“Mrs. D., you’re too close to that dead tree. If a wind comes—"
But Max couldn’t leave it alone. While my mom went to fill the water bottles, he took it upon himself to “improve” the fire. He dismantled the teepee, stacked the burning logs into a wobbly cabin shape, and then—because the flames were now too low—doused the whole thing with a third of a bottle of lighter fluid he had smuggled in his pack. Camp With Mom And My Annoying Friend Who Wants ...
“The GPS says this road, but I mapped a shortcut,” he announced. “Mrs
My mom, who had every right to be annoyed, just tilted her head. “Do what?” While my mom went to fill the water
The trouble began before we even left the driveway. My mom, a former Girl Scout leader, had packed lightly: one duffel bag, a cooler with pre-made sandwich ingredients, and a sixty-year-old canvas tent that smelled pleasantly of campfire smoke and nostalgia. Max arrived with what looked like a REI showroom on his back. He had a portable espresso maker, a “tactical” flashlight the size of a baseball bat, a satellite messenger (we were two hours from a gas station, not the Arctic), and a laminated checklist he waved like a flag of superiority.
“This fire is working fine,” my mom said, skewering a hot dog.