But a few hours later, the camp administrator called and said, “I think you should come here. It’s about the man who brought your daughter.”
The Aftershocks of Camp
The drive back to Boise felt quieter than the trip up, the hum of the sedan’s engine serving as a steady backdrop to my racing thoughts. Although Maisie had settled into the passenger seat and eventually dozed off against the window—clutching her warped clay turtle like a precious talisman—the emotional residue of the camp confrontation lingered heavily.
Luke had driven back in his truck directly behind us, but we hadn’t stopped for the diner coffee we talked about. The morning’s chaotic revelations had left us both drained, forcing us to process an uncomfortable reality: our children were growing up, and the digital battlegrounds of the modern world were far more ruthless than anything we had navigated at their age.
