Camp Meriwether Secrets
by BJCS
Chapter 6
Softly Falls the Light of Day
"Reveille, five minutes!"
Evan's voice rings through the foggy stillness, and then comes Eugene Park's bugle, clear and lonely as it echoes across our site. I blink awake in my sleeping bag, still fully zipped, towel crumpled beside me, the jersey hidden deep in my pack.
Across the minidak, Garrett lies sprawled on his back, arm over his face. Dead asleep.
The front flap rustles. "Walker?"
It's Ben.
I sit up and pull back the curtain further. He's already in uniform, clipboard in hand, face tight with that trying-to-act-in-charge seriousness.
"PLC meeting," he says quietly. "Five minutes. Fire ring."
"I'll be there," I whisper, glancing at Garrett. "Does he need to be up too?"
Ben shrugs. "Don't worry about it. This one's just PLs, APLs, and Paul."
He turns and disappears between minidaks.
I finish pulling on my scout shirt, shorts, and socks, then toss a balled up sock at Garrett's pillow.
"Dude. Get moving. Reveille already hit."
He mumbles something and barely stirs. I leave him be and step into the morning chill.
The fire ring is still damp from last night's fog, but a few patrol leaders are already seated on the log benches. Jacob's wrapped in a fleece blanket over his uniform. Oliver has a mug of instant coffee he probably shouldn't have.
Ben's at the center with his clipboard. Paul stands behind him, arms crossed, watching in a way that's equal parts proud and exhausted.
"All right," Ben starts, "this won't take long. The week's winding down, closing ceremony is after dinner tonight. We'll start taking down the bigger stuff this afternoon. Remind your patrols to start packing up extra gear today. Sleeping bags and personal stuff need to be out of your minidaks by breakfast tomorrow."
Heads nod.
Ben flips a page. "Final merit badge sign-offs are this morning and early afternoon. If anyone still needs a counselor's initials, now's the time."
Then he pauses. "We also need to talk about Wednesday night."
Everyone gets quiet.
Paul shifts slightly, but it's Ben who speaks.
"Two scouts were out after lights out. Way after. Leaders aren't naming names, but… let's just say we all know what happened."
A few of the PLs glance sideways at Griffin, who looks straight down at his notepad.
"As of tonight, no one should be wandering off," Ben continues. "The only reason to be out after 2230 is to use the bathroom closest, and it should be quick. Gizmo has agreed to stay up by the campfire until midnight to help keep an eye on things."
Paul cuts in, his voice calm but stern. "This isn't punishment. It's accountability. Someone broke the trust, so now we have to earn it back together."
Ben nods. "Also, if anyone had planned to be part of a skit at the closing campfire tonight… don't assume it's still happening. We'll decide this afternoon depending on how the day goes. No one wants to reward broken rules with stage time."
That one lands. A few faces go red.
"Last full day here in Oregon," Paul says. "Let's finish strong 165."
Ben dismisses everyone, and slowly the small group disperses.
I linger by the edge of the ring for a second, watching the fog burn away over the hill. The fire pit's cold. Everything feels more frigid than you'd expect for July.
But tonight's still coming, and I've got a few more things to do before then.
By the time I get back to the minidak, Garrett's finally up, halfway through tying his boots.
"Anything juicy?" he asks as I toss my hoodie over my shoulder.
"Just wrap up stuff. Badge sign-offs today." I hesitate. "They talked about… Wednesday night."
Garrett nods slowly. "Yeah. Kinda figured."
We don't say much else on the walk to the flag ceremony and breakfast. The dining hall's already half full, but I scan every table, hoping to catch a glimpse of blonde or his red Crocs.
Nothing. No Holland.
We head up to the nature shed after breakfast, Garrett kicking a pinecone most of the way there. He hasn't said much since the dining hall, just the occasional "huh" or "yeah", but I know he's watching me scan every path and trailhead like I'm expecting to see someone.
The nature shed is barely a shed, more like a lean-to with a roof and multiple long picnic tables under it. Ferns creep up from the woods behind, and a few squirrels are skittering around the trash can someone forgot to bungee shut.
Ms. Holden stands at the front in a sun-faded NASA JPL shirt and khaki hiking pants, her dark hair tucked under a canvas cap embroidered with 'Keep Crater Lake Dark', a sticker-covered Nalgene sits at her feet, and her clipboard is covered in duct tape and galaxy-themed washi tape.
"Wrap up session of Exploration Merit Badge," she calls out as we shuffle in. "Hope you all survived your expeditions and remembered to write something down."
