When he gets home there are two backpacks in the hall, full of camping gear. I thought we could take a trip this weekend, Erik says, folding laundry at the kitchen table. To the lake. Don’t you have work? Erik shrugs. I took the weekend off. For what? Just for a change. Unless you have other plans. No, Xie says, That’s fine. Thinking of the birch, reluctant to leave the woods, he doesn’t need to go somewhere else but maybe that’s the point, Erik uneasy about all the time he spends in the same place, alone. And the lake is beautiful and he is asking you, so. You’ll go. Watching the gas gauge on the hour drive, how much burned up so you can get away from the place you came to in order to get away from somewhere else. Nice weather, his father says on the hike in. How’s school been for the girls? Good. No one bothering them? Xie shakes his head. When the police asked Xie if he’d acted alone he said yes; but Erik knew, without saying it aloud, that the girls had been there. Part of him upset, maybe, that they have escaped what Xie has not, punishment in all its forms, but it was Xie who had stopped, who had let Moore find him. They’re quiet the rest of the way. Shifting their packs. Dull crunch of leaves, heavy blue sky. A pebble in Xie’s sneaker, bruising the arch of his foot. Here okay? Erik asks. Xie looks around the clearing, small scatter of trash from the previous campers, blackened ring of stone for the fire. Xie pathologically clumsy with the tent, dropping his end or twisting it the wrong way around, stumbling over the stakes. Erik rattling the nylon. Xie, will you pay attention. Fire slow to start. Evening birds in the trees. His father carving up a piece of wood with a folding knife, thumbing off the rotten bits. What are you making. Star. Is it hard? Shrug. A little. Shavings in a tiny pile between his knees. I’ll show you how if you want. Xie snorts. I can’t even hold a wrench for two seconds without getting a blister. Erik’s small acknowledging smile. You could learn. Can you get us some more kindling? Xie drags a pile of branches to the pit. Don’t burn too many of them, it’s not that cold, he says, wiping his hands on his pants, and Erik nods, glancing up from the star. I know. Xie walks to the lake. Sore foot shoved into the weed-choked shallow. Afraid of spiders. Lie back. Nest of weeds nudging his hair. Thick gash of stars striping the sky. Lake water numbing his toes. He can smell the branches burning. Stirring the water with his foot. Voices creeping up through the weeds. Men, five or six. Boots just a few feet away, they’ve almost gone past when. Someone calls. You okay there, little man? Had a few too many? Xie says nothing. They move on. But back at the camp those same men, sitting around the fire, plaid jackets and big arms, his father holding the half-finished star. One of the men turning, So this one’s yours? Erik nods. That’s my son. Cheers, little man. Drinking from a fresh can of beer. Xie wonders what his father looks like to them, sharp cheekbones, delicate despite his height, all that lean muscle, voice still crisp with his childhood Danish. I’m going to bed, Xie says, heading for the tent. Groans from the men. Come on, sit awhile, we won’t bite. What’s your little sign on your shirt mean. It means fuck eating meat, he says, and the men explode into laughter, hooting. Dang, boy. To Erik: You got a live one there. Xie crouching into the tent, on his belly in the sleeping bag, listening. They drink and laugh and Erik laughs, too, quiet, and then they go. His father putting out the fire. Hiss of hot wood. Clatter of cans. A branch breaking in the distance.