“I live in the Poconos. How many eligible men do you think there are within range of my house?” Everyone at camp has at least one area of expertise. Sixty-year-old Angela’s are older men and Prohibition cocktails.

  “You won’t learn the answer to that by spending every night at home with fictional men,” Angela says.

  “Why not? Fictional men are the best. They appear when you summon them and they never, ever disappoint you.”

  “Well, they disappoint you partway through the story,” Stefan corrects me, “but then they more than make up for it by the end.”

  “See? Stefan gets it,” I say. I love rewatching my favorite fictional heroes because I know what to expect, and therefore I am never upset or distressed. Without fail, Aragorn will always ascend the throne as the King of Gondor and marry Arwen. The Avengers and their allies will always defeat Thanos at the pivotal moment. If the story doesn’t have a happy ending, I have no desire to invest. As far as I’m concerned, the real world is one long dark night of the soul, except the bright spot that includes these two weeks.

  “Stefan also dresses as a Viking,” Angela says, quickly followed by an apologetic look. “No judgment, darling.”

  “Are you sure?” Gloria asks. “That sounded dangerously close to judgment.”

  “All I’m saying is that Stefan lives his life as a fictional man,” Angela replies. “Obviously he’s going to agree with Cricket’s take.”

  Stefan adjusts his horned helmet. “Vikings are historical, not fictional.”

  I adore that Stefan unabashedly and unapologetically takes up space in a healthy way. He fully owns his Scandinavian corner.

  “Your headgear is fictional, bro,” Bradley says. “Vikings didn’t actually wear them.”

  Stefan heaves a sigh. “It’s a visual shorthand. I don’t have the right hair or beard, and I can’t carry around swords or spears, so the helmet is the easiest and fastest way to telegraph my identity to others.”

  “I think you look great,” I tell him.

  Bradley spears another marshmallow. “Dudes, I don’t know how you and Adam don’t sweat to death in those helmets.” In black jeans, work boots, and a Metallica T-shirt, Bradley doesn’t necessarily seem like the kind of man who would support helmet-wearing adults, but he’s proven himself to be one of the most open-minded and open-hearted people I’ve ever met.

  Adam produces a small portable fan. “This helps.”

  “What’s the matter?” Laura asks.

  I swivel on the stump to look behind me. “Who, me?”

  “Yes you. Your body is tenser than a Schnauzer on the grooming table.”

  I stab a marshmallow with my stick and hold it close to the flames. “It’s nothing.”

  “She had an unwelcome visit from a lawyer,” Gloria interjects.

  Angela’s ears perk up. “What’s the problem? Is the camp in trouble?”

  “No problem,” I insist. “There’s a property developer who seems to feel entitled to my land simply because he wants it.”

  “Typical man.”

  Angela would know. She’s been married to about half a dozen of them.

  “Present company excepted, of course,” Gloria adds with a sharp look at Angela.

  “None of the men here are typical,” Angela says. “This is an adult camp for self-proclaimed nerds.”

  “My granddad’s a pretty typical nerd.”

  We laugh at Olivia, Ben’s eleven-year-old granddaughter. Technically the rules don’t allow anyone under eighteen to attend Comic-Camp, but I gave Ben special dispensation this year to include her due to unforeseen family circumstances.

  “Speaking of typical nerds, I’m happy to see you added robo races to the schedule this year,” says Ben, our resident wise man.

  “It was a special request.” I catch Bradley's eye across the firepit and smile. The electrician lobbied hard for the addition after inheriting a collection of robot toys from his late uncle. I got the distinct impression he doesn’t have anybody near home who would share his enthusiasm, which I completely relate to. I know people who live in the area, but there isn’t a single one of them I would call a friend.

  A sense of calm washes over me as I gaze around the campfire. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my campers. They deserve these two weeks of freedom to be themselves. To cosplay without fear of snickers behind their backs. To fight zombies on a battlefield. To play a tabletop game until the sun goes down with no regard for meals or responsibilities.

