Class was over. Another mind-numbing lecture on things I’d already forgotten.
I needed out. Badly. The problem? Finding soone to co with .
Instagram was full of people who loved the outdoors. Unfortunately, none of them were my friends.
Instead, I had friends who could spend twelve straight hours raiding dungeons in video gas, but the thought of spending one night in an actual forest? Apparently, that was too much.
After debating with myself all week, I finally decided—screw it, I’ll go alone.
Of course, the second I made that choice, my brain had to be a smartass about it.
“Okay, Layton,” I thought. “On one hand, you’ve never been camping alone. On the other hand… how hard can it really be?”
I wasn’t an idiot. I knew enough to know I probably didn’t know enough. But whatever. I’d figure it out.
As I walked toward the shuttle back to my dorm, my head was still spinning with hypotheticals. How bad would it be, really? Would I get lost? Run out of food? Be mauled by a mountain lion?
How often does that even happen?
…Almost never. Probably
The shuttle was empty. Of course it was. Who takes a night class on a Friday?
Oh, right. .
That’s what I got for procrastinating on class registration. Maybe if I hadn’t spent hours gaming with my friends, I would’ve actually gotten decent class tis.
Not my words—my mom’s.
To be fair, she had a point. Instead of being out, I was in Business 1010, stuck in a two-hour Friday night death march. anwhile, my friends were gaming, partying, and making terrible life choices.
Oh well. Back to the business of camping.
I could handle a weekend alone. My only real concern? Getting eaten.
But hey, how often does that even happen?
…Yeah. Still not looking it up.
Anyway, it was settled. Tomorrow morning, I’d pack up, hop in my car, and head north until I found a good spot—sowhere remote, surrounded by trees, and most importantly, with no other people.
Just , the wilderness, and a non-zero chance of getting murdered by nature. Perfect.
-
BZZZZ. BZZZZ.
6 AM. No. Snooze. I was going camping, not training for the Olympics.
I finally rolled out of bed at 8 AM—right as my phone buzzed again.
Dad. Because of course.
"Hey, Layton!" my dad said, his blood worked like a natural caffeine. "What? Did I wake you up?"
"No, Dad," I said, deadpan. "I actually just got back from my morning hike. Great sunrise."
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"Uh-huh," he said, not buying it for a second. "So, gaming until two again?"
Ugh. It was too early for this interrogation.
"Why is that always your go-to?" I sighed. "You do know video gas aren’t the only reason people sleep in on Saturdays, right?"
"So you’re telling you weren’t up until two playing?"
I scoffed. Opened my mouth. Closed it. Damn it.
Not that I was ashad—I totally had stayed up until two (maybe later). But it was the smugness in his voice that really got under my skin.
"Now you listen here, sir," I said, shifting to full mock outrage. "I will not lie to you. I was up playing video gas until two—but I will be damned if I let you act all high and mighty just because you went to bed first. Let's not forget, old man, that you don’t even have a choice anymore. I’m pretty sure at your age, you fall asleep on the couch by eight, whether you want to or not. That’s why pilots over fifty can’t fly past five."
My dad chuckled.
Growing up, I learned that if I could make him laugh, I could get away with a lot.
"Well," he said, still amused, "I just wanted to remind you about your promise to help fix Charlotte's sprinklers today."
Oh, right. That.
Charlotte was my parents' next-door neighbor. Sweetest old woman in the world. And her sprinklers were absolute garbage.
If I had a nickel for every ti those damn sprinklers needed fixing, I could fill a sock with them and put the poor woman out of her misery.
"Ah… crap," I muttered. "Dad, I’m really sorry. I totally forgot—I just planned a camping trip this weekend."
Silence. Just for a second. And just like that, the guilt hit like a truck.
But instead of being mad, he just said, "You know, Layton, normally I’d be disappointed. But if you’re standing up to get out in nature? I can live with that."
Ow.
Sohow, when parents don’t get angry—even when they totally could—it hurts so much worse.
If I felt guilty before, now I was drowning in it.
"Dad," I groaned, "why’d you have to hit with the healthy parenting tactic? You know that’s my weakness!"
"Haha! I learned that strategy from your mom. She’s the real pro, and you know it."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Well, I appreciate the pass. But yeah, I’m heading out this weekend. Still not sure where. I figured I’d just drive north until I find a good spot—sowhere with decent trees and no people."
"You’re quite the planner," he said dryly. Then, after a beat, he perked up. "You know, I think this could be good for you. It’s better than being cooped up staring at a screen all day. Just be safe, and I’ll see you next weekend. I’m sure I can find another job we can do together!"
"You know, Dad, manual labor is not the bait you think it is," I said.
"And yet sohow," he replied, "it has such a high success rate."
Damn it, he had there.
"You know I love you, Layton," he said. "Take care of yourself out there."
"Love you too, Dad," I said, smiling.
As I hung up, I sat back and exhaled.
How did I get so lucky to have such great parents?
-
After that phone call, there was no point going back to bed.
I stretched, yawned, and—OW.
Sothing stabbed my foot. Hard.
I lurched back, cursing, and looked down. A chanical pencil—half-buried in my disaster of a floor.
Right. Packing. Should’ve done that last night.
I grabbed my school bag, flipped it over, and dumped the contents onto my bed. Thud. A stack of overpriced textbooks hit the mattress. A few half-filled notebooks followed—mostly doodles, zero actual notes.
Good enough.
I spotted my sweater hanging on the bedpost and hesitated. Mid-sumr, but nights could get cold.
I stuffed it in. Better safe than freezing.
What else? That should pretty much cover it, right?
Tent, sleeping bag, and pad? Already in the trunk. One less thing to think about.
Food? Eh. Gas stations existed.
My fridge was practically a wasteland anyway.
Cool. Ti to go.
I grabbed my keys and headed for the door, slipping on my low-rise white Converse that had seen better days.
I was halfway out when I froze.
Wait.
Shit. My lighter.
Patted my pockets. Not there.
I scrambled back, found it on my desk, and sighed.
I would’ve felt like an absolute idiot if I’d forgotten that. And to think, I was a Boy Scout once.
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