I looked now, glaring, and he smirked. He never gave a shit. Well, neither would I now, and I extended my hand, my middle finger very prominent as I waved it at him.

“Fuck off, Keith. Fuck off.”

I left, his smug laughter trailing behind me.

“Always the joker, Charlie.”

Owen was always the most responsible, kindest, and organized of our entire group. He probably would’ve earned a promotion a long time ago. Maybe I’d be proactive in helping him get that promotion.

A lot proactive. Keith had to go.

Chapter Four

The trail to the fishing cabin wasn’t very big, just wide enough for my car to fit. Barely. Tree branches scraped the side, but I had to prioritize: save my already-piece-of-crap car from maybe one or two scratches or save myself a broken back from carrying all of my stuff on foot.

After further thought, I reprioritized and grabbed one of the golf carts the camp used. I was fairly certain I needed to sign a whole other form to be allowed to drive one of them, but that was Keith’s fault. That was my rationale. If he hadn’t been such a dick, I might’ve gone through the appropriate channels, which would’ve meant getting one of the maintenance guys to drive me. But I knew who that would’ve been, and that was another history hill I didn’t want to climb. Not yet, anyway.

When I arrived, a station wagon was already there, the back end opened up, matching the windows and the two doors to the cabin, which were also propped open.

And as I walked in through the side door, a voice blared from the bathroom, “Did someone let the dogs out?”

Another voice chimed in, “Woof! Woof!”

I found Owen dancing in the living room, a purple bandana on his head, tied at the base of his neck. He wore an old camp staff shirt. It was faded in patches and ripped at the sleeves. He threw his head back, his mouth forming to howl at the next words, and he jumped backward on one foot. Eyes closed, he stopped and did a full-body twirl, a purple feather duster in his hand.

He wasn’t alone.

Hadley came dancing in to join him from the bathroom.

She’d been a petite thing back then, and she still was, but she didn’t dance like it.

Baggy jeans rode low on her hips with the legs rolled at her ankles, ’80s-style. She had a shirt hanging off her, with the sleeves cut off and the ends rolled and stuffed under her sports bra straps. Both had gone with the purple theme today—even Hadley’s hair ties were purple at the end of her two French braids.