I dash off a quick text to Reagan: So, about this glamping trip. Who’s going? Are you driving? What day are you leaving?
Look, I say, pointing up at a wispy white trail. The Milky Way. You can’t see that at home without a telescope. Not even at the observatory.Lennon takes off his headlamp and leans back on his palms. It looks unreal. I know it’s not, but my mind doesn’t want to accept that this isn’t some fake, projected light show.
No projection could look like this. We both stare up at the sky for a long moment. I don’t even think I want to use the telescope, I say. I think I just want to look at them. Is that weird?Not at all. It’s not every day you get to see all this.My phone still has a little charge on it, and I quickly turn on the screen to use it as a flashlight in order to see where to move my telescope. That’s when I notice something.
We have service!Well, what do you know? Lennon says, taking out his phone. Oh, look. I’ve got texts from the Brettster.
You do? My only texts are from Mom and Avani.
He’s apologizing for leaving us. Well, it’s sort of a nonapology. Oh, wait. He’s taking it back. No . . . He’s apologizing again. Aren’t Reagan’s parents in Switzerland, or something?Put it on my credit card, Reagan says breezily.
Candy gives Reagan a withering look. You can stop by the desk at your convenience and fill out the form.No music is allowed in the tent cabins, Candy says to all of us. No loud talking after sunset when you’re inside your camp. Other guests may be trying to sleep, and these walls aren’t soundproof. Quiet hours start at ten p.m. and last until seven a.m.
Geez, Summer mumbles under her breath near my ear. This place is a dictatorship.Candy points in the general direction of the lodge. We have a small store that sells sweatshirts and rain gear. You can also rent bear canisters and camp stoves. It’s run on the honor system, so you’ll need to put cash in the bin or write your tent number and name on the sheet to have it added to your final bill. Also—