  I’m excited for camp to get started, although I know from experience these two weeks will fly by in a heartbeat. I already dread that final afternoon.

  By the time I roll into my cabin for sleep, I’m bone-tired, but it’s a good tired. I’m reunited with my people, and all is right with the world.

  All except the nagging feeling that the lawyer’s visit won’t be the last word from LandStar.

  I choose my wardrobe carefully. If I want Miss Nerdy By Nature to believe my intentions are pure, I need to play the part. I unearth a Race to Mordor T-shirt that was gifted to me by my law school roommate, who clearly didn’t know me very well despite sharing cramped quarters for three years. I also pack a pair of dress shoes and zip a suit into a fabric travel bag for any urgent meetings that spring up, which happens all too often in the legal world. Someone else’s lack of planning becomes my emergency with alarming frequency.

  I poke through my drawers and closet for anything else pop-culture related that I could fold into my suitcase.

  No, wait. Would a Star Wars devotee arrive wheeling a RIMOWA suitcase? I think not. I pull an old duffel bag from the bottom of my closet and repack.

  It won’t be easy to win over Courtney Abernathy, but I never met a challenge I couldn’t overcome and this nerddom will be no exception.

  The drive is an hour and fifty minutes today. On the highway, I play Chopin as I bob and weave through long lines of semi-trailers.

  “Elizabeth calling,” my car says.

  I accept my little sister’s call. “Where are you today? Palm Beach?”

  “Your house.”

  “What are you doing at my house?”

  “I need a place to crash. Do you mind?”

  In other words, she doesn’t want our parents to know she’s in town. “Be my guest. I’m gone for the next two weeks though.”

  “I’m sorry, what’s this? Has the worker bee finally flown away from the hive for a well-deserved vacay?”

  “Not exactly. It’s a work thing.”

  Her sigh tickles my speakers. “I should’ve known.”

  “Is Bruno with you?” I ask.

  “No, that’s kind of why I’m here. I’m avoiding him.”

  “Because?”

  “Because he’s annoying, and I can’t tell him that without it becoming a whole deal.”

  “I can see your conundrum.”

  “I don’t want Mom and Dad to know we’re on the rocks. They were hoping for an engagement to announce at their anniversary party and if it doesn’t happen, I’ll be their big disappointment.”

  “You and I both know that role is reserved for yours truly.”

  “Bullshit, big brother. You’re the golden boy. Knowing you, you’ll be announcing your sole ownership of the firm by the time August rolls around.”

  I laugh. “You only say that because you haven’t met the partners at my firm.”

  “Are any of them single?” She pauses. “Never mind. I see how much you work.”

  I wince. “Ouch.”

  “No offense,” she tacks on. “You know I love you, but I wouldn’t dream of setting you up with any of my friends.”

  “I’m starting to rethink this whole letting-you-stay-in-my-house thing.”

  “Face it, Charlie. You’re married to your job. Who takes two weeks away from the office and spends them at a work event? I hope it’s at least somewhere close to a beach.”

  I glimpse the mountains in the distance. “Not quite. Listen, I’m almost there. I should go so I don’t miss my exit. Don’t eat all my pickles.”

  “What?” She feigns a poor connection with a hissing sound. “What’s that? You want me to eat all your gourmet pickles? If you insist.”

  She hangs up before I can object.

  I don’t relish the idea of Lizzie in my space while I’m gone, but at least I know my kitchen will be spotless when I get home. My sister is the queen of ordering out.

  I take the turn toward Lake Willa and inhale an anxious breath. Courtney Abernathy was feistier than my usual business associates. More attractive too. Then again, most of my work interactions involve balding men over forty, so a beautiful woman in her thirties is a nice change of pace.

  Did my stream of consciousness upgrade her from attractive to beautiful? I slam the door shut on that line of thinking. Not helpful, Charlie.

  Today the parking lot is packed with a variety of vehicles—mostly older sedans, jeeps, and a couple trucks. I slide my Audi between a pickup truck and a VW Beetle, grab my duffel bag from the passenger seat, and follow the painted wooden signs that direct campers to Courtney’s office.

