I turned over and closed my eyes, tried to imagine I was with her, there, in the Vine Realm. She was probably still awake. Sitting on the top step of her stoop, staring up at the stars. While I was tucked neatly into my bed. I pictured the splintered wood and the tall grasses swaying in the breeze. I closed my eyes and settled into my pillow. When I took a deep breath, I could almost smell the roses.

Flaming Brains

“What’s it like at night?” I asked Jasper the next day. We were walking her trash to the dumpster down the street, behind the church on Woodland. The day was overcast and cooler than usual. It felt like rain, but so far, no drops.

Jasper shrugged. “At night I’m asleep. I go to bed early, because it’s so dark in the house. And then I usually wake up early too.”

“Like camping?”

“I guess so,” said Jasper. “I’ve never been camping before.”

“Seriously?” We stopped to throw the lid of the dumpster open, and a wave of cooking summer trash rot enveloped us. We both wrinkled our noses.

“Yep,” said Jasper. “Have you been camping a lot?”

“Not a lot,” I said. “And not lately. But we used to do it. Sam was in Cub Scouts, and we’d go on these big family trips with the pack. My dad used to joke that Sam was the only Jewish Boy Scout in America. It’s like a thing . . . that Jews don’t camp, I guess. A joke people make. I’m not sure why. Maybe because we lived in tents in the desert for forty years or something.”

“Is it fun?” asked Jasper. “Camping, I mean.”

“It’s nice to be somewhere different,” I said. “It’s like you’re outside your regular life. The rules are different. It’s nice to wake up outside. You don’t take showers. And Mom always used to let us have Froot Loops.”

“What’s so great about Froot Loops?” asked Jasper.

I shook my head. “It wasn’t really about the cereal. More that Froot Loops were a thing Sam and I weren’t allowed to eat at home. The point was that all the rules broke down in the woods. Food was different. Bedtime was different. My parents were different too. They would lock their phones in the car and forget they existed. My dad would play guitar by the fire, sing these cheesy songs—and, wow, is he a bad singer—but it was nice. Nobody cared. Sometimes, my mom would sit in his lap. I never saw her do that at home, ever. Outside life is . . . outside. Outside everything, I mean.”

“So,” said Jasper, “basically, when your family goes camping, you all turn into wood elves?”