he tries dryly. “You and I go way back--can’t you do a guy a favor?”

You nod vehemently.

“Sure, I can!” You say, enthused. The crease between his brow fades. “But favors don’t usually involve lying, do they?”

Jake shakes his head at you, looking suddenly anguished.

“After everything we’ve been through?” He asks, holding a hand over his heart.

Everything you’ve been through meaning four summers working together at Camp Arcadia, two of which you’ve been the camp nurse and not a counselor.

“You have to donate,” you tell him point blank.

“I really can’t.”

“You really can.”

“I’m gonna pass out,” Hangman says indignantly, throwing his arms up in defense. “Blood makes me downright queasy, Gale! I’ll hurl! All over your jellies!”

“Hey,” you warn, waggling your finger at him. “Leave my jellies out of this!”

He beams at you, eyebrows raised and arms crossed over his t-shirt, which is so tight across his chest that it’s practically translucent.

“Then leave my blood alone! It’s a no-go, Nurse Nightingale!”

In his defense, Jake really does have a blood phobia. He can’t stand horror pictures and he’s made it a specific point to not watch Friday the 13th for that reason--but also because he’s been counseling at Camp Arcadia every summer since he was sixteen. He doesn’t need any more nightmare fuel; he gets enough of that between the snakes that like to live in the showers and the poison ivy incident of ‘85. His skin still crawls when he thinks about the rash that spread across his knees and calves--among other precious, private places.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, biting that grin that’s tugging on your lips. Really, you shouldn’t be smiling right now. Jake has been going in circles with you about this for the past five minutes. You should be growing weary. You should be rolling your eyes and moving on, leaving him on the table by himself.

But he’s just so charming. Even with his shaggy blonde hair that’s just a touch too long--he’s been begging you to cut it, but you would much prefer to stick with bandaids and epi-pens versus scissors and clippers--and that bushy mustache he’s growing out just to spite Bradshaw, he’s charming.

“Every counselor is donating,” you tell him, gesturing to the field just outside the nurse’s cabin that is alive with sounds of children playing and whistles blowing and counselors hollering. “Hell, we even had some tikes donate! You gonna be a chicken about this?”

Jake narrows his eyes at you, shaking his head minutely. You know you’re getting across to him, know it just by the way he’s looking at you and not speaking. Rendering Jake speechless is as good as getting him to say fine, fine, I’ll do it!

“Look,” you tell him, sighing. You point to your own arm, where there’s a band aid covering the tiny puncture wound from where you drew your own blood. “I did it, too!”

Jake scoffs.

“Yeah, aren’t you a universal donor or some shit?” He asks. He throws his arms up in the air again, gesturing wildly. “So, basically, you’re giving twice the amount of blood!”

“Your logic is bogus,” you tell him. You take matters into your own hands, pressing your palms against his shoulders and nudging him to rest against the wall of the cabin. “Listen, I’ll make it quick, okay? You’ll be done before you know it! Boom, bam, back to wiping snotty noses.”

“Hey!” He complains. “My kiddos don’t have snotty noses!” After a beat--one where you raise your brows at him expectantly and he deflates--he sighs. “Alright! You caught me! They do,” he says softly. “But we’re working on it! Summer ain’t over yet!”

“Set an example for them,” you say softly. “Be brave.”

As if to prove your point, you flex your biceps. Jake mocks impression, whistling lowly and delivering a gentle squeeze to your arms.

“You can be tough for the both of us,” he tells you. “Hey, I’ll tell you what--you tell everyone that I donated and I’ll score you an extra muffin tomorrow morning! How about it, honey?”

“Bargaining is the third stage of grief,” you tell him, hands on your hips. “C’mon! We’re withering away in here!”

Jake grumbles, but allows you to hold his wrist and lay his arm out flat on the table. Finally--it only took forever and a day to get him to comply. He’s the second-to-last person to donate and you’re ready to be done poking people today.

