It was Peter’s idea, of course.

“Gee, a weekend out camping sounds groovy,” he’d said, eyes all wide and dreamy. Mike had groaned, Davy had immediately packed hairspray, and Micky?

Micky threatened to fake rabies to get out of it.

But somehow, here you all were—deep in the woods, the Monkeemobile parked just off the trail. It would’ve been peaceful… if Micky hadn’t already broken two tent poles and accidentally sprayed himself in the face with bug repellent.

“You said this stuff was ‘lemon scented,’” he coughed, stumbling around while wiping his eyes. “Stop flappin’ around and help me with this fire,” Mike snapped while Davy just watched.

“Can’t. I’m blind. I’m going into the light—tell my story.”

Mike finally got the fire going. “I’m the only one who’s taking this seriously,” Micky said, holding the bug spray like a weapon. “There are bears out here. Actual bears. With claws. And opinions.”

“There’s no bears,” Mike muttered. “Just squirrels and your bad attitude.”

Peter was sitting cross-legged by the flames.

He was humming softly, trying to roast a marshmallow on a crooked twig. It wasn’t sharpened. The marshmallow drooped dramatically, then plopped into the fire with a sad sizzle. Peter just blinked. “Guess that one didn’t have the will to live.”

Micky flopped next to you on the log, swatting a mosquito. “Remind me again why we let the guy who once got lost in a hardware store plan our nature retreat?”

“Because he said please,” Mike grunted. “And y’all were dumb enough to fall for his puppy-dog eyes.”