Garrett and I slide onto a bench near the back, close enough to hear but far enough to avoid Panda Patrol's table, which is already starting to heat up.
Wade's got his little green notebook open and three pens laid out in front of him like it's a college exam. Jacob's balancing a chair back on two legs, all smug confidence.
"So, are we just sharing like… highlights?" Jacob asks no one in particular. "Because I've already written about D.C. Our school did this STEM extension trip in May, and I got to go behind the scenes at the Smithsonian. Like, not just the exhibits. The archive warehouse. Saw the Apollo backup modules and stuff."
Wade doesn't even blink. "That's great. But if you want real Space Exploration content, try the Johnson Space Center. We did a family road trip down there two years ago, and you can climb into a Mercury capsule replica. They let you feel what it's like to launch."
"You mean a fake launch." Jacob chimes back.
"Simulated. With historical accuracy."
Jacob shrugs. "Still, they don't have the actual Wright Flyer."
Ms. Holden claps once. "Gentlemen, this isn't a nerd-off. Let's bring it back to camp. Who planned and executed a field expedition this week?"
Some hands go up. I keep mine down.
Garrett grins. "We did the bluff trail on Monday. Bushwhacked a bit on the way back, and found a raccoon skull."
I scribble that down as part of our summary. In my notes, I also include the rock strata near the overlook and the unfinished map from my notebook. I don't mention why I stopped sketching.
I keep glancing toward the tree line past the Stagecraft trail. Someone in a green hoodie passes, not Holland. Then, a smaller scout from the Utah troop.
Still nothing.
When Ms. Holden comes around with blue cards, she checks my worksheet, nods, and signs it with a looping "E. Holden" in the counselor box.
"Good instincts, Mr. Hallegg," she says. "You keep noticing what others miss. Don't lose that. That's how the best discoveries are made, quiet observations, not just bold ones."
She lingers a moment, her voice softening. "I used to think being an astronomer meant chasing stars. Turns out, it's more about learning to wait and watch in the dark."
Then, to Garrett: "I'm impressed too, Mr. McMunn."
"Thanks," I say, and swallow the knot in my throat.
Garrett slaps his signed card against mine as we head back to the main trail. "Dude. Merit badge complete. You're gonna make Eagle next year at this rate."
"Yeah," I say, pocketing the card. "One more down."
But even as we pass the shower house and head toward the dining hall, I can't shake the feeling that something's shifted.
If Holland has started to avoid us, he's getting really good at it.
Back at lunch, the mess hall buzzes with the usual clatter of trays and chatter, but a tension lingers near the Eagle Patrol, or the older scouts' table. I spot Gizmo sitting there, leaning forward with that sharp, watchful look he gets when he's sizing up a problem. Bryan's beside him, arms crossed, scanning the crowd like he's guarding a perimeter.
From my vantage point across the way, I watch as Griffin approaches the table, trying to slip in casually. His usual easy smirk is there, but the air shifts as Gizmo's eyes snap to Bryan, who shakes his head just slightly, enough to send the message clear.
Griffin hesitates, then looks around awkwardly, backing off without a word.
I can feel the weight of it all, like some things can't easily be put back the way they were, even if you're trying to hold on after what went down the other night.
After lunch, Garrett and I head toward the campfire bowl for our final Leadership merit badge session. The benches, usually packed for skits and ceremonies, are mostly empty now, just a few scouts scattered across the lower rows, slouching in the sun or half-dozing over worksheets.
We sit for a few minutes until I look up toward the back of the amphitheater, and there's Holland.
He's in uniform again, collar rumpled, sleeves rolled, one boot on the bench in front of him. His hair's still damp, like he rinsed off fast after lunch. He's flipping through his handbook and blue card, not looking at us.
I get up and climb the steps toward him. "Where've you been?"
He glances up. "Finishing Metalworking at the Fort. They did final sign-offs this morning."
"Ah," I say. I hesitate, but Mr. Marsh claps his hands together down at the fire pit before I can say anything else.
"Let's wrap this badge up, gentlemen. We've talked about theory. Today, I want to hear about execution. What kind of leadership did you actually demonstrate this week? Not just in title. I'm talking about actual results."
I head back down toward Garrett and take my seat.
Mr. Marsh moves through the group, calling on scouts one by one. Some give practiced answers: leading firebuilding, organizing patrol inspections, managing cleanup rosters. One kid from Troop 11 claims he settled a canoe paddle fight between two brothers and "they're still friends."
