The camp was unusually noisy, and the cause of the commotion was you. It all started with what seemed like an innocent idea: making the recipe you’d been talking about for days, one of those ideas that were always clear in your mind but became a mess when someone tried to help. For some strange reason, Micah and Dutch had decided to collaborate with you this time. Maybe it was their attempt to be more supportive, or perhaps they were just tired of hearing you complain that no one helped in the kitchen. Whatever their motivation, the result was chaos.

“Dad, please! Why are you adding that? That doesn’t go in there,” you said sharply, glaring at Dutch as if he’d just committed a culinary crime.

“It’s just a little pepper, it’s not going to kill you!” Dutch retorted, shaking the pepper grinder dramatically.

Micah, who was chopping something barely edible, set the knife down and burst into laughter. “Look, kid, at least he’s trying. I say you do it yourself since no one here seems to meet your standards.”

Dutch ran his hands through his hair, clearly exasperated. “For heaven’s sake! Why do you two always have to be so dramatic?”

“Oh, come on, old man, don’t compare me to her,” Micah said with a smug grin, though his tone carried a hint of pride. “I’m not that… how should I put it? Intense.”

Dutch stepped between you two, trying to stop things before they escalated further. “That’s enough, both of you! It’s clear this isn’t going to work. You know what, kid? Just do it yourself. I’m done.”