“Watch your language,” Sue says sharply. “Think about them. They deserve basic courtesy. They meant well.”

“Then so much the worse. They’re dumb passive channels for every dumb idea this society has about Crips. Every stereotype. It’s like we’re black or something, considering the amount of abuse and prejudice we get thrown at us. I’ve had enough impossible dreaming.”

“Come on, Sara. You must know that—some people need their illusions.”

Sara’s anger is controlled, focused, like a welder’s torch. “Sue, you don’t understand. You never will. You’ve counseled us about our terribly inappropriate behavior, okay? That’s all anyone can ask. Let’s go inside.”

For a moment more we sit, and Sara’s anger also lingers, like a living presence. Now I wish Sue had just let her laugh. Let us laugh. Sue glances up at the night sky, then finger-combs her hair and shakes her pageboy back into its perfect wave. She stands up tall and straight and takes us inside to get ready for bed.

After taps, I lie in bed and think Sara is an unusual person. Some of her peculiarities are obvious, of course, the second you look at her, the minute you hear her arch and irritating talk. Others I’m just beginning to see. At the cookout, I saw one thing. She laughs. She can laugh at anything, at anyone, no matter what message they bring, no matter by what power sent. Now I know the laughter is serious. Angry. Painful. Was it that way for the other Sara, when she laughed at the messenger of the Lord?

I drift in and out of sleep, replaying in my mind fragments from the day that has ended. The first light of dawn. Spazzing: the clang of Margie’s horseshoes. We laugh: You’ll never walk alone. I’ll never walk alone. Never.

My mind drifts away from this place, this time. My PT is telling me, “You can do it if you try.” I am in Sunday school: “You can do it if you believe.” I see Jesus cleansing lepers, giving sight to the blind, making the lame walk. He heals them all and then leaves them behind. In the fresh air of the Swiss Alps, the orphan girl Heidi tells her crippled cousin, Clara, “You can do it; just try.” In the fresh air of a secret garden, another orphan girl, another crippled cousin: “You can do it; just try.” As a child I loved these stories; they speak to the fundamental optimism of childhood. Part of me still believes them, or wants to. But now I yearn for a Bible story about a cripple who isn’t cured.

Outside in the night, crickets chirp. I’ve heard the sound all my life, but for the rest of my life I will associate it with Camp Courage. That night, and in other nights to come, the crickets sing, “Isaac, Isaac, Isaac.”

We laugh.