Wild Things

The papaya sat on my plate like some alien artifact — bright orange, speckled seeds looking back at me. I'd come to summer camp to prove I wasn't some sheltered kid from the suburbs, but facing exotic fruit in the mess hall felt like my first real test.

"You gonna eat that, or just stare it down?" Maya asked from across the table. She had this way of looking at you like she knew things, camp counselor vibes even though she was only sixteen.

"I'm working up to it," I said, which was total bull and we both knew it. My iphone buzzed in my pocket — my third group text from friends back home asking if camp was "literally the worst" yet. I'd stopped answering.

That's when Old Rusty, the camp's ancient golden retriever, lumbered in and collapsed beneath our table. That dog had seen generations of campers pass through here, all of us thinking our teenage dramas were the first dramas anyone had ever had.

"Rumor has it," Maya whispered, leaning in, "that a bear was spotted near the lake last night."

My stomach did that thing where it forgets how to stomach. "A bear? Like, actual bear-bear?"

She nodded, dead serious. "Story goes, every few summers one shows up. Nobody's ever been hurt, but..." She trailed off, letting my imagination do the work.

That night, when the cabin dared me to sneak to the lake for skinny dipping — classic camp bullshit — I went. The moon painted everything silver and strange. I waded in, heart hammering, feeling like I was crossing some invisible line between childhood and whatever came next.

A twig snapped. Something massive moved at the treeline.

I froze. The bear.

Then a snort, a familiar wheeze. Old Rusty trotted out, shook himself off like why was everyone making such a big deal?

I laughed so hard I almost choked. That night, I ate the papaya. I messaged my friends back: camp wasn't literally the worst. It was literally everything.