Garrett goes before me. He talks about guiding our new scouts on the orienteering course and helping Evan with inventorying gear after lunch on Tuesday. "Even when they don't want help," he adds, like it's a punchline.
Then Mr. Marsh turns toward the upper bench. "How about you, Mr…?" he squints at the list, "Holland?"
There's a pause before Holland responds.
"I've been a Den Chief as well as PL back home all spring," he says, voice carrying in that easy, steady way of his. "So here, I mostly just tried to stay out of the way and let the younger guys step up." A shrug. "But I guess I helped organize the rotations at the climbing tower on Tuesday, when we had all three of our patrols show up at once."
Mr. Marsh raises his eyebrows. "Good thinking. Prioritizing, improvising. That's leadership, too."
A few scouts glance over at him now, like they hadn't even realized he was up there.
Then it's my turn.
"I kept track of the Exploration merit badge," I say. "Made sure everyone in our patrol got to the sessions they signed up for."
Mr. Marsh nods. "That's coordination. Good. Anything else?"
I hesitate, then glance at Garrett. "I also kind of… managed some interpersonal stuff in our troop. Not everything's visible, but some of it matters."
Mr. Marsh gives me a longer look, then checks a box on his clipboard. "Sometimes the best leaders handle the stuff no one notices, until it falls apart."
He signs our cards and hands them back one by one. Badge complete.
As the group starts to thin, I glance toward the top of the amphitheater again.
But Holland's already gone.
The sun warms my back as we gather at Lake Chamberlain. The old wooden dock juts out into the shimmering water, the perfect stage for the camp's final water tradition: The Dunking.
Vincent, the Program Director, stands at the dock's edge with his clipboard, his voice carrying over the excited murmurs with a bullhorn in the other hand. Beside him, Chase, the lifeguard I've been watching all week, stands ready with his whistle.
"Alright, Troop 165," Vincent calls. "Nominate your leaders to get dunked."
Voices rise quickly. Garrett practically bounces next to me.
"I want to see Bryan go in," he laughs eagerly. "Let's get Eagle, Badger, and Panda to vote for him."
I chuckle. "Good luck with that."
The nominations end as the voting begins. Garrett campaigns hard, but the majority isn't convinced. When Vincent calls for the final tally, the troop cheers loudest for Ben.
Ben gives a surprised laugh but doesn't argue.
Paul and Bryan hoist him up by the arms and legs, carrying him like a sack of potatoes toward the end of the dock.
Ben's still wearing his full Class A uniform: collar buttoned, necker knotted tight, achievements gleaming on his chest. His shirt clings to him slightly from the humidity, but that doesn't stop the crowd from howling with anticipation.
"Ready?" Paul asks, grinning.
Ben nods, a little too bravely.
"Three… two… one…"
They tip him forward, and Ben plunges into the cold lake, his uniform soaking instantly. His necker floats like a ribbon, and badges shimmer beneath the water as he surfaces, coughing and laughing.
The cheers wash over him as Garrett whoops beside me, though I catch a glint of disappointment on his face.
Next up is Troop 737.
Vincent asks for their nominee, and my heart skips when Holland steps forward. Calm and steady, still in his full uniform: sleeves rolled, collar buttoned but still damp with sweat from the morning's metalworking session.
He walks confidently to the dock with no hesitation.
The countdown starts again.
Holland dives in, breaking the surface with a triumphant grin, water dripping off his soaked uniform and tangled hair.
As he climbs out, he catches my eye and gives me a small, knowing nod. No words needed.
The laughter and cheers echo across the lake, and for a moment, the weight of the world feels lighter, like the week's way of saying goodbye.
On our return to Lookout, the energy from the lake still buzzes through everyone, laughing, towel-snapping, that last-day giddiness where even the air feels louder.
Ben's squishing around in his soaked uniform, clinging to his chest and socks, making miserable squelching sounds in his boots. Bryan leans against the gear table with his arms crossed, smirking like he's been waiting all week for this.
"See?" Bryan says, grinning. "This is why SPLs need a spare uniform. Rookie mistake, Star Scout."
Ben rolls his eyes. "I have a spare. It just wasn't hanging up on Evan's side of the cabin like I put it there on Sunday."
Paul chuckles from where he's knotting up a trash bag. "Guess that's your final challenge, find it before dinner."
Near the edge of camp, Griffin lingers around the patrol canopy where Gizmo's breaking down the folding table and bagging up the leftover snacks from the week: saltine packs, dried apples, half-crushed Oreos.
