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lifting a single brow and appraising me, “this night's not going as planned.  I really am sorry about the cabin, Amanda,” she says, her mouth folding into a frown. 
    “It's all right,” I tell her tiredly.  And I'm telling the truth.  Honestly, being rained out of my cabin isn't how I thought this night would go, either, but it happened, and there's nothing that either of us can do to combat the power of Mother Nature. 
    I lift my eyes to her, and she's watching me with an intense, unflickering gaze.  When she sees me looking, she clears her throat, shifts her eyes away from my face, curves her shoulders forward as she shoves her hands into her shorts pockets.
    “Anyway,” she says, her soft voice a little gruff now, “you need to get out of those wet clothes.  You're going to catch your death.  The rain was freezing.”
    “It's okay.  I don't have anything to change into, anyway.  All of my clothes in my suitcase are wet,” I tell her, wrapping my arms even tighter around myself.  I'm now shaking uncontrollably; the day was warm, but the night descended into the forties, and with the rain on top of the cool temperature, I'm freezing beyond belief.  My teeth clatter together as I try my best not to look cold...and, I'm sure, fail miserably.
    “Well, you'll just have to wear some of my clothes,” says Summer, her tone brooking no argument.  “Come on,” she tells me, inclining her head toward the back room.  “Let's see what I have that will fit you.”
    We're roughly the same height, and I suppose we might be the same size, though we have very different builds.  She's muscled, and I'm slightly curvy from working a desk job and not having much excuse (or, you know, time or motivation) to go to the gym. 
    We both walk around the wooden desk and toward the doorway behind it.  Beyond that doorway is a much warmer room, made warmer by a fire crackling merrily in a little cast iron wood stove in the corner.  The stove looks antique, like it was made in the eighteen hundreds, and who knows?  Maybe it was.  As I cast about the room, I see other antiques, too, looking a little incongruous with the kitschy “Relax, you're camping!” type of hangings nailed to the wall.  There's an antique loveseat covered in an old tapestry pattern of leaves, which looks even more misplaced situated next to one of the wrought-iron cots, like the one that I was supposed to sleep on last night.  There's an old fifties-style table in the corner of the room, complete with red vinyl and chrome trim, next to an ancient-looking mini fridge and a single cupboard made out of particle board. 
    “You live here?” I ask, as Summer opens one of the drawers of an old dresser next to the cot and takes out a flat sheet from the drawer, snapping it open and unfurling it with a flick of her wrists.
    “It's home sweet home,” she tells me with a small smile, as she shakes the sheet. “It wasn't supposed to originally be home sweet home.  This back room is where we kept the extra linens and things for the cots, the extra TP.  You know, the stuff that couldn't be stored anywhere else.  My parents also owned the big house on the other side of the campground, closer to town, but the house was so big.”  Summer trails off, shrugs a little.  “I didn't honestly see any sense in keeping it when it was just me.  One person in such a big house seemed ridiculous.  So I sold it.  It helped me get the campground unmortgaged, so I'm glad I did it.”  She smiles at me.  “You know, I don't mind living like this.  It's pretty minimal, simple.  I like it.  It helps me remember that what's really important in life isn't stuff,” she says, picking a tack out of the wall where I never would have thought one was placed.  She tacks up one corner of the sheet, pushing it into the wall again. 
    “The camp bathrooms are out in the rain,” she says, almost by way of apology as she shakes her head, “so I thought you'd want to