“I guess people don’t drink it for how it tastes. It’s how it makes you feel.” Gage took another sip, because he wanted to know how it made him feel.

They sat cross-legged in the circular clearing, knees bumping, passing the can from hand to hand.

Cal ’s stomach pitched, but it didn’t feel sick, not exactly. His head pitched, too, but it felt sort of goofy and fun. And the beer made his bladder full. When he stood, the whole world pitched and made him laugh helplessly as he staggered toward a tree.

He unzipped, aimed toward the tree but the tree kept moving.

Fox was struggling to light one of the cigarettes when Cal stumbled back. They passed that around the circle as well until Cal ’s almost ten-year-old stomach revolted. He crawled off to sick it all up, crawled back, and just lay flat, closing his eyes and willing the world to go still again.

He felt as if he were once again swimming in the pond, and being slowly pulled under.

When he surfaced again it was nearly dusk.

He eased up, hoping he wouldn’t be sick again. He felt a little hollow inside-belly and head-but not like he was going to puke. He saw Fox curled against the stone, sleeping. He crawled over on all fours for the thermos and as he washed the sick and beer out of his throat, he was never so grateful for his mother and her lemonade.

Steadier, he rubbed his fingers on his eyes under his glasses, then spotted Gage sitting, staring at the tented wood of the campfire they’d yet to light.

“’Morning, Sally.”

With a wan smile, Cal scooted over.

“I don’t know how to light this thing. I figured it was about time to, but I needed a Boy Scout.”

Cal took the book of matches Gage handed him, and set fire to several spots on the pile of dried leaves he’d arranged under the wood. “That should do it. Wind’s pretty still, and there’s nothing to catch in the clearing. We can keep feeding it when we need to, and just make sure we bury it before we go tomorrow.”