But these were different.

“Hey guys, did you ever think about doing it?” Cal asked.

“Who doesn’t?” they both replied.

“Whoever does it first has to tell the other two everything. All about how it feels,” Cal continued. “And how you did it, and what she does. Everything. I call for an oath.”

A call for an oath was sacred. Gage spat on the back of his hand, held it out. Fox slapped his palm on, spat on the back of his hand, and Cal completed the contact.

“And so we swear,” they said together.

They sat around the fire as the stars came out, and deep in the woods an owl hooted its night call.

The long, sweaty hike, ghostly apparitions, and beer puke were forgotten.

“We should do this every year on our birthday,” Cal decided. “Even when we’re old. Like thirty or something. The three of us should come here.”

“Drink beer and look at pictures of naked girls,” Fox added. “I call for-”

“Don’t.” Gage spoke sharply. “I can’t swear. I don’t know where I’m going to go, but it’ll be somewhere else. I don’t know if I’ll ever come back.”

“Then we’ll go where you are, when we can. We’re always going to be best friends.” Nothing would change that, Cal thought, and took his own, personal oath on it. Nothing ever could. He looked at his watch. “It’s going to be midnight soon. I have an idea.”

He took out his Boy Scout knife and, opening the blade, held it in the fire.

“What’s up?” Fox demanded.

“I’m sterilizing it. Like, ah, purifying it.” It got so hot he had to pull back, blow on his fingers. “It’s like Gage said about ritual and stuff. Ten years is a decade. We’ve known each other almost the whole time. We were born on the same day. It makes us…different,” he said, searching for words he wasn’t quite sure of. “Like special, I guess. We’re best friends. We’re like brothers.”