Page 48 of The Falcon and the Foe

“Yeah!” The kids cheered in a pavlovian response to dessert.

“What are you suggesting?”

Cal went to his backpack and pulled out chocolate bars, graham crackers, and marshmallows. The kids went absolutely bananas.

“We can’t have a camping trip without s’mores!”

I imagined a pack of kids hopped up on sugar. Cal the biggest one of them all.

He dipped his head at me like he could read my thoughts.

“Scout Leader Russ, what do you say?”

* * *

A little while later,the campfire was roaring, and the scouts were stuffed with s’mores. Chocolate and marshmallow smudges lined their lips. Their eyes dipped in and out of sugar comas. They danced around the fire and sang songs. I could tell by their psychotic energy levels that they would crash soon, just in time for lights out.

Cal wiped bits of graham cracker and marshmallow from his beard.

“You look drunk on s’mores,” I told him.

He stood on one foot and touched his finger to his nose, impersonating a drunk driving test. “I’m buzzed, but I’m well below the blood Hershey limit.” He whipped his head around. “Hey, marshmallows are meant to be eaten, not set on fire, Chase. I see you.” He did the I’m watching you move where he pointed at his eyes, then Chase.

“I see you can be a bit of a hardass,” I said.

“I guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

I wondered if the same was happening to me.

He dragged over a folding chair I’d brought for us and our adult backs. Once I hit thirty, my days of sitting on the ground were over.

“Have you had a s’more yet?” Cal asked.

“I’ll pass.”

“I knew you’d say that.” Cal’s beard stretched to fit his smug smile.

“I don’t like to eat junk food.”

“No wonder you always seem miserable.”

“I don’t seem miserable.”

“One s’more will not wreck your rockin’ bod.” He said it with a laugh, but in the glow of firelight, a micro-panic swept across his face. “You’re on a camping trip, Russ. Have some fun. Live a little.”

I couldn’t believe I was being peer pressured into eating a s’more, but the sugary smell of the chocolate and marshmallow got the better of me. Usually, I was fine around snacks. I knew that the junk Quentin and his friends ate didn’t taste as good as my mind liked to believe. It would sit in my stomach and turn me into another flabby, wide dad. This s’more was made over a campfire. It was technically all-natural, or so I told myself.

And for the life of me, I couldn’t say no to Cal’s practically pleading eyes, sparkling and warm.

“Okay.”

Cal pumped his fist in victory. “Step one, we need to get you a stick and a marshmallow. Josh!”

Josh handed over his stick. Some of the boys had carved theirs so it’d be optimal for hoisting a marshmallow.

I swiped the stick from Cal. I didn’t need a tutorial in roasting marshmallows. I held it over the fire. The heat of the flames warmed my face. The perfect white cube of sugar began to darken on the underside while the top stayed bright and white, like a meteor falling to earth.

“That is looking good,” Cal said with a low growl I felt in my belly...and further south.

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