Besides, it’s getting stuffy in here. There’s no air conditioning anywhere on campgrounds, but it’s especially stuffy in the nurse’s cabin since there’s only two little windows. That’s why you always have the door propped open with a rock--one that you can’t even lift, one that the boys usually have to move for you.

“You’ve gotta kiss it better, though,” Jake tells you. His jaw is set now, his fist clenched. “Promise it, honey.”

You’re lucky your back is turned to him right now--you don’t want him to see the way you’re biting back a grin or the way all the heat in your body is gathering across your throat and cheeks.

“I’ve been told that I’ve got a sweet touch,” you tell him, gathering the rubbing alcohol and tubes on a metal tray before returning to his side. He swallows hard as you force your hands into a pair of latex gloves, flinching when you snap them on your wrists. “Veg, Hangman!”

“You’re wigging me out,” Jake complains. He swallows hard, eyes lingering on the needle. “Jesus, I might really ralph!”

Silently, you pinch his chin and angle his face towards you. You keep his gaze, smiling in a small and sweet way. Even as much as you’re enjoying teasing him about this, the big and bad man around campus who always kills the snakes and doesn’t mind taking a dip in the lake in just his tighty-whities, you know that this is real. He is scared--you believe him.

You have good bedside manner--it’s been complimented abundantly--and having practiced on all the campers this summer, you’re completely cool and confident when you stroke Jake’s chin.

“Just keep your eyes here, homeboy,” you tell him.

“Easy,” he says softly.

You roll your eyes, lips pursed, but he sees that amusement written all over your face.

He swallows hard again. His mouth is dry just looking at you right now. You’re glowing in the late morning sunlight, your face sweet and composed even as you wet a little pad of cotton and press it against his vein. You’re beautiful always--but you’re especially beautiful when you’re doing something you’re good at. And this, taking care of people, you’re good at this. You’re really, really good at this.

“Storm’s moving in, huh?” You ask, glancing at him. He’s still staring at your face, unable to look at you unpackaging the needle and tying a band just above his vein. “Supposed to be pretty mental, I heard. Weatherman called it the storm of the summer.”

Jake watches your lashes flutter as you press a gloved thumb to his vein, aggravating it. He tenses and you, instinctually, tut and pat his bare knee. It’s what you do with the kiddos when they’ve got a splinter or scraped knee.

“Yeah, storms always make the kids act like mania--DAMMIT!” Jake’s entire body tenses when you gently push the needle into his vein and straighten out the tube, making sure his blood is collecting correctly in the vials. “Damn, ever heard of on three?”

“You’d flinch on three,” you tell him with a small smile. You meet his eyes again, smiling. “Now, tell me about those maniacal kids.”

Just as Jake is about to say something, his head tipped back against the wood as he grinds his teeth, there’s a knock on the open door.

Standing in the doorway is Coyote and Rooster, both of which are dressed in their tight ringer t-shirts with STAFF printed across the back, grinning at you and Jake as sweat pours down their faces. Both of them play just as hard as the kids do--which is why they’re so popular around here.

“He gonna make it?” Coyote asks. “I’m getting buried alive out here!”

Jake grumbles, paralyzed by the little needle in his arm and unwilling to look down in fear that he really will keel over.

Rooster has his eyes on you, grinning as he pants. You’re grinning at him, too, hands on your hips as you nod towards Jake.

“Give him a couple more minutes,” you tell them. “He’s gonna need a cookie to recharge.”

“Then my turn, huh?” Rooster asks you, brow perched.

Biting your lip, you nod.

“Right-o, Bradshaw,” you tell him. “You gonna give me as much trouble as Seresin here?”

Rooster glances at Jake, who has his eyes closed and his brow creased as he lies completely motionless against the wall. Rooster grimaces, shaking his head.

“No, ma’am,” he tells you. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” you tell him.

“How’s it hanging, man?” Coyote taunts. Then he nudges Bradley with his elbow, waggling his eyebrows. “See what I did there?”