"Hey," Griffin says quietly, almost casually. "Need help with that?"
Gizmo doesn't look up. "Nope," he mutters, cinching a twist tie tight around a bag of kettle corn. "I got it."
Griffin nods once, like he expected that. He backs off without another word.
When I get inside the minidak, Garrett's digging through his duffel, uniform shirt already on but hanging open, shorts halfway pulled up, looking frazzled.
"Dude," he says. "Have you seen my scout belt?"
I start unlacing my boots on the step, and instantly, my stomach drops.
"Did you check your pack?"
"I thought I did. Maybe it's in your daybag?" He steps toward it, already unzipping the front flap.
"Wait!" My voice spikes before I can catch it. "It's not in there."
Garrett pauses, confused. "I'm just checking…"
"No," I snap. "It's not in there. Don't go through my stuff."
He freezes, hand hovering over the flap. "Okay. Chill, Walker. Sorry."
I grab the bag from him too fast, clutching it like I've got something explosive inside. Which, in a way, I do.
The soccer jersey. Tucked deep in the bottom pocket, hopefully still smells of Holland.
Garrett watches me for a second, then turns away, quieter now. He pulls his sleeping bag open again and starts searching without a word.
I sit down slowly, heart racing, trying not to look like I'm guarding treasure.
I know I overreacted, but I'm not ready to explain why.
By the time we head down for dinner, the sun's broken through the clouds and the whole dining hall smells like smoke and sweet barbecue sauce.
It's not the normal dinner setup, no lines, no trays. The kitchen staff have wheeled out folding tables, big metal pans of BBQ chicken, cornbread, and baked beans. Camp staff in green polos are ladling out heaping scoops while scouts grab paper plates and crowd back together at their tables.
I stick close to Garrett, still feeling weird from earlier. He hasn't brought up the belt again, and I did all I could to help him find it. He ends up borrowing one of Ben's dad's old spares, which is three sizes too big and looks ridiculous, but he wears it like it's a protest sash.
Across the hall, I spot Griffin with Panda Patrol, shoulders low, eyes on his plate. He's wedged between some younger scouts who barely notice he's there. Every now and then, he glances toward Eagle's table, where Gizmo's laughing at something Bryan said, but he doesn't try to move.
"Wilderness Survival, baby!" Collin shouts as he sits across from me. "Completed." He holds up his signed blue card like a trophy.
"Oh god," Garrett mutters beside me. "Here we go, Bear Grylls."
"You guys should've seen the shelter I built," he says, mouth full. "Double lean-to with a pine bough roof. Windproof. Arvid slept like a rock. I barely got cold."
"You were shivering so hard your teeth echoed," Arvid says dryly.
"We thrived out there," Collin declares, ignoring him. "Caught a garter snake. Didn't eat it, but we could've."
"You screamed when it moved." Arvid shakes his head.
"Strategic screaming. It's a wilderness tactic."
Garrett snorts into his lemonade. I can't help but laugh.
"Anyway," Collin says, gesturing at my plate, "you guys got real food while we got pinecones and a pot of ramen that boiled over and exploded. Not fair."
"You chose the badge, bud," I reply.
"Yeah," he grins. "Because it's in my genes, my grandfather grew up in Alaska!"
"You said he was from San Francisco," Garrett mutters.
Collin wipes his face with the back of his hand. "The other one I meant,"
Across the table, I catch a glance from Griffin. He's watching us, watching me, probably, but when I look back, he drops his eyes and pokes at his cornbread.
I take another bite of chicken, chewing more slowly. Collin keeps stuffing his face. People are laughing around us, but I know there's one more chance to see Holland.
The sun's dipping low over the hills as we line up one last time on the parade field outside Discovery Lodge. The air smells like salt and dry grass, the breeze tugging gently at the flags high above us. Scouts murmur quietly in their troops, Class A uniforms a little rumpled after a long week, neckerchiefs fluttering as we face the poles.
Out front, a line of staff scouts steps forward, perfectly in sync, one in each position: caller, flag bearers, and halyard handlers. Their uniforms are spotless, patches crisp, every movement tight with practice.
The senior staffer raises two fingers in the Scout sign. The field falls silent.
"Troops, attention!"
Boots shift. Patrol leaders echo the command. The breeze hushes.
"Color guard, forward."
We watch as the flag detail steps up: two on the halyards, two waiting to catch the colors. The ropes creak faintly as they're untied, the wind still tugging gently at the fabric.
