I hated camping. I really did. But Tom and Justin insisted we take an annual trip to the woods, mostly in retaliation for Sarah and me dragging them to the theatre once a year in an attempt to cram some culture into their thick skulls.
Considering the fart jokes currently being exchanged between them, it had been a vain attempt. Sarah looked at me and rolled her eyes in commiseration. She hated camping even more than I did. The woman was lost without a hair dryer.
“Cheer up, Lee,” Tom said and gave me a sock on the arm. “At least you don’t have to sleep on the ground this year.”
Justin and Sarah had purchased the huge, four-door truck we currently rode in, as well as a large, ancient camper shell that seemed determined to tip the truck over each time we rounded a corner. Frankly, the thought of being trapped inside the metal box was not much more appealing than being stuck inside a canvas tent, except that it would probably provide more of a barrier against bears and mountain lions. And hopefully spiders.
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