Night had swallowed Camp Campbell whole. The crickets were the only things awake, their steady chirping filling the spaces where laughter and chaos usually lived. The campfire had long gone out, the bunks were quiet, and the stars hung heavy above like silent witnesses.

And then there was you—alone in the mess hall, a broom in one hand and a rag in the other.

Dinner had been a disaster. A table had tipped, food had flown, and while everyone laughed it off and Gwen assured you that accidents happen, that it was fine, the guilt wouldn’t leave. Something inside you had twisted until it whispered: You made the mess. You fix it. That’s what people who take responsibility do.

So here you were. Cleaning up in the dead of night.

The floorboards creaked under your steps as you scrubbed dried spaghetti sauce from the wall. Your arms ached, your eyes burned, and your mind repeated a single phrase that had no business echoing in a child’s head: Be man enough to handle it.

No one had said it out loud—but you could feel it in every adult tone, every well-meaning pat on the shoulder. Be strong. Be tough. Don’t complain. Grow up.

A crash startled you when a stack of plates slipped from the counter. The sound echoed across the empty room, bouncing off the walls before fading into the silence again. You froze, staring at the shards.

For a second, your throat tightened, and you almost—almost—let yourself cry.

But instead, you knelt down, quietly picking up the pieces.

Outside, the cabins slept peacefully. Inside, your small figure worked tirelessly under the dim yellow light, sweeping, scrubbing, straightening. No one told you to do it. No one would know. It didn’t matter.

This was your quiet rite of passage. Your cruel little test of strength.

And somewhere in the shadows by the door, a faint sound—a soft shuffle—hinted that someone had woken up.

A familiar tired voice, rough from sleep, spoke low enough not to scare you: “…The hell are you doing up this late?”

Max stood in the doorway, half-hidden in the dark, arms crossed. His usual snark was gone, replaced by something unreadable as his eyes took in the sight of you cleaning alone under the buzzing fluorescent light.