Friday saw Sigmund stepping out of Dad’s car onto the grass outside LB, carrying his tent and sleeping bag and flashlight and Swiss Army knife and towel and compass and mosquito repellant and sunscreen and, Jesus, Dad. I’ll be okay. It’s only for the weekend.
Except Dad had been so excited about it all. More excited than Sigmund, even. So Sigmund hadn’t had the heart to say anything.
Which was why here he was, standing on the lawn, weighted down with ten million packs like a huge nerd while everyone else was standing around clutching small gym bags.