The final van coughs twice, then dies with a sigh that sounds almost relieved. Heat wobbles above the asphalt; the forest presses in, all resin and old rain.

Chris kicks gravel, offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and says the road crew will swing by “first thing.”

The sun slides behind the ridge like it has somewhere better to be.

In the lodge, trophies gleam in the dim; a bulletin board bristles with Polaroids and warnings. Out by the lake, a buoy clinks—one, two, three—then stops, as if someone pinched the night shut.

Your phone spins No Service like it’s a joke it’s told all summer. Behind the desk, a key ring waits with tags the color of fallen apples.

You could inventory cabins, run a headcount on leftover gear, or pretend the sound you heard under Cabin B was just a raccoon with steel-toed boots.

Thunder rolls far off, lazy and mean. The lodge lights flicker once, steady, like a wink.

Stay busy, stay together, stay curious. The camp doesn’t love silence.