Somehow, though his entire body is rigid with discomfort, Jake manages to weakly flip Coyote the bird. Coyote barks out a laugh and sighs.

“There he is,” Coyote says. Coyote holds a hand over his heart and bats his lashes at Jake. “There’s the man I fell in love with!”

Grinning, you gesture for Rooster and Coyote to get going.

“Shoo,” you tell them. “Let the man bleed out in peace!”

You don’t miss Rooster’s wink before he returns to the camp-wide game of tag.

“That guy’s a clown,” Jake mutters, still not opening his eyes.

You chuckle, fiddling with the tube a final time before letting your palms rest on his knees.

“I think he’s alright,” you answer with a sigh. Hangman peeks at you, nose wrinkling. “What’s your beef with him, anyway?”

Jake’s beef with him, of course, is that they’ve both been competing for your attention for four summers now. Ever since you started on at Camp Arcadia, at first as a counselor as you worked your way through nursing school, they’ve been swooning over you and chasing after you like lovesick puppies. This has solidified a ridiculous and long-standing rival between the two men, which is constantly taunted by the other counselors--and even the campers, sometimes.

“Nothing,” Jake breathes. “He’s just a shameless flirt.”

You guffaw.

“Imagine that,” you mumble. “Pot, meet kettle.”

And before Jake can respond, you swiftly pull the needle from his arm and replace it with a tuft of cotton to blot the blood that’s staining his arm. Jake’s entire body goes slack and he heaves out a sigh of relief, finally glancing down at the damage. You work quickly, pressing a bandaid to his skin and twisting the caps on the vials.

“I don’t even get to pick which color of bandaid, huh? That’s cold.”

Smiling, you shake your head.

“How bad was it, huh?” You ask, glancing at him through your lashes.

His cheeks are pale--but you’re sure that’s more anxiety-induced than anything else.

“You kidding me? I could do that all day,” he says weakly.

You label the vials while he recovers, sticking them in the refrigerator. After taking your gloves off, you waltz over to the little refreshment station and smile at him.

“Apple or grape?” You ask, nodding to the juice boxes.

“Grape. Duh,” he says. And before you can ask, he says, “Chocolate chip.”

Just to tease him, you fix his juicebox for him before handing it over, grinning. He rolls his eyes but takes it nonetheless.

“So, you were saying the kids turn into wild animals when it storms?” You ask, leaning against the exam table.

Jake nods, sipping the sweet juice.

“Uh huh,” he answers. “Coyote and I can usually get them to settle in if we promise to keep watch.”

That makes your chest warm. You remember what it was like dealing with little people who don’t have rationalization skills yet--how silly their fears seemed and how big the most minute things seemed in their tiny worlds. Hangman and Coyote are good with their age group--the seven and eight-year-olds--despite the awkward in-between age.

“So, you’re gonna be up all night, then?” You ask softly.

Hangman takes a bite of his cookie and nods. He’s watching your face again, the way your eyes have fallen to his throat. You’re watching every single movement of his neck; the straining tendons, the bobbing Adam’s apple, the constriction when he swallows.

“Most definitely,” he tells you. “Why? Afraid of storms, honey? Need me to check in on you?”

You roll your eyes.

“You wish,” you tell him. You’re grinning, though, finally meeting his lingering gaze. “Now, get lost. And tell Rooster to get in here.”

But Hangman shakes his head, resting against the wall still.

“I was promised a kiss,” he says easily, glancing down at his arm.

If you could fight the grin off your face, you feel like you’d be fairing a lot better right now. But all the heat of the summer has suddenly collected and pooled in your cheeks and throat.

Jake watches you--you’re flustered. He knows you well enough by now to know that you fluster easily under the right conditions. He’s always scouring for those moments, ones where he can sneak in a little bit of touch or a lot of sweet talk, and make you roll your eyes with that megawatt grin.

