Chapter one of the new novel.

So, here it is, the first sneak peek of my latest novel project. While I'd love to say I'm going to meet the 50,000-word goal this month, I doubt it'll happen. But here's the rough draft of the first chapter. I've got a lot more done than this, but this is what I'm about to throw out there for public criticism.

Please leave your feedback -- as little or as much as you'd like -- about anything. Don't worry about punctuation and typos because I've only re-read it once.

Sunday evening.
Camper check-in.
Objective: Meet & Greet

Kids are the best drug dealers I know.

I’m not just saying that to be funny. It’s true. The likelihood of getting shot or ripped off by a ten-year-old is pretty low. You don’t have to worry about double-cut blow or a bag of weed that’s all stems and seeds. They always carry the best stuff. Prescription strength. And the cost is always right.

That’s why I’m glad that I am here.

I’m standing at the front gates, waving in car after minivan after SUV. Each passing one stirs up dust from the gravel path, creating a luminous haze in the summer sun. Me in my standard red polo shirt and cargo shorts, my arm waves at my side. After hours of welcomes, I don’t hold my arm as high as when the caravan began. A dust film has developed on my sunglasses. I dread the thought of tan lines.

The walkie-talkie on my belt is silent.

Each car unloads a small amount of cargo for one passenger. Duffle bag, sleeping bag, pillow. Everything on the list and not much else. As if on cue, parents haul their kids’ things over to a folding table in front of the main hall.

I watch them as they walk over, looking for the signs that mean anything. A sniffle or a bad cough. Glazed over eyes. A twitchy walk. Jerking heads. A scowl. A cast on an arm. Pale. Too many freckles.

It all means something to me, the way it means something to a parent, the way it means something to a physician.

Sara—at least that’s what I think her name is—greets everyone with a row of perfectly straight white teeth wrapped around her tanned face. Her smile downsizes her enthusiasm.

“Welcome to Camp Wazeecha, where we build strong kids with strong character through strong values,” she says over and over throughout the day. She’s almost chirping.

Every other Sunday, she puts on the same show as one pack of campers leaves and another comes in. The annoying thing is that, for her, it’s not a show. She actually believes the camp motto. It only grows worse when the curtain goes up.

I’d get rid of her if she weren’t so trusting.

The parents stand in front of Sara, or whatever, and I’m watching from a distance, still waving, still doing my best to smile in the thickening cloud of dust. They talk, Sara handing the camper a lanyard and white plastic nametag she pulls from a shoebox filled with white envelopes. That box doesn’t concern me. It’s the one next to her on the ground that interests me the most.

In hordes of unrecognizable faces, I remember the latest of all the check-ins from last year. He’s a scrawny, little mutt of a kid, the weight of his red duffle bag sways him to one side as he walks up to the table. I vaguely recall any details of him, any resemblance of himself changing after a year. Puberty, weight gain, muscle growth. It changes them all you’d think you’d never met any of them.

But I remember that red duffle bag.

Right inner side pouch. A silent small-toothed zipper. Not like the rough one on the outside. This kid was an entrepreneur of amateur sorts. He was smart last year and I feared he’d be too smart this year. That’s what I remember of him, but not his name.
This kid’s mom pulls a large zippered plastic bag from her oversized Gucci knockoff purse and hands it to Sara, if that’s her name. Our grinning hostess accepts it, scribbles on a clipboard, checks the plastic bag for appropriate markings, and drops it in the box.

She smiles to the parents. She stands. She shakes their hands. It’s the silent equivalent of telling the parents to leave.

Your child will have lots of fun here, that handshake says.

Thanks for trusting us with your child.

Your child is safe here.

Most parents hug their kids goodbye. Some give them kisses as these pre-teens squirm away in embarrassment. Almost everyone gets some kind of last-minute physical touch before mom and dad drive off in the van, waving back at their kid like overzealous beauty queen contestants.

Not this kid. After the handshake with Sara, mom and dad turn away and get into their SUV. They drive away, barely even noticing me as they come within inches of running over my feet. The dust clears and I see the kid picking up his bag, pillow and sleeping bag. He turns and walks toward the cabins, knowing exactly where he’s staying. He’s been here before and knows everything here. The places, the regiment, the rules.

The look on his face says he doesn’t want to be here. It also says it’s better than being at home.

My attention returns the box, now cluttered with bags full of brown bottles, blister packs, eye droppers, whatever. My trick-or-treating goodies.

It’s not as full as last weeks batch of campers. That’s a good thing considering last week. As far as I know, none of the parents are any the wiser to what happened. The kids know better than to say anything.

The flow of vehicles stops.

