Despite what he meant to me, I won’t tell you his name; that privilege was signed away as part of camp counselor protocol.
I moved myself under the rock wall. The dense heat rising from the tire pieces covering the floor paired with the green light reflecting from a nearby slide created an environment that was warm, albeit unusual. One of his hands fiddled with the knotted necklace around his neck, while the other was wrapped around his knees as if to indicate that my presence was not wanted. Even as I placed myself next to him, his dark eyes remained cast down.
“The others are playing cops and robbers,” I started in a tone bright enough to parallel my strikingly yellow camp counselor t-shirt, “You could be a cop?”
“I don’t like cops” he murmured.
“Well you could be a robber then,” I suggested.
“You think I like to steal?” he said pointedly, looking up at me for the first time.
I hastily assured him that I didn’t, and asked what he actually liked to do instead. Well, he liked a lot of things. Large dark guns were one, a very unusual card game another. But it wasn’t until he started describing medieval torture methods, however, that I began plotting my escape. I looked around anxiously. Finally, an angel appeared: my…
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