"Lower the colors."
The American flag begins to descend, slow and steady. Every scout stands frozen, hands raised in salute, the only sounds the gulls overhead and the soft rustle of nylon. The green BSA and Oregon State flags follow.
As the flags are caught and folded, a bugle sounds from the staff line. The notes of Taps drift out into the golden light, solemn and perfect. We all stay silent as the last note fades into the trees.
After the flag ceremony, we gather at the amphitheater for the closing campfire. The benches are packed, everyone's still in full uniform, their neckerchiefs neat, shirts buttoned up tight. A few scouts still smell faintly of lakewater and woodsmoke.
Dale, the camp director, steps into the firelight. His uniform shorts are dusted from a long day, and his wide-brimmed campaign hat casts a familiar silhouette.
"Scouts," he begins, voice deep and even, "this week, you've hiked new trails, paddled new waters, earned new badges. But more than that, you've built something harder to measure: friendship. Brotherhood."
The fire crackles as he continues.
"At the end of your Scouting journey, the patches you earned might end up in a drawer. But the people you sat beside, the ones you shared tents, stories, and campfire snacks with, they're the ones you'll remember. Maybe even the ones who annoyed you. Because that's what makes this place what it is. Not just the campfires and merit badges. It's each other."
He steps back, nodding toward the lower rows. "Now let's enjoy what you've put together."
The first skit begins, a goofy riff on lost compasses and imaginary bears. It's followed by another, then another. Some are slapstick, others just chaotic energy disguised as comedy. Scouts laugh and hoot and call out the punchlines before they land.
Troop 737 goes up near the end. From where I'm sitting with Garrett, I can see them huddled just off-stage. Holland's easy to spot, he's the "Dead Scout" in their skit, draped dramatically across a stump with one hand flopped over his eyes.
As the scene unfolds, Holland hams it up with theatrical gasps and flailing arms. The rest of 737 tries to revive him with increasingly absurd methods: water, CPR, a copy of the Scout Handbook. When nothing works, one scout yells, "Get the bugle!" and another runs offstage.
Laughter rolls through the crowd. Holland milks his final breath like a soap opera villain. The skit ends with him miraculously waking up for a hot dog, and the audience erupts.
When the final troop finishes their performance, the energy quiets. Dale returns to the center.
"Tonight, as we close this fire, I want you to reflect. Not just on what you did this week, but on who you were. Who you want to be."
He gestures to the clearing beside the fire ring. "Now, from Troop 165, Eugene Park will sound Taps."
Eugene steps forward, trumpet in hand. He's in full uniform like the rest of us, a little of his black hair stuck to his forehead. He raises the horn to his lips.
The first note is soft but clear, drifting upward like smoke. As it echoes into the trees, a second, fainter note answers, another bugler, hidden in the woods, playing in perfect time. The two parts weave together like a conversation carried on the wind.
We all stand, silent, as the last note fades.
And then, together, voices begin to sing Scout Vespers:
Softly falls the light of day,
As our campfire fades away.
Silently, each Scout should ask
Have I done my daily task?
I mouth the words, but inside, they hit harder than I expect.
Have I kept my honor bright?
Can I guiltless sleep tonight?
Oh, have I done and have I dared,
Everything to be prepared?
The line wraps around my ribs like a knot: Can I guiltless sleep tonight?
I think of Garrett, always loyal. Holland, slipping into our camp past curfew, touching my hand in the dark.
And me, half-truths, choices, the weight of it all folded tight into the jersey buried deep in my pack.
The final harmony fades into the dark, replaced by the soft rustle of scouts rising to leave.
Garrett and I linger near the center of the row. At the top of the amphitheater, Holland stands alone. The firelight flickers across the damp creases of his shirt, the fabric clinging slightly to his sides. His hair is still wet at the edges, dark and curling at the nape like he never quite finished drying off. He doesn't look like the boy with all the answers now, just a kid, same as us, standing in the glow of something ending, not quite ready to let go.
I climb the steps to meet him, Garrett close behind. Holland sees us and steps forward without a word. I pull them both into a hug, tight, grounding.
Holland exhales, breath warm against my neck. "I'm sorry," he coughs. "I didn't know how to say goodbye. I thought I had more time. I should've spent today with you."
"You're here now," I whisper back. "That's what matters."
Garrett's hand finds my shoulder. "We made it. Barely."
Holland laughs softly, the sound catching in his throat.