  There’s no line outside her door, which I guess is no surprise given that camp officially started already.

  I enjoy her look of surprise when she looks up and registers my presence. “You again.”

  I flash the smile I reserve for new clients. “Me again, but I’m not here to get you to sign anything.”

  She looks dubious. “No?”

  “You said I could stay if I registered as a camper.” I spread my arms wide. “So here I am.”

  “You want to attend camp?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Shouldn’t you be playing sportsball somewhere?”

  “I gave up sportsball a long time ago.” I try to maintain a casual air. “I liked your description of this place—a home away from home. A place to belong. I’d like to have that experience.”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize there’s a kernel of truth in them. Some people would cite my office as my home away from home. While there’s a certain comfort in that space, it’s more about safety than acceptance. As long as I’m at my desk in my ergonomic chair with my view of the city, I’m somebody. My job is the equivalent of a statement piece—and when I can add ‘youngest partner in the firm’s history,’ even better.

  She seems to read my mind. “You don’t have that feeling when you’re lording over the plebes in the city from the top floor of your fancy skyscraper?”

  “Mine’s the fifteenth floor.”

  She winces. “Oomph. How many more ambulances do you need to catch to reach the penthouse?”

  “That’s not the kind of law I practice.”

  She cracks a smile. “I know, but I don’t have any ready insults for a corporate lawyer.”

  “While I’m here, try to think of me as Charlie Thorpe.” I gesture to my T-shirt. “See? No boring tie.”

  “Got it.” She seems unimpressed by my Lord of the Rings-inspired attire. Hmm. I figured this one would be a winner.

  “Does that mean I can stay?” I hear the hopeful tone in my voice, and it takes me by surprise. I think a small part of me wants her to refuse, but if she refuses, then I can kiss partnership goodbye.

  Interesting.

  “What makes you think I have availability? For all you know, there’s a waitlist.”

  “Is there?” I’ve seen enough documentation to know it’s unlikely.

  “No. There is one cabin open. Technically someone registered for it, but he was a no-show last year, and I imagine he will be again this year.” She hesitates. “Are you sure you want to do this? There’s not a ball to be seen. I assume that’s what you’re into.”

  “Until I wasn’t.”

  She shoots me a questioning look. “You look like you’re active.”

  I can’t tell whether that’s a compliment. “I run, play basketball and golf, lift weights—the usual.”

  “Those things aren’t usual here. There’s no gym either, if that matters to you, although I can recommend a sturdy branch for pull-ups if you don’t want to skip that part of your routine.”

  I decide to humor her. “I’d love to see it.”

  She seems to be waging an internal debate. “Inclusiveness is our motto.”

  “I thought your motto was ‘let your geek flag fly?’”

  Courtney cocks her head, assessing me. “You seem like you could use a little help with that.” She opens the drawer and slaps a key on the desk. “Welcome to camp, Chucky.”

  “It’s Charles, or Charlie. Nobody calls me Chucky.” Unless you’re a grade-A douche like Matt, who sometimes uses the nickname in an attempt to belittle me while appearing friendly.

  “No one ever calls you Chucky, like the murderous doll?”

  “Nope.” A tiny white lie never hurt anybody.

  “Huh.”

  “Why? Do I remind you of a murderous doll?”

  “Must be the hair.”

  I automatically smooth the top of my head. “Do your frames always match your outfit?”

  She pinches the arm of her glasses. “I consider them part of the ensemble. If only you could see the red, white, and blue frames I wear on Flag Day. They’re shaped like stars.”

  I try to picture someone like Courtney working in my office, but the image refuses to come. Most likely she’d be summoned to HR on her first day and told to ditch the funwear. I remember the day Rob Fuentes showed up with an earring and they gave him an ultimatum—lose the earring or lose the job. He quit. I thought it was a foolish decision given the amount of his student loans, but I gave him mad props for his commitment to his principles.

