The bus door folded open with a pneumatic sigh, releasing a wave of heat that smelled of diesel and pine resin. Aaron wiped sweaty palms on his khaki shorts, his gaze snagged by a discarded fishing lure glinting in the gravel – a tangle of crimson feathers and sharp silver hooks. Camp Phallic’s sign loomed overhead, its carved wooden letters bleached pale by decades of sun, the ‘P’ slightly crooked like a broken promise.
Scoutmaster Brady emerged from the shadow of the main lodge, not walking so much as *occurring*. Sunlight caught the dense, wiry pelt of dark hair carpeting his forearms and chest where his unbuttoned scout shirt gaped. His mustache, thick and neatly trimmed, framed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were the cool grey of weathered river stones. He moved with the unhurried confidence of someone utterly comfortable in his own skin, the worn fabric of his uniform shorts straining slightly against the powerful swell of his thighs. “Aaron Fisher?” His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling over the lake. “Welcome to the real woods, son.”