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crowed. “You’re a fucking kamikaze!”
    Nick flailed at the branch, but before he could even wrap his fingers around it, the base of the branch came away from the trunk, splintering wetly. He crashed to the ground face-first. The rotten branch thudded against the back of his head.
    “Ouch.” Tom approached his fallen companion. “Did you break anything?”
    “Ow,” Nick moaned pitifully. “It hurts.”
    “Wood’s rotten as shit, man,” Tom observed standing over him. “I could’ve told you that.”
    Nick clambered to his knees and swiped at his face with thebacks of his hands. Blood smeared his knuckles. He touched the stinging space between his eyebrows and his fingers came away bloody. He could still see though. He was fine. And now he had a war wound.
    He reached for the splintered branch and used it as a crutch to stand up. “Think it’ll still burn?” he asked, holding the branch out for Tom’s inspection.
    Tom liked to think he was tough, but not around blood. During rest time in preschool he used to have to lie down next to Wallace White, who suffered from chronic nosebleeds. He threw up every time.
    “Oh shit.” He clapped his hand over his mouth. “Dude, you’re bleeding.” He staggered off toward camp, retching. “I’m going back.”
    Nick wiped his hands and face on his shirt. The blood was tacky, like red paint. “What about the wood?” he shouted, but Tom was already out of sight.
    “He’s fucking bleeding!” Tom crashed through the woods like a rabid bear and threw up a few yards away from the tent that Shipley and Eliza had just managed to pitch, no thanks to the boys.
    “Who? Nick?” Shipley dropped the dented pan they were expected to cook ramen in, denting it even more. “What happened? Is he okay?” Her heart beat hard and fast in her chest and she could actually feel her light blue eyes turn a deeper shade of blue. College was already so exciting.
    Eliza emerged from the tent holding a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese. “Look what I found. It’s probably twenty years past its sell-by date, but who cares? It’s better than ramen. Hey, where’s our wood?” she demanded of Tom.
    Tom’s face was ashen. He sat down cross-legged beside thefire ring that Eliza and Shipley had only just finished assembling out of sturdy rocks. There was no fire because there was still no wood. “I’m not feeling well.”
    “Excuse me?” Eliza responded, about to lay into him.
    “Something’s happened to Nick,” Shipley interrupted. “Stay here,” she told them importantly. “I’ll go.”
    Just then Nick himself strode out of the woods, a parcel of sticks cradled in his shirt. “I fell out of a tree!” he announced. “I’m okay though.”
    Shipley hurried over to help him with the wood. She touched his cheek. “Your face is bleeding. Come on, there’s a first aid kit in the tent.”
    “Fucking fuck!” Tom exclaimed. He lunged forward and puked directly into the fire ring. “Please get him the fuck out of here,” he gasped.
    “Poor baby.” Eliza tsked unsympathetically. Camping out with these three was like watching the Westminster Dog Show on TV. The first dog in our terrier group is the Bedford Terrier, known for its loud bark and tiny penis. This is number 44, Tom Ferguson, Bedford Terrier. Next is the Boarding School Terrier, known for its shaggy coat and perma-grin. This is number 33, Nick Hamilton, Boarding School Terrier. And finally, the Florence Nightingale of Greenwich Terrier, known for its lovely blue eyes and willingness to hump. This is Shipley Gilbert, number 69, Florence Nightingale of Greenwich Terrier.
    “Come on.” Shipley led Nick into the tent and rummaged around in the Dexter-issued orientation pack for the first aid kit. “Sit down. I’m just going to get you cleaned up, and then we’ll make a nice dinner.” She knew nothing about first aid or cooking, but she liked the idea of playing nurse. She daubed an alcohol swab on the torn-up skin