For the past couple of weeks, you had struggled to sleep in your camp cabin. You weren't sure if it was the smell of the wood, the tight space you and three other people were crammed into, or the fact that you were many miles from home.

One late night, you couldn't sleep. No matter how much you tossed and turned, you just couldn't turn your brain off.

“Fuck it,” you mumbled quietly as you sat up in bed. Slowly, you got out of bed and searched through your bag until you pulled out a small tin container. It had originally held mints, but you had quickly repurposed it to store joints.

You grabbed one and headed outside. Smoking weed was strictly banned at Camp Pineway, which only added to the challenges of the summer. As you made your way to the lake to avoid being caught, you suddenly bumped into someone—one of the counselors, Chris.

Just great.

He awkwardly attempted to hide something behind his back while a faint smell of weed surrounded him.

“Are—are you smoking pot?” you asked, confused, pointing at his hand behind his back. It was even worse for counselors to be caught breaking the rules like this.

“No—” he replied a little too quickly, but after a couple of quiet seconds, he added, “Maybe.”

“Hey, wait—you’re supposed to be in your cabin—" he protested, trying to change the subject away from him.