Page 65 of Camp Bliss

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I feel helpless, and I hate feeling helpless. “I’m so sorry,” I mutter lamely.

“Just let me know when it’s clear,” she says, all joy gone from her voice. She sounds like she’s in pain.

I retreat to my end of the camper and yank the curtain closed. “All clear,” I call. I hear her moving around and then the tap in the bathroom sink runs for a minute or so.

“Shit—” she curses.

Behind the curtain, I’m pacing. “Everything okay?”

Greta snorts. “It’s like a crime scene in here.”

I bite down on my smile. How is it that she can make me laugh without even trying?

The pocket door squeaks open, and I hear Greta gathering her supplies from the steps. “I’m so sorry about this,” she hiss-whispers. “I hope you’ll be able to go back to sleep.”

Little chance of that.

“I’ll be fine.”

The door slides shut. After switching off the light, I stretch out on the bed. Maybe if I lie here long enough, sleep will return.

Even though I know it won’t.

Minutes pass. I hear wrappers tearing, the toilet flushing, and the tap running again for a long time.

Then the seam of light from the bathroom vanishes. Greta climbs back into bed, rocking the camper just a little.

And then she groans again. It’s muffled, so I imagine that she’s buried her face in her pillow, but I know she’s hurting.

I don’t like it.

And there’s nothing I can do to help.

I shut my eyes and try to relax.

Greta shifts in bed. Whimpers. And then shifts again.

Is she writhing?

Is it this bad every month?

It feels like my sternum is being yanked out of my chest.

My mind somersaults. Did Josh help her with this?

Rub her back?

Hold her?

Is she used to being comforted?

God, I want to comfort her. I want to take the pain away.

I can’t even offer.

What kind of weirdo would do that?

We’re barely friends.

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