One last group of parents is checking in their daughter as I walk away from my post at the gate. The personal, cheery greetings are done. I let my arm fall limp at my side. This is the last group of campers for the season and I won’t have to stand out in front of the gate for another nine months.

Sara—maybe—waves me over to the table. I walk past the older kids lying in the grass catching up from last summer, giving each other those hugs teenagers do, the one’s where they barely touch. The pre-teens are chasing each other in the grass between the cabins and the bathrooms, burning off saved up energy from hours spent in cars.

There are acres for them to run around, climb trees, break a leg, get lost. Right now, they’re all a calmer form of themselves that will begin around noon tomorrow. It’s part of the clockwork and routine that happens every year, every week.

“This is David and Charlotte Dalton,” Sandra—the name on her nametag—says, standing up next to them. “And this is their daughter, Anna.”

The girl looks me right in the eyes. Somehow, I remember her.

Even if she wasn’t the last camper, she would have stuck out. While everyone else is wearing shorts and T-shirts, Anna’s dressed for a day at the mall, not the first day of summer camp. A short blue skirt hugs her waist and thighs, a pink button-up shirt is buttoned down to show the lacy fringe of a bra underneath.

Only about fifteen years old. Looking like she’s twenty-five.

“Anna, welcome back to Camp Wazeecha,” I say, reaching to shake her hand, a greased grin spread across my face.

David reaches in and grabs my hand before Anna can get a hold of it. He squeezes firmly. He’s obviously tense about something. He looks down at the nametag on my chest. The shine off the top of his bald head catches the setting sun and throws it in my eyes. He loosens his grip. I pull my hand back.

“So you’re the Jake we’ve heard so much about,” he says.

There’s so many ways to take that comment.

I smile and say, “Only good things, I hope.”

And the tension is broken with a laugh. His, not mine. Anna shifts her foot in the dirt and begins to draw something with her toe.

And Charlotte says, “We just wanted to meet you. Anna couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Again a little laugh. Mine, not hers. Somehow, I still can’t think of what they’re talking about.

Not laughing, David is serious. “We were hoping that this summer you could keep Anna off of the horses. After what, um, happened last year, we’d like to prevent another…uh…incident.”

Still, I had no clue what they were talking about.

Looking up from her dirt doodle , Anna shifts her eyes towards me. I still don’t fully remember her, but I remember her eyes. She’s looking at me the same as last summer. Those big eyes.

And I say, “No problem, sir. Lots of kids don’t like horseback riding. There’s plenty of other things here at Camp Wazeecha to make sure Anna has too much fun to handle.”
I remembered her plain brown eyes. I had watched tears stream out of them for hours. And it had nothing to do with the horses. She’s filled out since then. She looks five years older, not a year.

“Excellent,” David says, shaking my hand again, gripping it even harder. He pulls himself closer, his head side-by-side to mine.

He whispers in my ear, “We might be back sometime in the middle to check up, if you know what I mean.” He pushes away from me and smiles. A mean smile.

He looked at Anna. He’s happy now. She’d drawn her initials in the dirt.

“Well, we’re off princess. You’ll be in good hands.”

They hug. Anna squirms. They kiss. She pulls back. Her parents leave in their van, honking their horn and waving like idiots.

Anna stands next to me. Her foot swishes in the dirt. She erases her initials as we both watch taillights glow in the dust. I look down at her. She must be about fifteen or so.

“They didn’t want me to come, but I begged them to let me,” she says. Her voice is quiet, a softer version of what it should be. This bothers me, and I don’t like it.
I give her a soft pat on the back. She doesn’t budge. “Go put your stuff in the bunks. We’re all meeting in the main hall in an hour.”

She walks away, pulling her rolling suitcase behind her. The wheels shake the case as they bounce over every pebble on the path, every bump in the grass.

Sandra begins cleaning up the table. The nametag box is empty. She leaves the clipboard and other box for me, just as I told her to do at the beginning of the summer. Just as she has for the last three months.

“Don’t do anything too extreme to start with,” she says, the chirp gone from her voice. “I’m going to start gathering everyone in the main hall. Will you be ready in ten minutes?”

I look over the checklist on the clipboard. I smile.

“No rush. Let’s make it twenty.”

“Fine, but remember I still need to talk to you,” she says.

“Yeah, sure. We can talk afterwards,” I say not looking up from my clipboard.

She walks away, leaving me with the box. A box that once held fresh oranges now holds

Ziploc bags filled with bottles, vials, blister packs. Medicine for the kids. Medication for whatever ails me, whether self-diagnosed or not. It’s the last week of summer vacation for everyone, including me.

It’s going to be a good session.