Like me, she’s dressed in Camp Chickawah gear—khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat. Dot is five feet tall and stocky, built like a human bowling pin with short gray hair. I’m nearly a foot taller, with strawberry blonde hair in two braids and skin that freckles or burns within minutes of sun exposure.

I smile. “It was a good summer, right?”

“It was Chicka-wonderful. Nathaniel and Lola would be proud.”

Dot’s been a staple of Camp Chickawah since my days as a camper, and now she’s looking at me for direction—something I still haven’t gotten used to, even after four years of being her boss.

“Let’s do a sweep of the grounds for lost items,” I say. “Then we call it a day. Sound okay?”

“Sounds great!” Dot says, and off we go.

—

The next morning, after sleeping for ten glorious hours, I head toward the lake. The air is cool, faintly scented with pine, and full of birdsong. I pull my favorite canoe from the shed—it’s hand-carved birchwood and nearly a century old—and slide it halfway into the water, sending ripples across the shimmering surface. After discarding my hiking boots and wool socks on the dock, I pop my earbuds in.

It’s time for some Broadway magic.

I press play on the original cast recording of Hadestown. The iconic trombone begins wailing, joined by the inimitable André De Shields, and as I wade into the cool water and transfer myself into the canoe, I can’t help dancing. Luckily, no one’s around to see.

After stowing my phone in a dry bag near my feet, I shove myself out with my paddle. Our camp hugs the west side of the lake; the rest is ringed with pine trees. The rising sun paints a golden streak across the water, and I follow it, paddling until my shoulders burn.

Canoes can be tricky to navigate solo, especially an old wooden one, but I love the nostalgia, the knowledge that countless campers and counselors have sat where I am now. Soon I relax into the rhythm and pull of paddle on water, and my exhaustion melts away.

I’ve spent every summer at Camp Chickawah since I was eight years old. My parents divorced when I was a toddler, splitting custody fifty-fifty because they both “loved me so much.” I believe them—but the fact is, packing up and moving to a different house each week does a number on a child’s sense of stability. It’s not only adjusting to a different home—it’s an entirely different culture. Different food in the fridge, different neighbors, different rules and expectations. Every week, just as I’d settled in at one home, I’d have to readjust all over again.