“Princess,” you grumble, holding his wrist in your hand again.

He’s just grinning at you with a mouthful of cookie, watching your every move. You move tenderly to press your sticky lips over the latex on his arm, a quick and warm thing that you don’t let linger.

Jake is pleased as ever, sighing like he’s just gulped a glass of water.

“This is the life,” he tells you.

“Rooster,” you remind him, pointing towards the door and dropping his arm.

That heat won’t leave your face.

With that, Hangman scarfs the rest of his cookie and salutes you, hopping to his feet. For a brief moment, your bodies graze another. You can feel how hot his skin is and he can feel the dampness of your floral dress against him.

He grins down at you like this is precisely what he meant to do, like he calculated his movements to have your body pressed up against his. He winks at you, a quick and cocksure thing, before pressing a lewd kiss to the top of your head and sauntering off in his little shorts and Reeboks.

You’re cleaning off the examination table, bent over to reach the far corner, when you feel the heat of Rooster’s gaze burning your skin. You pretend not to notice, letting your dress ride up your thighs. You even lean over even further, hiking your knee up on the table, to turn up the little radio sitting on the window sill.

Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran is playing now, echoing in the stuffy cabin.

Rooster’s biting his lip, leaning against the doorway, watching you move. God, you’re gorgeous. You don’t have to wear the ringer shirt and shorts that the counselors do--and he’s thanking the Heavens for that right now as your dress rides up and gives him a daunting glimpse of all the smooth flesh of the back of your thighs.

Sometimes you and Rooster do this--play chicken, wait for the other to fold. It’s a game you’ve been playing since you were younger, when you were the newest bright-eyed camp counselor and he was the mullet-toting older counselor who showed you the ropes, took you under his wing.

“Gonna stand there all day?” You finally ask, not turning around.

“Lord willing,” he sighs, grinning.

But then he saunters over to you, fingering the hem of your dress as you bite a smile, finally glancing over your shoulder. His chest pressed against your back, he takes a moment to inhale the jasmine that perfumes your skin.

“I’m sweaty,” you warn.

When his rough fingertips press into your skin, you stifle a shiver.

“I don’t mind,” Rooster whispers, nose nudging your ear. “I like your stink. It’s my fave.”

As if to prove his point, he burrows his nose in your hair and takes a big whiff. You break in laughter, struggling away from him and turning in his arms to push his chest.

“You’re an apeman!” You tell him. “Now, sit down on this table so I can make you bleed.”

“I love it when you talk gory to me,” he says, jovially hopping up on the table and giving you his arm. “Poke me, baby.”

Again, you roll your eyes, but cross the tile to grab a sterile needle and a few more vials.

“The kids acting something ugly today?” You ask.

Rooster nods, watching you carefully pack up the metal tray before you turn around and head for him again.

“You betcha,” he answers, sighing. He watches your face as you skillfully tie a band above his vein and apply some alcohol to a cotton ball, humming like this is just what you do in your spare time. “Gonna have a long night with my chicks. They’re all scared of thunderstorms.”

You grimace, sucking your teeth and wrinkling your nose.

“They’re gonna freak,” you tell him, nodding to the radio. “Storm of the summer’s gonna be pushing through after midnight.”

Rooster sighs.

You push the needle into his vein and he watches the whole time, eyebrows knit slightly. You straighten the tube and make sure his blood is collecting the way you need it to before smiling up at him.

“You’ve got a sweet touch,” he tells you softly, eyes lingering on your mouth as you stifle a smile. “Don’t know what Hangman was crying about.”

“Phobias are very real,” you tell Rooster. “It’s the brain’s way of trying to protect us from things it perceives as evil.”

Rooster scoffs.

“I must be Hangman-phobic, then,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the millionth time today.

“You two are gonna kill each other before summer’s over,” you sigh. “How’s your one-man show going, anyway?”

“I like being the rooster in the coop and all, but I wish Tara hadn’t pulled out last minute. She kinda left me hanging,” he tells you.

