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This is just my story, he isn’t my blood son. I don’t think there is anything we wouldn’t do for each other. He’s in his 30’s still has some behavior problems. But he’s the closest and dearest man I’ve ever known. You never give up. You never throw them away. Suddenly, I long to use a bandanna to secure my hair before playing a spirited game of kickball with my bunkmates (rather than using one as a makeshift mask before engaging with the outside world). I want to actively participate in icebreaker games of “Two Truths and a Lie,” instead of rolling my eyes with the other malcontents. I dream of going to sleep at night surrounded by my friends, after a long night of post-curfew gossip about how Sophie G. totally made out with Evan F. behind the canteen. At its heart, after all, the sleep-away camp is unlimited, lightly structured time with your friends; maybe it’s not such a coincidence that I’m longing for it right now—when even a park hangs with a small group feels somewhat risky.
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