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cellar to the garage, which I pointed out was a task that Josh was supposed to have done weeks ago but had been avoiding. This led to yet more pushups and another discussion about whether Josh could accurately count to ten, which then led to Josh grabbing me by my upper arms, lifting me off the ground until I was nose-to-nose with him, and issuing an elaborate threat that was so intensely gross, I’m still trying to get it out of my mind.
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    By midday I was exhausted. By midafternoon, as I was finishing mowing the lawn, I had moved into a whole new realm of physical pain and was beginning to understand the whole vision quest thing. I cut the engine and collapsed onto the lawn and lay on my back, breathing slow and evenly, the sun hot on my face and bright through my closed eyelids, the birds suddenly loud after the racket from the lawnmower. I smelled newly cut grass and dandelions and hints of gasoline, and waited for the voices of my ancestors to speak to me, to tell me that things couldn’t possibly get worse.
    The light darkened, and a voice addressed me. “Get up,” said the voice. “Time to pitch the tent.”
    I lay there for a bit, considering that statement. “The tent,” I finally said.
    â€œYes,” confirmed spirit voice Josh.
    â€œOkay. That’s what I thought you said.”
    â€œAnd we have to get the fire going.”
    â€œFire?”
    â€œFor your dinner.”
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    It was at this point that I began digging a fire pit, had my delirious phone call with Danny, and watched Josh dispose of my cell phone in the creek.
    The fire pit I made is about a foot deep and three feet in diameter, and it’s tastefully ringed with stones that I lugged up from the creek. I’m sure my parents will love it.
    While I was gathering firewood, Josh disappeared into the house. He returned carrying a raw whole chicken, and I realized what he’d meant about dinner.
    â€œNo no no no no,” I started saying, waving my hands.
    â€œCatch,” he said, tossing it at me while I shrieked and leaped backwards. The chicken landed on the lawn with a hollow thump, rolled a few times, and came to rest, covered with bits of grass and twigs and dirt.
    â€œJosh! What am I supposed to do with this thing?”
    â€œCook it and eat it.”
    â€œYou’re crazy.”
    â€œIf this was a real rite of passage, you’d have to hunt it and kill it, too.”
    â€œA chicken?”
    â€œYou get the point.”
    â€œI’m not cooking this whole thing.”
    â€œNo, you don’t have to,” he said, and sent his big survival knife cartwheeling through the air to land point down in the turf about two feet from me. “Just cut off the parts that you want.”
    I looked at the nauseating, yellow-pink carcass lying in the grass, the body cavity gaping obscenely toward me, felt the bile rise in my throat, and knew that I had reached my absolute limit.
    â€œI’m not touching that,” I said. “I’m not. I’m done. I’m not touching it, and I’m not cooking it, and I’m not going to sleep in this stupid tent!”
    â€œYou’re done?”
    â€œYes! This is all completely retarded! I’ve had it! Running around the block, cleaning the stupid house, mowing the lawn, this stupid face paint. You can do whatever you want—I’m not doing this stupid Quest.”
    Josh was silent for a moment, then nodded gravely.
    â€œI understand. I respect your choice.”
    â€œGood. I’m going inside.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œStupid tent. Frigging chicken,” I muttered, detouring around the carcass as I started walking up toward the house. “Can’t friggin’ believe this. Sleeping in a tent. Campfire on the stupid lawn. Friggin’ ridiculous . . .”
    â€œIsaac,” called Josh from behind me.
    â€œWhat,” I said, still walking.
    â€œWill you be explaining to Mom