Class
first morning, after a van had dropped them off in the middle of some dusty nowhere and they’d strapped on their packs and hiked for a few miles. Except for the provisions that had been distributed evenly among them, Patrick’s pack was empty. Outward Bound had sent a list of what to bring, but he’d left his bag on the plane. He was totally unequipped. He didn’t even have a toothbrush.
    “We’re going to do a little get-to-know-you exercise,” the leader explained. He wore a pair of Smith ski goggles on his head even though it was summer.
    “Just say your name and then the first thing that comes into your head,” the leader continued. “We’ll start with you first.” He smiled at a skinny girl with bruised shins.
    She squirmed around a little before speaking up. “I’m Colleen. I steal.”
    The leader nodded like that was good news. He pointed at the next kid.
    “I’m Roy. I’m jonesing.” Roy had a red mohawk.
    The leader pointed at Patrick.
    “I’m Patrick.” He told them. “Pink Patrick.”
    The entire group howled with laughter, leaders included.
    “Motherfucking faggot!” Colleen shrieked, covering her mouth with her gold-ringed hands.
    After that he was Pink Patrick for good. On the second night of the trip, he hitched his pack onto his shoulders and started walking. No one followed him. They were too busy playing I Spy and Concentration.
    He walked through the desert for an entire night and all thenext day without eating or drinking anything. It was hot. He was wearing jeans. His eyelids and tongue were swollen and heavy. Finally he reached an Indian reservation—a group of trailers and RVs with pieces of Astroturf cut to fit around them like lawns. An overweight Indian smoking a cigarette in a plastic lawn chair outside an RV stood up and handed him his half-empty can of Tab. Patrick gulped it down, feeling it burn the lining of his stomach with its fizzy brownness. He waited on the piece of Astroturf while the Indian went inside. He came out and handed Patrick a package of Oscar Meyer thick cut bacon. And that’s what he ate that day—raw bacon and Tab—until he made it back to Moab and got a bus home.
    His parents were on a cruise in the Greek Isles, so he hid out in Greenwich for a whole month, lying beneath the sprinklers out on the lawn, letting the water tickle his tongue. When they came home, they didn’t want to know anything about what had happened. All they knew was his dirty laundry was all over the floor, he’d drunk everything in the liquor cabinet, and the kitchen was a disaster. His sister came home from camp looking happy and suntanned, with a wristful of lanyard bracelets. Soon after that he’d left for another boarding school. He was never home much.
    Patrick reached for the warm coffee and took a sip. It tasted like a hot fudge sundae made with coffee ice cream. It was blended heaven, better than anything he’d ever tasted.
    Dexter’s overnight orientation trip had been much the same. He’d introduced himself as Pink Patrick just to see how everyone would react. Of course they laughed, and then they avoided him. He’d requested a single in Coke, so when they got back to campus he kept to himself. Those first few weeks he tried to go to class, but he couldn’t see the point. He felt like he was standing outside a fish tank watching a busy school of fish. They just kept on swimming.

    Since leaving school he’d been as far as Miami, but he always circled back to Dexter again. He liked Maine’s extreme weather, its rugged shoreline, its endless greenery, and its relatively tolerant population. No one minded a loner like him. Plus, it was always easy to find food or grab a shower and some clean clothes on campus. But he always had that nagging feeling that he was waiting for something.
    He took another sip of the warm, sweet coffee. Maybe this was it.

3
    I t’s often said that the best way to strengthen a relationship is to go camping. The simple tasks of
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