We’re almost there. He then asked me if I was okay, and I said sure, why? There’s nothing to be nervous about, he said.

I’m not.

Your hand is trembling.

And then I realized that he was right. He offered to turn back, but I said no. A moment later, we arrived in a small clearing, in the middle of which sat an orange family-sized camping tent.

Voila, Kyle said, gesturing like a doorman welcoming me into the foyer of a grand hotel.

Aha.

One sec.

He dashed into the tent and turned on several portable lanterns until the tent was glowing, warm and luminous. I saw his silhouette moving about inside, like a shadow puppet. I crossed the clearing, and poked my head into the tent.

Oh my god, I murmured, astonished.

Inside, the tent was fully furnished—an air mattress, quilts and pillows, makeshift shelving made out of bricks and boards, stacks of books, two lamps complete with fabric shades, pots and pans, bowls and cups, a portable stove, a metal basin, plastic jugs of water, an old traveller’s trunk, an amateurish painting of a horse in a gilded frame, and a tattered Persian carpet on the floor.

Cozy, isn’t it, he said.

How did you do this? I asked, marvelling, stepping inside, hunched over.

Luke and me built it in grade eleven, he replied. We’d come and smoke during our spares. But I just kept adding to it.

Look at all these books, I said, marvelling at his collection. At the top of one stack was his weathered and beaten copy of The Magic Mountain.

Did you ever finish it? I asked, picking it up.

The essay?

No, I know you never finished the essay.

I did so, he said, indignant but smiling. I suppose it would’ve been nearly impossible for him to pass the class had he not. He and I had never talked about my replacement at school, or really anything to do with school. We had a sort of unspoken agreement to avoid the subject altogether. Perhaps I let myself imagine he had never finished the essay as it was just easier for me to believe that. The thought of another teacher reading it caused a kind of jealousy-limned sadness to come over me, which I knew was ridiculous. Perhaps sensing this, he told me that it wasn’t very good.

I’m sure it was.

No it really wasn’t, trust me. I just phoned it in.

I told him that I was still working my way through the book. He looked surprised, and said he didn’t realize I was reading it.

Didn’t I tell you? I sat down on the air mattress, my back already starting to ache from bending over. I’ve been listening to the audiobook, I said.

Really? he said, crouching down beside me.

Well. I’ve slowed down a bit lately.