  “Do I get a welcome tour?” The more I learn about the camp, the faster I can find my leverage and return to my comfortable life. Her office is the obvious starting point, but she seems like the type to have boxes of paperwork stuffed in the loft of a barn.

  “Absolutely. Sorry, I should’ve offered. It’s been a few years since we’ve had a new camper. Everybody this year is a repeater, except one.” She smiles. “And now two.”

  “Lucky me.”

  I locate my cabin with the help of an impressive map that looks like it belongs in a fantasy novel. With a pitched roof, ruddy walls, and small, sparing windows, mine seems identical to the other residential cabins.

  I toss my belongings on the bed and meet Courtney back at her office for the tour, where she hands me a printed schedule.

  “It’s on the members-only page of the website, but as I mentioned, the connection is unreliable so it’s best to keep this with you. We’ll start there.” She points to the nearest building, which resembles the other cabins, except for the sign on the door that reads ‘Danger Zone.’

  Inside is a selection of tables—I spot an assortment of Legos on one, a chess set on the second, and basic science equipment on the third. At present there’s only one person occupying the space, a girl who looks far too young to be attending an 18+ retreat.

  “Charlie, meet Olivia.”

  The girl pulls her face away from the microscope. “I’m going to bring back dinosaurs like Jurassic Park, and this campground is the perfect place to experiment.”

  “Because it’s isolated?” I ask.

  “And plenty of food. Dinosaurs eat a lot.”

  I shoot a nervous glance at Cricket. “She means the cafeteria, right?”

  “Officially, yes,” Olivia says, as she shakes her head no.

  I strain to listen. “Do I hear music?”

  Olivia holds up her phone. “I play the theme song on a continuous loop for inspiration.”

  “Good luck, Liv. Let us know when we should prepare for the raptors.” Courtney eases us out and closes the door.

  “Should we be worried about that?” I ask, as we walk to the neighboring building.

  “Relax. It’s a kid’s microscope and a petri dish full of seeds and liquid soap. The only thing she’s liable to develop with that is a rash.”

  “I thought these two weeks are adults only.”

  “They are, but there are exceptions to every rule.” She pauses. “Like someone who turns up with a duffel bag and entitlement issues and asks to register at the last minute.”

  “Hey, you told me it was okay.”

  “I know what I said.”

  Next is the cabin designated for board games. There’s already a group gathered around a table, including a white-bearded older man who bears a striking resemblance to every wizard I’ve ever seen in a movie. Generic Wizard turns over the hourglass.

  “Hey, isn’t the sand in those things usually white?” I ask.

  Courtney casts an idle glance at the hourglass. “Usually.”

  “Then what happened with this one?”

  “That isn’t sand.”

  “It’s her grandfather,” the wizard says.

  “Ben!”

  I jump back. Everybody laughs, and I relax. “Oh, I get it. Another prank. I thought we were all done with those.”

  “No, it isn’t a prank,” Ben tells me. “Those are her grandfather’s ashes. He spread himself a little thin if you ask me, but that was his dying wish. Even wrote it in his will.”

  I look at Courtney for confirmation, and she nods. “Pops loved his family. Game nights were some of his most precious memories. He didn’t want to be left out after he died.”

  I pick up the hourglass and examine its contents. “And your family was okay with his request? Just because someone makes a request in their will doesn’t mean you’re legally obligated to honor it.”

  “I know,” Courtney says. “I liked the idea. It was vintage Pops.” She plucks the hourglass from my hand and sets it on the table. “And now I get to think of him fondly every time I’m playing a game I enjoy. It’s a win-win.”

  I don’t know how I feel about it, but I decide to roll with it. “Playing a game with a dead man is definitely a new experience for me.”

  “I imagine you’ll be having a lot of those experiences the next two weeks, old sport.”

  We rise from her grandfather’s ashes and move on to a cabin crammed with people in costumes seated around a table.

  “Dungeons & Dragons,” she explains. “Everyone, this is Chucky.”