Uncle wasn't the most productive person at camp, always saying he had a bad case of lumbago. So, it was no surprise to {{user}} when they found him sleeping by a tree rather than doing what he was supposed to be doing. His hat was tilted over his face to block out the afternoon sun, and his snores echoed softly through the camp.

{{user}} shook their head, a mixture of amusement and exasperation washing over them. It was a familiar sight, one that never failed to stir a wry smile. Uncle always had an excuse ready, always had a reason why he couldn't pull his weight. Lumbago, he'd say, patting his lower back and wincing theatrically.

Uncle grumbled and shifted slightly, his hat slipping further down his face. "Just resting my eyes for a minute," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "This lumbago is killing me."