He’s talking about Tara Hannity. She was supposed to be the only new hire of the summer, coming all the way from Kansas or something like that. She was supposed to help man the five and six-year-olds with Rooster, but unexpectedly resigned a week before camp was due to begin. That leaves Rooster by himself with seven kids--all of whom worship him.

“I think it’s sweet how much they dig you,” you tell Rooster with a small smile. “They pretty much think you walk on water, don’t they?”

“Big time,” Rooster answers with a sigh.

You think for a moment, keeping your eyes low and on the steady stream of blood that’s flooding from Rooster’s arm and into the collection vials.

“You know, if you ever need any backup…” you start with a slight shrug, “I’m pretty much off the clock after dinner. Kids usually aren’t hitting their noggins after they have sloppy joes.”

Rooster, who prides himself on his ability to hold down the fort by himself, grins at you.

“I could use a spare hand every now and then,” he says. “If you think you can handle it.”

Now you scoff, leaning against the table with your arms crossed.

“If I can handle Hangman threatening to ralph all over my jellies, I can handle anything,” you tell Rooster, who beams at you. “All the kids love me, anyway.”

It’s true--you’ve got a little fan club. The wall above your cot in your cabin is cluttered with drawings from craft time, ranging from stick figures drawn with pencil to smiley faces scribbled in crayon to watercolor portraits. You play the part of nurse well--you’re kind and smart and comforting, but you also have a certain authoritative air about you that keeps those kids in line.

“You are a popular one,” he tells you. “Can we all sleep in your cot tonight when the storm comes knocking?”

“Sure,” you tell him. “So long as no one’s wetting the bed.”

“Broke that habit last summer,” Rooster teases. “I’m a big kid now.”

“You’re such a ditz,” you tell Rooster, shaking your head.

“Thought about your nightmare any more today?” Rooster asks.

You clear your throat, shrugging. Not really--honestly. You’re a practical woman, a nurse who thoroughly believes in science. It’s really no wonder you had that nightmare--reading Carrie and having the blood drive today. It’s not difficult for you to connect the dots.

“Nah,” you tell him. “I’m a big girl now.”

As you lean over to take the needle from his arm, he laughs a big and good laugh. It’s louder than the music, louder than the children yelling outside. It’s a good sound--one that you don’t mind overpowering everything else. But you can’t smile because as soon as the needle is out of Rooster’s arm, he’s bleeding all over the table.

“Oh,” you say, blinking down at his arms as you quickly gather gauze to press against him. “Shit, I didn’t peg you for a bleeder, Bradshaw!”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” he tells you with a sigh. He’s frowning at his own arm, watching the blood drip onto your gloved hands. “I’ve always been.”

“No problem-o,” you sing. “Just give me a warning next time, huh?”

You work diligently, applying pressure to his arm and wrapping it with cotton and medical tape--tight. Then you gently pat his arm with a smile.

“Piece of cake,” he says with a grin. “Say, you should be a nurse or something!”

“Aren’t you just full of good ideas today?”

As you settle the vials in the fridge, he stuffs a couple cookies in his mouth and punctures a juice box, leaning against the table. You flutter around the room easily, dropping the bloody gloves in a medical waste box and sighing, fanning yourself as you meet his gaze.

“Hot?” He asks.

You nod.

“Burning up,” you tell him.

He bites his lip and swallows his mouthful of cookie harshly.

“I can tell,” he says seriously.

Biting down hard on your bottom lip, you rest against the counter and tilt your head at him. Your relationship with him is a peculiar one--punctuated by your mutual attraction to each other and relentless flirting. But there’s some disconnect, some vital open wound that won’t heal before the summer ends.

There was that one time, of course, two summers ago. You and Rooster had wandered into the woods to gather kindling during a counselor-wide bonfire. Somewhere between the few gulps of rumchata you’d shared and the darkness of the woods, you ended up pinned against a tree with his hot lips wrapped around your clit. But it had been interrupted by something--a snapping twig--and has never been resumed. It hasn’t even been spoken about since then.

