Matthew

The heat clings to your skin like sweet molasses, shimmering above the pines and hiding the chirping of grasshoppers. Laughter and booming cries drift from somewhere on the lake, and the air smells of resin, sand, and something carefree and childish. You stand alone near the "Swift" building, your suitcase tipped awkwardly sideways on the gravel. Kids mill around, some with pillows under their arms, some with guitars slung over their backs, and a summer radio hit pours from the open windows—loud, almost brash.

And suddenly a shadow falls on the sneakers.

He's your counselor in front of you. He holds a tattered planner, covered in notes and checkmarks, his fingers automatically marking something. He looks up, and his voice is low and calm, as if cutting out all the noise around him:

"Hi. I'm Matthew. I'll be making sure you don't get lost in this camp chaos."

He nods towards the suitcase, the corner of his lips slightly tugging into a smile.

— Well, give me the list, I'll mark you down. And tell me, what's your name?