A younger scout from Holland's troop, Grant, appears, tugging at Holland's sleeve. "Um… we're heading back Holland, if you're coming."
Holland nods. "Yeah. I'll be right there." Then, to us, quieter: "I'll never forget this week."
"Me neither," I say.
Garrett and I watch him go, the firelight catching in the damp hem of his shirt, the way his fingers brush Grant's shoulder gently. The air is cooling fast, and the forest feels heavier now, quieter. Like it knows we're leaving.
Inside, the familiar, cramped space feels both comforting and claustrophobic. Garrett pulls off his shirt, folding it carefully, while I double-check that Holland's jersey is still deep in my pack, hidden from sight.
The world outside grows quiet, except for the occasional rustle of leaves and distant night sounds. I lie back in my sleeping bag, eyes closed, trying to hold onto the fragile peace of this last night.
But just past midnight, a sharp tug on my foot jolts me awake.
"Walker," Griffin's voice is low, urgent, breath misting in the cool air.
Griffin stands in a red Troop 165 moisture wicking tee and his green shorts, just inside the minidak, barely a silhouette in the doorway's pale light. His arms are crossed tight, headlamp slung around his neck and flickering against the walls.
"Walker," he whispers, hoarse. "I can't… I need to talk. Please."
I sit up in my sleeping bag, heart thudding. Across from me, Garrett shifts in his sleeping bag, but doesn't wake.
"Come in," I say, keeping my voice low. "Is Gizmo still out there?"
Griffin shakes his head, then steps inside and lets the flap fall shut behind him. He crosses the gap between our bunks in two quiet steps, standing in the space between mine and Garrett's. His face is pale, jaw tight.
"I fucked everything up," he says.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bunk, making room. "Sit."
He does, shoulders hunched, hands clasped between his knees. I wait.
"It wasn't just that night," he says. "With Gizmo. I kept telling myself he wasn't taking advantage of me. That he wouldn't move on, I didn't know it would feel like this after. Like I can't undo it. Like, I'm not even welcome in my patrol now."
I glance toward Garrett's bunk. He's still, but not asleep. I can tell from the way he's breathing.
A quiet voice comes from the shadows. "We all mess up. I'm the expert on that."
Griffin turns slightly, startled. "Sorry. didn't mean to wake….."
Garrett sits up, running a hand through his hair. "Don't worry about it."
There's a silence that settles between the three of us. The mindak groans gently around us. The dying campfire outside the minidak throws a thin bar of gold through the crack in the flap.
"I just wanted to feel something," Griffin finally says. "Something that wasn't pressure, or guilt, or pretending."
We sit in it for a while. That weight. That raw honesty.
"Okay," I say softly. "Then let's not pretend. Not tonight."
Griffin lifts his eyes. "What do you mean?"
I pat the space on my sleeping bag beside me. "Come here."
He crawls up into the bunk, tentatively at first, and I shift back against the wall to make room. Garrett gets up too and crosses the cabin slowly. He hesitates just a second, then climbs in next to Griffin, close enough that our knees and shoulders brush.
The bunk's narrow, barely wide enough for one of us comfortably, let alone three, but none of us seem to mind. The cabin creaks. The wood beneath us is warm from the day, and it smells faintly of pine, feet, and the shore.
"So uhh.. Are you and Garrett together?" Griffin asks.
Griffin's question hangs in the air like campfire smoke, lingering, unavoidable.
Garrett lets out a soft, startled laugh. "What?"
I can feel Griffin's shoulder tense against mine. "I just, you two are always…" He gestures vaguely between us. "Together, like bunks, tents, even in the car."
The unspoken you're like me trembles in the dark.
Garrett's knee knocks against mine, deliberate. "We're not," he says, too quickly. Then, quieter: "But it wouldn't matter if we were."
Griffin exhales, shaky. "Yeah. Right."
The silence stretches, thick with all the things we're not saying.
Then Garrett shifts, draping an arm loosely around Griffin's shoulders. "Dude. Breathe."
Griffin does, a ragged inhale, and something in him unwinds. He leans into the touch, just slightly.
I reach across Griffin's lap and squeeze Garrett's wrist. A silent thank you.
Garrett's fingers twitch under mine.
For a long moment, none of us move. The minidak feels smaller than ever, our bodies a tangled equation of warmth and want and not enough words.
Then Griffin's hand brushes mine, accidental or not, I'm not sure, and electricity zips up my arm.
Garrett's breath hitches.
Then Griffin's fingers don't pull away.