“You better get back to your chicks,” you tell him, swallowing hard.

Rooster beholds you, leaning against the counter, fanning yourself, a sheen of sweat glowing on your skin. He lets his eyes wander further down, to the swell of your breasts against the floral dress you’re wearing, then to your shining thighs. And those ridiculous jelly shoes you’re wearing--shiny, black things that he’s certain a few of his campers wear, too.

“Hey,” you say, stomping on the floor a few times. “Don’t judge the jellies.”

He grins, meeting your eyes again. He shrugs as he sips the juicebox--apple, of course--and then throws it into the trash can.

“See you out there, Nightingale,” he says. Then he stops in the doorway with a grin, glancing at you. “I just realized we’re both named after birds.”

You squint at him.

“Uh huh,” you say. “And?”

“People could call us lovebirds,” he says, batting his lashes at you a few times.

“Or I could just call you bird brain.”

Rooster hums and then shakes his head.

“I like my idea better,” he says softly. “Maybe we should have the chicks start calling you Hen? Just to eliminate confusion!”

Your heart is racing. Rooster’s grinning at you.

He knows precisely what game he’s playing.

“Scram,” you tell him softly.

And again, you don’t miss that wink he delivers before jogging back out the door.

Christ--you feel like you’re going to be torn in half by the end of the summer.

♀

You’re late to lunch, like you usually are. It’s tedious work labeling all the blood and making sure that the fridge is organized, but you’re finally out the door a few minutes past noon.

Even though the sun is high and hot in the sky, walking onto the gravel outside the nurse’s cabin feels like walking into the frozen dinner section at the grocery store. You stand there for a few minutes, just breathing in the fresh air: the pine and oak leaves and lake water and sunscreen. It sits thickly in the atmosphere--permeating even open areas like the courtyard.

You love the smell of Camp Arcadia. Honestly, you just love Camp Arcadia. The tall oak trees that line the camp, the humble little cabins, the tall flag post that proudly boasts the camp logo, the crackly speakers that you use to make announcements, the cavernous mess hall, the big lake just down the embankment. It’s the closest thing you have to a home-away-from-home.

When you walk into the mess hall, you’re engulfed in sound. Over the loudspeaker, Coyote is playing Modern Love by David Bowie. And you know he’s the one playing it because he’s putting on a show for his campers: breaking out in dance with a sandwich hanging out of his mouth as they all fall to the floor in stitches.

All the campers are talking and laughing, their mouths full and their cheeks red from playing tag all morning. The counselors are chatting, too, scarfing their lunches as they recline against the walls and watch the kids carefully. Everyone’s still recovering from the game of tag earlier, panting and swallowing hard.

The mess hall is the biggest building on camp grounds, an elongated cabin made entirely of wood from vaulted ceiling to wide-plank floors. There’s big windows lining the east and west facing walls, which gives the cavernous hall a sunny disposition and a certain heat, too.

Fanboy and Payback are hosting some sort of finger-football at their table, which has been very popular with their age group--the eleven and twelve-year-olds--this summer. Everyone is participating except for Mable Brandt, who’s diligently reading her bible like she always does during spare time.

Bob and Phoenix are carefully monitoring a table-wide game of Down By the Banks, sneaking in bits of conversation between bites of their sandwiches. Besides the usual banter, the campers have been relatively well-behaved today.

Rooster still hasn’t even started on his own lunch yet, still busy puncturing juice boxes and fielding off-topic questions. He’s honestly lost count of how many times he’s said focus on your food, please! in the last ten minutes--but he knows it’s gotta be double-digits by now.

“Who’s it gonna be today?” Bob asks Phoenix softly, nodding towards you and nudging her.

