Page 77 of Camp Bliss
And I can’t remember the last time I had such a great night.
* * *
Four nights later,I wake up wet.
No, not like that.
Two realizations happen at once. The blankets over my legs are soaked, and high winds are shaking the fifth wheel.
“Shit.” I switch on the overhead light and blink against the glare. When my pupils forgive me, the problem is clear. The skylight is leaking. It’s rained since we moved into the camper, but never this hard. And the lashing battery of winds can only mean it’s raining sideways.
I stand on the bed and squint. The leak is just from one corner, but it’s a steady patter. The wet spot on my bed isn’t small.
Crap.
Some clear caulk on the outside would do the trick, I think, but my phone says it’s 2:02 a.m. and it’s storming, so I’m fucked.
I get up, strip the bed so the wet sheets don’t soak into the new mattress, but then the water is dripping straight onto that.
“Shit,” I mutter again.
“What’s the matter?” Greta’s groggy voice makes me jump. I reel around, and she’s peeking around the edge of the curtain in her usual cami and sleep short combo. The exact attire that I take great pains at night and first thing in the morningnotto see.
“Leak,” I say, jerking my gaze back to the skylight.
“Oh,” Greta says around a yawn. “Crap. I’ll get some towels.”
I whip my head back in panic. “I-I’m good. You can go back to bed.”
She snorts. “Uh, no. I’m going to help you.” She says this like any other course of action is laughable, and then she disappears for all of two seconds. Before I know it, she’s got a hand towel in one hand and a plastic wastebasket in the other.
Greta puts a bare knee on my stripped mattress and leans over to scrub the towel over the wet patch. Then she centers the wastebasket under the drip.Tap-tap-tap-tap. She eyes the water’s trajectory for a few seconds, adjusts the basin, and then stuffs the towel into it.
The tapping silences.
“That ought to hold until morning, don’t you think?” she asks.
I blink at her. She still looks half asleep, yet she’s swooped in and fixed the problem—at least for now—like a surgeon. Or a ninja.
In pajamas.
“Uh, yeah. That should be good.”
Greta gives a sleepy nod. “‘Kay. C’mon.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder toward her room.
I choke.
“W-what?”What’s she—She can’t be—
Greta gives me a half-lidded stare. As though none of this is worth waking up completely over. “You can’t sleep in a wet bed,” she says, like I’m five. “Come crash in mine.”
Panic seizes my lungs. “I-I-I can sleep in one of the recliners.” I wave toward the camel and mauve recliners.
Greta gives a half scowl. I say half because she doesn’t fully commit to it. That might require coming to.
“You’ll sleep like crap. We still have a good four hours ahead of us,” she argues. “You’ll be worthless tomorrow if you sleep in one of those.”
She’s right, my chances of sleeping well aren’t great. But my chances of sleeping at all in bed beside her are non-existent.
