Margie and Willie are back with paper plates bending under the weight of the food. “Get a load of this!” He shoves half a hot dog into his mouth, and, chewing, heads back for drinks. Margie sits down to eat.

“What’s so bad a-bout Nix-on?” I ask, and immediately wish I hadn’t.

“What ain’t bad about him?” Sara says. Margie laughs hard, maybe because Sara said ain’t.

Willie is back with the drinks and sits beside me, turned away from all the activity. “So what have y’all been talking about?”

“Nixon,” Margie says.

Willie holds a hot dog to my mouth. Oh, no. I’m supposed to take food from that twisted hand. My stomach goes queasy, but there’s no choice. Sara can’t feed me. Margie could, but she’s too shy. No counselors are around; Sara arranged that. I don’t want to insult Willie, so I put my mouth around the hot dog and chomp down, barely aware that he’s started doing an imitation of Honorable State Senator and Camp Benefactor B. J. McNeill.

That first bite is the hardest. After that, I can manage, so long as I don’t look at Willie stuffing his face. The hot dog tastes really good. That helps. I finally hear the story about the MR and the pie in the face at Talent Night. It was Senator McNeill, last year—not quite a direct hit but close enough, and he had no choice but to be a good sport. Willie offers me a potato chip. Another little agony. His fingers touch my lips, and the dry chip sticks in my throat. I swallow again. All right. All right. I take another bite and feel mustard and baked beans dribble down the corners of my mouth. He wipes my chin with a paper napkin. I hope the shudder doesn’t show.

This ordeal is pushing all irritation and annoyance out of my mind. By the time I finish eating, I’m proud of myself for getting through it. I sit back and let Willie eat. I’m so relieved I don’t even mind being separated from the normal youths from the community.

Willie and Sara are talking about old times. “Don’t you miss Mr. Mann?” she asks.

“Oh, sure! Our camp director last year,” he tells me. “He was this drill-sergeant type who thought we should ‘rough it.’”

“Right! Us!”

“But you have to give Mr. Mann credit. He stuck to his guns. In the end, what it came down to was no radios.”

“Not even for the moon landing.”

“But the counselors smuggled ’em in. I’m not sure why. They didn’t particularly like the moon landing; they were just as back-to-nature as Mr. Mann—”

“Although for different philosophical reasons. These are the Jesus Freaks we’re talking about.”

“Yeah. Maybe philosophy had something to do with their bringing in radios. The First Amendment or something.”