Phoenix turns and looks at Rooster--who hasn’t looked up from tying June Walker’s tennis shoe for the seventh time today--then sighs with Bob.

“Hangman,” she says.

Bob agrees, glancing over at where all the commotion is coming from--which is, of course, the seven and eight-year-old table. Jake’s already got his eyes on you, a grin growing beneath his mustache.

Jake glances at Coyote, who is doing the worm for the campers much to their amusement, and then whistles. When you look at him, he grins. He points to the empty spot beside him, the one he was saving for you, and beckons you closer. You’re apprehensive for a moment, wrinkling your nose, but then he holds up the muffin he saved for you and you’re immediately crossing the hall.

“We’re getting good at this,” Bob whispers to Phoenix.

Phoenix nods, pressing her curls a bit and taking a bite of her string cheese.

“Years of practice, Bobby,” she tells him. “Years of practice.”

You catch Rooster’s gaze just as you sit beside Hangman, nodding towards him. You two always seem to find each other’s eyes, even in crowded rooms. He nods right back, his hair flopping over his eye. He watches you take the muffin from Jake from his spot with the littles, too busy making sure Susie finishes her yogurt and Howie stops pulling Sarah’s pigtails. If he didn’t have so much on his plate, he would’ve gestured for you to come sit with them.

“Hey!” Sarah screeches, near tears at this point. Howie grins at her, strawberry jam smeared across his ruddy cheeks. “Stop it!”

“Hey,” Rooster says, eyeing Howie, who smiles timidly up at Rooster. “You keep that up and I’m gonna make you sleep in the outhouse, pal.”

“No,” Howie whines, crossing his arms. “It stinky in there!”

Rooster nods.

“You’re being stinky,” Rooster tells Howie factually. “We don’t pull our friends’ hair. Got it, kid?”

Howie nods, grumbling to himself.

“Mister Rooster?” Susie asks.

He glances at her. He’s trying not to sound as incredulous as he feels.

“How can I help you, Susie?”

She grins a toothless grin at him.

“Can’t you do the worm, too?” She asks, pointing to Coyote.

Rooster grimaces, sighing.

“Not unless you wanna see a grown man cry,” he tells her.

She blinks back at him, her face entirely motionless. Those big brown eyes of hers are full of precisely nothing as his smile fades. She’s a peculiar one--Rooster knows this already.

“Uh,” Rooster says, clearing his throat. “No, I can’t. I’m not hip enough.”

“Girls like boys that dance,” Sarah pipes up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and leaning against Rooster. The kids are always touching him, which is something he’s grown used to this summer. “That’s what mama says!”

Rooster glances at you as you unwrap your muffin and nod along to whatever Hangman’s talking about. He doesn’t miss the way Hangman’s watching your every move, how his eyes are wandering from the tip of your nose to the curve of your lips.

“Maybe Miss Nightingale would sit with us if you danced?” Howie offers, following Rooster’s gaze.

Rooster scoffs, looking down at all the children who are blinking back at him. Between tying their shoes, lathering them in sunscreen, opening their juice boxes, reading them bedtime stories, and holding their hands on midnight potty runs, he’s gotten to know these tikes pretty well. He loves them, really. They’re good kids--but dammit if they aren’t observant.

He points at each of them, eyebrow perched.

“Eat your damn lunches,” he tells them.

All the children giggle--except for Howie, who gasps in horror.

“You can’t say damn!” Howie exclaims. Then he gasps--realizing what he’s done. “Uh-oh. Pastor David is not gonna be happy about this.” he whispers.

“It’ll be our secret, kid,” he tells Howie, rustling his mop of curls.

Coyote finally returns to his spot, panting, still trying to eat his sandwich. All the campers are still giggling, begging for him to do it again! Again!

“Mister Coyote is tired,” he tells them. “And he really wants to finish his sandwich without getting jiggy, alright?”

“Mister Hangman,” Martha sings, pinching Jake’s side as he gazes at you. “Your turn!”

