Chapter 1
Dane Foster leaned forward in his chair. The tattered shoelaces of his dusty Converse dragged through the sandy dirt where soot and ash drifted like black snow. He prodded the snapping fire with the poker when a marshmallow pegged him in the temple.
He scowled over his shoulder to glare at the culprit, doing his best to look severe. But her laughing gaze, peeping out from beneath her cockeyed wool cap, made true irritation impossible. Cybil’s eyes had been Dane’s kryptonite since the first time he looked into them when their parents brought her home from the hospital. Liquid brown and so innocent, she could easily get away with murder.
With her face bundled up to the nose in a bright yellow scarf and that ridiculous wool hat on her head, she blinked innocently again. Then she tipped her head, crossed those majestic eyes, and made a zombie-like groan as soggy marshmallows fell from her overstuffed mouth. She laughed before her cheeks were empty and nearly choked on the last one.
“You’re wasting them,” Dane scolded, but his voice trembled with the urge to giggle. “You’re such a child.”
“You’re such a child,” Cybil mimicked. She stuffed a marshmallow partially up her nose, plugged the other nostril with her finger, and shot the white ball at his knee.
“Grow up.”
She giggled and sat back. The collapsible legs of her nylon camp chair whined under her slight weight.
Dane plunged the poker into the ground and reached for another marshmallow. He examined the sweet puff and, after blowing off a few speckles of dirt, popped it into his mouth.
“Ew!” Cybil squealed in a piercing shrill only little girls could manage. “Was that the one from my nose?”
He secretly hoped not. “So?” He shrugged, too cool to show concern. “We’re camping. Gotta eat a pound of dirt before we die.”
“Mom, Dane’s eating boogers!” she yelled, knowing their mom was too far from camp to hear. She left them alone so she could search for kindling, but since their mom hadn’t asked for help meant she likely had to go to the bathroom.
He opened his mouth wide to offer his sister one last vulgar display of the squishy treat. He laughed at her repulsion and swallowed, then picked up two skewers. “Here, give me the bag. I’ll set you up so you can roast one.”
She tossed the light bag to him. “Boys are so gross.”
“Yup.”
“Shouldn’t you be a little more mature for sixteen? That’s probably why Gwen dumped you.”
His eyes narrowed. The sting from his recent breakup still smarted. “Shouldn’t you be a little taller for ten?”
She stuck out her tongue and snatched the skewered marshmallow out of his hands. They sat in silence, waiting for their mom to return. The fire crackled in a hypnotic rhythm as crisp autumn leaves whispered through the dry branches above.
The temperature dropped as the sun disappeared. The buzzing insects clocked out as nocturnal creatures started their shift. The opening act always belonged to the owls.
“Why’s Mommy taking so long?”
“She probably had to pee.”
“She didn’t bring toilet paper.” Cybil pointed to the supplies by the tent where a roll of toilet paper sat.
Dane shrugged. “Maybe it was an emergency. She’ll be back in a few minutes. Your marshmallow’s gonna catch fire if you hold it that close to the flame.”
“I like it burnt.”
Camping became a tradition after their father and grandfather had passed away. Every October they would retreat to the tall hills of northern Pennsylvania and reconnect as a family. No television, no Wi-Fi, no gaming systems. Just family. The only difference this year compared to the last several years was that their Nanna wasn’t with them.
As if reading his thoughts, Cybil quietly asked, “Do you think last year was the last time Nanna will ever camp with us?”
Adjusting his skewer over the flame, eyes transfixed on the dancing yellow tongues, his mind numbed at the memory of so much loss. They buried half their family all at once. And he couldn’t handle how quickly grief aged their grandmother as if her broken heart had left her weak and susceptible to other things.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He knew Nanna would never venture on another camping trip with them again. He heard his mom and Nanna whispering at night. The cancer was back, and his grandmother was all out of fight. But saying it out loud somehow made it all too real.
“How do the doctors know how long a person can live? They could come out with a cure for Nanna.”
“There is a cure, Cybil. It’s called chemo. Nanna doesn’t want it.”
“Why not?” his sister demanded.
Her outrage was confused sadness at the idea of losing her grandmother, losing yet another family member. He was sad, too, but he was a teenage boy. It wouldn’t be right for him to fall apart because his Nanna was dying.