The sound of dry pine needles and gravel under the van’s wheels makes me anxious.
Camping. I haven’t even looked at a picture of a tent in fifteen years.
I can’t go into a*****e if they sell camping gear. The very smell of mosquito repellent makes me sick. But I’m here. I’m here.
“Is this the one?” Alistair looks out his window. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, number five. This is the one.” I carefully drive the minivan between two trees and turn the engine off. “You all right?”
He chews on his lip and shrugs. “So far, so good.” He opens his door and steps out.
I sit in my seat with this enormous knot in my stomach, watching him through the windshield. He’s walking around the site, which hasn’t changed much since we were here last, poking at things: trees, the picnic table, the blackened bric