“Yeah,” Coyote says with a grin. “Why don’t you entertain the gremlins while I flirt with Miss Nightingale?”

The campers are absolutely delighted by this chiding, falling all over each other with giggles and screeches. They all cover their mouths and widen their eyes, looking at Jake expectantly.

“The gremlins can’t handle my moves,” Jake says with a taunting shrug. “Besides, I think Miss Nightingale wants my company. Right?”

You pretend to think about it, weighing your options by nodding your head to the left and right a few times as you finish chewing your muffin.

“I could stand to be wooed,” you tell Jake, winking at Coyote.

“I mean, I could go grab Rooster,” Coyote adds.

You nod, glancing at Jake again as he glares at Coyote.

“It’s true, he could.”

“Uncool,” Jake says to Coyote, pointing at him with an indignant finger. “Mega uncool, man.”

You’re laughing, taking another bite of muffin as Hangman crosses his arms with a huff and shakes his head at Coyote. It’s only moments until the entire table is alive with laughter, all at the charge of Coyote, who’s feeding the kids lines. You’re about to put Hangman out of his misery, about to plant a kiss on his cheek in front of everyone, when you notice Timmy Creighton sitting across from you about to chow down on a Snickers bar.

“Timmy Creighton,” you say, halting him in his tracks. His stomach drops. Busted.

At your sudden outburst, Jake and Coyote both look over at Timmy. At once, Coyote snatches the bar from him and scoffs.

“Man, you trying to catch a ride in an ambulance or something?” Coyote asks, wrapping the candy bar back up. “This has nuts, pal.”

Timmy’s already flushing from the sudden attention, heat pooling in his freckled cheeks.

You sigh, frowning.

Poor kid--you don’t know what life would be like without peanuts.

Coyote tuts, patting Timmy’s back.

“You’ve gotta be more careful, man,” Hangman says to Timmy, eyeing him seriously as Timmy’s gaze falls to his lap. “Can’t have my main man going off in an ambulance!”

You nod, frowning. Hangman grins, grabbing the Snickers bar from Coyote’s hand and taking a bite out of it. He chews, grinning, and gestures to Timmy with the said-Snickers.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he says. “I’ll dispose of the evidence!”

When you drive your elbow into Hangman’s side, mouth agape, he doesn’t so much as flinch. He just throws his arm around you and pulls you into his side, planting a chocolatey kiss to your forehead.

“I don’t wanna have to break into that Epipac, okay, bud?” You tell Timmy with a small smile.

“Okay,” Timmy says quietly, frowning.

“Imagine a world without nuts,” Hangman whispers to you.

You sigh.

“What a beautiful thought,” you whisper back, pressing your palm against his bare thigh. He pretends not to shiver beneath your touch. You look up at him, biting a grin.“Let me bask in it for a sec.”

“You can do whatever you want as long as you don’t move your hand,” he whispers back to you, eyebrows raised.

Just as Hangman is about to say something equally as offensive, you slap his thigh good and hard and give him a grin.

“Done!” You call out. Then you glance at Coyote, who’s watching on in amusement. “Ready for the storm tonight?”

And then, for no particular reason at all, your spine prickles. You’re distantly aware that Coyote is answering you, that the kids beside you are tugging on your press and asking you questions or simply saying hello, but you’re looking at the kitchen door. That’s where the figure was in your dream, bent over, contorting. Right now, drenched in sunlight with the sweet soundtrack of summer camp playing over it, it’s not so scary. But that fear you felt while you were sleeping, the noose of petrification, you feel like it burned your throat. You hold your hand there, gazing on the empty area.

Jake watches this happen, brows raised. He bumps you with his elbow, glancing in the direction you’re staring, then furrows his brows when you blink at him.

“Earth to Nightingale,” he says. “You solid, chief?”

You nod, swallowing hard. Just a dream.

“Super,” you answer. Then you turn to Coyote and give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, you cut out. You were saying?”