They linger against mine, calloused from climbing ropes and fumbling with tent stakes, and suddenly the minidak is too warm, the sleeping bag beneath us crackling with static.
Garrett's arm tightens around Griffin's shoulders, not pulling back, but holding on. His thumb strokes absent circles against Griffin's sleeve, and I watch Griffin's throat bob as he swallows.
"Walker," Griffin murmurs, so low I feel it in my ribs.
I know what he's asking, what we're asking.
Garrett's takes back his arm and learns forward to find me again. His eyes lock onto mine, wide and dark in the slatted firelight.
Then Griffin turns his hand over, palm up. A moment of trust.
I slide my fingers into his.
Garrett makes a noise, half protest, half surrender, and his hand ghosts the waistband of Griffin's green Starter shorts, hooking his thumb into Griffin's underwear. Griffin doesn't pull back; instead, he lets go of my hand and helps Garrett pull down the shorts below his balls.
I look down at Griffin's crotch. He's one year older than Garrett and me, and more developed, with a thick bush of brown hair above his dick, which is about the same size as Holland's, but not uncut like him. Griffin gasps as Garrett starts rubbing the edge of his thumb on the flare of his cock.
Garrett's hand moves with surprising confidence over Griffin, his thumb circling the tip of Griffin's cock, eliciting quiet gasps and shudders from the once quiet Scribe. The tension in the minidak is palpable, a heady mix of nerves and desire.
Meanwhile, Griffin's hand stretches out tentatively, finding its way to my groin, his fingertips brushing over the fabric of the silver Nike basketball shorts. He traces the outline of my erection, the fabric straining against my skin, and I can't help but let out a soft hiss of breath. His touch is light, curious, as if he's not quite sure how much I'll allow.
"Wow, you're big, Griffin," Garrett says, his voice thick with surprise and excitement as he starts to jerk Griffin off with a steady rhythm, his hand moving with a confidence that seems to come from a place of awe.
Griffin's hand slips inside my Nike shorts, the warmth of his palm wrapping around my erection. His touch is experimental at first, but as he feels the firmness of my cock, his grip tightens, matching the rhythm Garrett has set. We're all connected now, a silent circuit of touch and want, each of us feeding off the others' desire.
Griffin's breath comes in shaky hitches as he jerks me off alongside Garrett's movements, his eyes fluttering closed as the sensation overwhelms him. His thumb finds the sensitive ridge below the head of my cock, and I can feel the tension building in my lower belly.
The minidak seems to hold its breath with us, the only sounds are our quiet gasps and the rustle of the sleeping bag beneath us. We're lost in the moment, the three of us, bound by the secrets we've shared and our week here now coming to a close.
Griffin leans back against the wall, his eyes fluttering closed as he pulls his shirt up, exposing his smooth chest to the cool night air. Garrett's hand moves faster now, his strokes more deliberate, and I can feel the tension building in the air as if it's a physical force, thick and electric.
"Oh, fuck," Griffin breathes out, his hips bucking upward as Garrett's thumb presses into the slit of his cock, smearing pre-cum over the swollen head.
Garrett's eyes dart to me, a silent question in his gaze. I nod, giving him the permission he needs, and he leans in closer to Griffin, his hand moving in a blur over Griffin's dick.
With a strangled cry, Griffin's body arches off the sleeping bag, and he spurts thick ropes of cum over his chest, the hot liquid splattering against his skin with a wet sound that makes my cock throb. Garrett's eyes never leave mine as he milks the last drops from Griffin's pulsing shaft, and the sight of them together, lost in the intimacy of the moment, sends me over the edge.
I come hard, my cock being jerked by Griffin in the confines of the silky Nike shorts, filling them with sticky warmth as I strain to keep my noises quiet. But the feeling is intense, my orgasm ripping through me like a lightning strike, leaving me trembling and gasping for breath.
Griffin's hand on my cock doesn't stop moving until I'm spent, my hips finally stuttering to a halt. He looks at me with a mix of awe and curiosity, his own chest heaving with the aftermath of his release.
For a moment, we just lie there, the three of us in the tight space of the minidak, our bodies tangled together in the aftermath of something we thought was finished, but somehow started again.
But it's not over, Garrett pulls his throbbing dick out of his black shorts, and Griffin doesn't even hesitate, he learns over Garrett and takes him in his mouth.
Griffin's eyes widen briefly at the sudden sensation of Garrett's cock filling his mouth, but he quickly relaxes into it, his right hand pulls out of the Nike shorts and wraps around Garrett's cock. Garrett's hand threads through Griffin's hair, his grip tightening as he guides the rhythm of the blowjob.
