He wakes up curled against his father’s back, cheek between his shoulder blades. Erik too still to be asleep, muscles tense, Xie’s first impulse to pull away but. Don’t. You never touch him, he only touches you, less than he wants. So. Stay there a minute. Holding your breath. Finally Erik turns to face him and Xie rolls onto his back, away. Good morning. Morning. Sleep okay. Yes. You. Yes. Xie’s heart pounding. He swallows. Gets off the blanket. Granola out of a bag for breakfast, water in the ancient enamel mugs, feet pushed up against the stones of the dead fire. Heard something last night, Erik says. What do you think it was? Don’t know. Deer, probably. Xie smiles. You thought it was a bear. Erik shrugs, also smiling. Maybe. Be careful, he says, Xie off to forage, saucepan in hand. I will. Just beginning to recognize chickweed, ramps, oniongrass, but it’s the wrong season for those; stupidly excited when he finds blackberries, a few walnuts. He cuts some chanterelles, pinching the leathery stems. It’s early still, with that raw feeling he finds only in the woods, chilly, hungover, as if, even after dawn, the trees are still shaking off the night. He digs a hole to piss in, he can’t do it like his father, against a rock, into the ferns; he hates to piss at all in the woods, never mind shit. He holds it. No matter what you do you are poison here, disturbing something, hurting something, you’re no John Muir or Thoreau or whoever the fuck understands how to live. In this wood alone there are three hundred species at risk of extinction: the black rail, the nuthatches, the gray fox, and you just tromp around pissing like a dumbass. He walks for hours, until the saucepan is full. Wading along the lake, jeans soaked to the shin. Harsh white skin of light on the water. Head back to camp, early afternoon, where Erik is reading, book cracked in half so Xie can’t see the cover. Looking up as Xie tucks a handful of mushrooms in his mouth. Are you sure none of that is poisonous? Xie shrugs. Pretty sure. Erik sets the book down, kneels to start a fire, lining Xie’s wet sneakers and socks on a rock to dry. Easing beside Xie, hands flat on his thighs, rubbing his jaw against his arm. How’s it going with Karen? Fine. She’s nice? Xie nods. You don’t get bored at home? No. Erik fills a pot with water, sets it over a tiny gas stove. You can still graduate with your class, you know. If you get through these next few months. I know. They eat spaghetti, crackers, tomato sauce. The walnuts are bitter, they spit them into the fire. His father sings a song in Danish. Xie lying on the ground. His father was in a choir growing up and can still achieve a chillingly high note, a boy’s note, so out of place in that long body. What are the words about? Erik smiles. Loving your country. Xie sings part of it with him, hiding his voice inside his father’s. Later Erik swims, a blond dot way out in the water, impervious to the cold, while Xie walks the perimeter of the lake. They build another fire, eat beans. When Erik goes to the tent Xie stays, stroking the dirt with his shoe. The stars look like chips of bone. Blue. Yellow. He lies on his belly. Rubs his hips against the ground, mouth open. A low breeze caressing his back, his ass, he lifts his hoodie to feel it, fingering his spine. The taste of stone, blood loud in his ears, dirt in his lashes, yes, it’s here, the body, beneath you, all the bones you could want. The earth held together by the dead. Grimacing as he moves, feverish, low moan on the wind. Hips jerking once, twice, then still. In the morning Erik finds him curled near the firepit, cheek pressed against a twig. Clothes cold. Xie, why didn’t you come inside? Slow focus on his father, thick swallow, gritty teeth. Jesus. Rubbing his face against his sleeve. What time is it. Six-thirty. Erik’s firm grip, Up you go. Shaky legs. Eat breakfast, take down the tent, hike to the car. Red dots where the mosquitoes bit. Come dry on your thigh. The sun flat in your face, burning.