The “camp” isn’t really what I was expecting. No fancy log cabin with a draping Welcome to Camp sign hanging over the front door. No husky lumberjack cutting wood out front in flannel. No kids wearing corny moose caps as they run toward the nonexistent lake, waiting to jump off the barely stable pier into murky green water. Actually, it’s not even so much as an actual campground. It’s just a big, blocky community center at the base of the mountains, broken up into three equally boring white buildings and more parking lot than actual greenery around.

“All the really outdoorsy activities are held off-site, and everyone just takes a bus,” he says.

“Ugh, that’s disappointing. I thought I’d at least get pictures of myself kayaking down a waterfall for my blog.”

“You realize you’re not here to have fun, right?”

“Hm?”

We enter the little office area, where a couple of older people are standing around. And I mean older—latter fifties, maybe? Where are all the hot guys in their early twenties and Speedos?

No one really looks up as we step inside, and I cringe at the thought that they might actually be busy. I mean, this is a summer camp, right? All you have to do is let the kids run around and make sure they don’t drown or something. Sounds easy enough.

“Hey, Georgette,” Brian says to the woman shuffling pamphlets behind a long wooden table. She’s got this horrendous green eye shadow on that washes her out, but there’s also cute little kitties on the collar of her shirt, so I guess they cancel out. “This is my brother, Noah. He’s looking to get a job for the summer if there’s any room.”

Brian’s voice is all sweet, one of those voices that I’m sure grandmas love. I’m half expecting Georgette to race around the table and pinch his cheeks.

“How old is he?” she asks, not even looking up from her work.

“Sixteen.”

She looks up at that and seems to catch sight of me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “We don’t typically hire teenagers.”

“He wouldn’t be the first, though, right?” Brian says. “Noah’s a really hard worker, and he’ll apply himself fully.”

She glances between the two of us slowly, meticulously, like she’s a cat choosing which of us to claw up first. Finally, she says, “You’re actually in luck. One of our volunteer junior counselors dropped out yesterday, which means our only chance to replace them is gonna be with a paid hire. You good with four- to seven-year-olds?”

I’m surprised she hadn’t already called me a kid, but I just say, “Yeah, I love kids!”