“I love you more than anyone else in the world,” I tell her. And I mean it. Lauren is special. I never showed any of the others the clearing. “All I want is to keep you safe.”

She says, “Dad, I can’t live like this anymore. Sometimes I don’t want to live at all.”

When I can breathe again I say, in as regular a tone as I can manage, “I’ll tell you a secret, kitten. Everyone feels like that sometimes. Sometimes things get bad, and you can’t see a future ahead. It’s all cloudy, like the sky on a rainy day. But life moves very fast. Things never stay the same forever, even the bad things. The clouds will blow away. They always do, I promise.”

“But I’m not like everyone else,” Lauren says. Her voice is so sharp it could slice me. “Most people could have walked here on their own. I can’t. That’s not going to change or blow away. That’s going to stay the same forever. Right, Ted?”

I wince. There’s no answer to this. I hate it when she calls me Ted. “Let’s just watch the stars, kitten.”

“You have to let me do stuff, Dad,” she says. “You have to let me grow up.”

“Lauren,” I say, anger rising. “That’s not fair. I know you think you’re all mature. But you still need looking after. Remember what happened at the mall?”

“That was years ago. It’s different now. Look, we’re outside and I’m being really good.”

She feels the first one soon after. “Something bit me,” she says. Her voice has only surprise in it. No fear yet.

I am being stung too, on my leg, twice in quick succession. I don’t feel it, of course, but I watch the flesh rise into red lumps. They’re crawling all over us now. Lauren begins to scream. “What are they? Oh, God, Dad, what’s happening?”

“They’re fire ants,” I say. “We must be sitting on a nest.”

“Get them off,” she says. “It hurts, get them off me!”

I grab the backpack and carry her through the trees at a run. The roots and brambles clutch my feet. When we reach the path I stop and brush us both down vigorously. I pour water over our exposed areas.

“Did any of them get inside your clothes?” I ask.

“No,” she says, “I don’t think so.” Her voice is full of tears. “Can we go home, Dad?”

“Of course, my kitten.” I hold her tight all the way back. No more “Ted,” I notice.

She says, “It was a dumb idea, camping. Thanks for getting us out of there.”

I say, “That’s my job.”