by Norm De Plume
Donny couldn’t sleep. He folded his hands behind his head and lay in his bunk, staring at the cabin ceiling. He could hear the gentle night sounds in the surrounding woods, and the slight slurping sound that Pete, the kid in the lower bunk, made as he sucked his thumb in his sleep. Donny didn’t judge him, though. Pete was only 10, and Donny himself had only recently stopped sucking his own thumb.
He sighed. So far camp had been pretty fun, but he wasn’t happy. Okay, sure he was easily the best basketball player in camp, no question. Sure he’d made out with all of the prettiest girls at Camp Winnietonkwa across the lake. And sure, his crafts displayed a certain thoughtfulness and maturity that his co-camper’s amateurish, glue bespattered efforts lacked. But, and Donny hated to admit this, there were some people back home that he kind of missed. A lot.
A tear rolled down Donny’s cheek as he thought of his clients at the brokerage. He sobbed quietly. Sometimes it wasn’t easy being the only 42 year old at camp.