I watch, transfixed, as Garrett's face contorts in pleasure, his eyes squeezed shut. Then, unable to resist, I crawl over Griffin and trace the line of cum on his chest with my tongue, the salty taste of him mingling with the musky scent of arousal. The warmth of his skin under my mouth sends a shiver down my spine, and I swirl my tongue around his nipple, feeling it harden against me.
With a final, desperate thrust, Garrett climaxes into Griffin's mouth, the warmth of his release filling his cheek. The intimate act seems to break the last of the unspoken barriers between us, and we collapse onto each other, our breathing ragged in the quiet of the minidak. The air is thick with the scent of sex and the sweaty aftermath of our shared release. We lay tangled on the sleeping bag, limbs intertwined, each of us feeling a little more exposed than we did moments ago.
Griffin pulls up his shorts with a confused huff, shaking his head like he can't quite believe what just happened. The tension that had coiled so tightly between us unravels, leaving something softer in its wake, something like trust, or maybe just the relief of not being alone.
"See you in the morning," he murmurs, squeezing my shoulder before slipping out of the minidak. The flap falls shut behind him, and the night swallows his footsteps whole.
Garrett exhales and returns to his bunk, pulling up his shorts. For the first time all week, the knot in my chest loosens. The jersey's still buried in my pack, Holland's goodbye still aches, and tomorrow we'll scatter back to the real world. But right now, with Garrett's breath rising and falling across from me and the owl calling somewhere in the trees, maybe I'll sleep guiltless tonight after all.
Epilogue: ASA Boys U14 #14
Somewhere just north of Centralia, WA, we pile out of Mr. Smedstad's Toyota Tundra at a rest stop that smells like burnt coffee and low-grade diesel. The sky's overcast and heavy, like it can't decide whether to rain or not.
Oliver's already bolting for the restrooms. Garrett groans as he stretches, his knees popping like a glowstick.
Ben slams the passenger door harder than necessary. "We're not stopping at Great Wolf Lodge. We just spent a week on the Oregon Coast. Beach dunes, lake, kayaking, getting sunburned, what else do you people want? Endless Waterslide lineups and overpriced pizza?"
He mutters it mostly to himself as he stalks off toward the restrooms.
Mr. Smedstad just smiles and shakes his head. "Can't fault a boy for dreaming."
I follow Garrett around the corner of the building, and that's when I see it: he's holding a faded tri-fold brochure from a roadside rack near the vending machines.
Great Wolf Lodge Grand Mound: Greatness Awaits!
There's a picture of a cartoon wolf on an inner tube, shooting down a water slide.
Garrett flips it open and sighs dramatically. "They've got a lazy river. Indoor."
I smirk. "You wanted to stop, too?"
"I mean, not really. But it would've been funny. Also, I wouldn't say no to a donut-shaped tube and no adult supervision."
"You had that all week."
"Yeah, but look, they got water cannons!"
I roll my eyes and head into the restroom.
Inside, it's the usual: flickering lights, cracked tile, a hand dryer that wheezes but doesn't blow. I rinse my hands just to feel something clean, then step back outside into the filtered gray light.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Holland Jamison:
At PDX. Waiting for our connection to Chicago, then IAD.
Thought you might like to see this.
Attached is a photo.
It's his fall 2018 soccer portrait, a reminder of just how much can change in a school year. The royal blue adidas jersey, longer blonde hair curling behind his ears, and cleated boot on a soccer ball like he owns it. The printed caption reads:
ASA Boys U14 – Holland Jamison – Defense – #14
He looks smaller somehow. A little younger. Confident, but still him.
The typing bubble appears.
Disappears.
A breeze cuts across the lot. I'm still staring at the photo when Garrett comes back around the corner, brochure now folded and stuffed into his back pocket.
"You ready?" he asks, nudging me gently with an elbow.
I nod, thumbing my phone screen off. "Yeah. Just thinking about what I'm gonna do when I get home."
He doesn't press. Just leans in slightly, shoulder to mine. We walk back toward the truck in quiet, the gravel crunching underfoot, the clouds beginning to shift.
We're almost home, and the vast expanse of the Pacific Northwest forest will soon give way to the 10-lane concrete jungle of Interstate 5. Part of me feels like I left something behind in Oregon, but the other half knows I carry something irreplaceable in my bag, and something newfound in my pocket.
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