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out at the cigarette pit and usually make fart noises during the prayers.
    â€œGod, Father, Daddy—thank you for letting us know Kent. We’re going to miss him,” Rich says. “But we know that now he’s with you and your Son in Heaven. Thank you, Daddy. Amen.” People are crying and hugging, just like last week.
    â€œLet me tell you a little bit about where Kent is now,” Rich says, his eyes twinkling. He’s smiling like a TV dad. Everyone wants Rich to be their dad. He’s kind and funny and tells great stories. Better than my dad back home in Houston who’s always grumpy and sleeps all weekend.
    â€œHeaven is a lot like Camp Mountain Peak, only better. You can bet Heaven’s got horses like we’ve got. The angels help on the ropes course and the apostles run the four-wheelers and maybe Mary and Martha are scooping Kent a Snack Shack ice cream special right now. I bet Kent is playing disc golf with his halo—oh sure, and they’ve got a video arcade like us and a thirty-person hot tub like ours and an Olympic-size pool—maybe bigger even, and in Heaven I bet they even have a forty-yard, two-story-high waterslide. Only the one in Heaven won’t have a low panel on the curve.”
    A few kids sob out loud. Kent had been trying to beat the Camp Mountain Peak speed record on the waterslide when he died. According to the slide’s digital timer, the record is 23.2 seconds, which I set way back in June. Kent was obsessed with beating it. He was competitive like that, which is totally not the point of Camp Mountain Peak. Rumor has it that when the panel gave he was wearing Speedos and had greased up with baby oil. Total pride. For one thing, counselors aren’t allowed to wear Speedos or two-pieces in the swimming area. When I was a camper here five years ago, not even kids could wear Speedos or two-pieces, but they’ve laxed. And baby oil? I mean, what’s Christ-like about baby oil? I was going to die on the ropes course, fully dressed.
    â€œNo, the waterslide that Kent is riding right now is faster and wilder than our slide and no chance of falling out, and even if he did, he’d just fall on a cloud instead of down a cliff. You know Kent is just loving that.” Kids nod along. Rich crouches down and kind of whispers so all the kids have to lean in to listen. “He’s looking down right now on us here and feeling sorry for us. Probably wondering why we’re so sad when he’s having such a blast. Probably hoping that we’re buying a ticket for the Camp Mountain Peak he’s at. Only we can’t afford that camp. We can’t even make a down payment. The price is way out of range. You know why? The price for that camp is perfection. Anyone perfect out there?”
    All the kids shake their heads back and forth.
    â€œDidn’t think so,” Rich says and stands up. “But it’s okay because you know who bought the ticket for us? Jesus did. He is perfect and with his own blood Jesus bought us all a pass to the best camp you can imagine, and it doesn’t last just twoweeks, it lasts forever and ever.” He stretches his arms out, trying to show how much forever is.
    â€œAnd you got to know,” Rich says, looking real profound. “The waterslide is the only route from the ledge to the pool, and just like that Jesus is the only path that splashes into Heaven. Nothing else works. Jesus is our waterslide.”
    I’d heard this several times before, though the part about the waterslide is new. Every two weeks a fresh group of teenagers from all over America comes to Camp Mountain Peak, and every two weeks a counselor dies. It’s become an unofficial policy. Always an accident. One of us just acts a little less careful and the rest of us let it happen. It started early in the summer.
    The first session was lame. Two hundred or so kids and twenty counselors. We prayed so hard. I remember praying