May 5, 2440 11:45 PM
By midnight, Park 17 had gone soft and low around the edges.
The big center lane that had been full of voices, guitars, mandolin, bad clapping, and kids trying to learn the difference between singing and shouting had settled into firelight and murmurs. A few V’ren adults still sat in small circles between the tents, talking quietly with cups in their hands, translators turned low enough that Krieger could hear the rhythm of conversation without catching the words.
They were not in the command area.
That mattered.
The command space belonged to him for the moment, him and Pedro, and the small fire he was not technically wasting wood on because morale counted as a camp function.
Krieger used a stick to roll a dry piece of Osage orange deeper into the coals. The dense wood caught slow, then bright, sending up a short flare of yellow heat that made Pedro lift his head.
“Relax,” Krieger told him. “We’re allowed to live a little.”
Pedro considered that, then put his chin back on his paws.
The girls had gone to sleep a while ago. Maisie first, pretending she was not tired. Nyla after her, because she had insisted on checking the screen, the trash sorting, the water list, and two tents full of kids who already had adults. Sira had stayed the longest, sitting close enough to the fire that her face caught the gold in it, asking questions about the mandolin and the songs and why humans sang so many things about leaving home.
He had played for her after the others started drifting away. Not a whole concert. Just pieces. Things his fingers knew. A little of “Maggie May,” because he knew she would hear the difference in the opening even if she did not know the song. Then “The Galway Girl,” because it moved quick and made her smile. Then “Right Now,” quieter. Then “Ho Hey,” because he could still hear the camp answering it.
He knew he was not great, not yet.
He also knew he was not bad, and tonight he had been good.
That felt different.
He could play guitar, mandolin, banjo, and autoharp. He had started almost nine years ago with piano, guitar, and voice, because that was what you did when you grew up in a town where half the aunties had opinions about pitch and the other half had cousins who owned karaoke machines.
The guitar and autoharp were Coraline’s. His mom had let him use them when he was old enough to understand who her sister had been. The banjo was his, bought with grass-cutting money three summers ago. Uncle Matt had given him the first dozen lessons, then declared that was the full extent of his banjo knowledge, and he intended to remain proudly ignorant of anything else about an instrument people had the good sense to make fun of.
Krieger had learned anyway.
Most of the guitar songs he knew could be dragged onto mandolin or banjo if he had to. Not always elegantly, but enough. He and Maisie and Nyla had maybe twelve songs in common if no one got picky. He had more than that by himself. Twenty-five he could carry without embarrassing everyone. Another eight or ten each for the other instruments if people were patient.
“The Weight” was one of his. So was “More Than a Feeling.”
He nailed those.
He knew it, even if saying so out loud would make Nyla insufferable and Maisie dangerous.
Pedro sighed.
“You liked it,” Krieger said.
Pedro thumped his tail once.
A golf cart rolled up the bark path with its lights low.
Krieger sat up straighter before he meant to.
His dad eased to a stop just outside the command space and killed the motor. He sat there for a second, looking over the rows of tents, the open center lane, the quiet fire, the water trailer, the shower screen, the trash and recycling stations, and the command table with its clipboard and radio exactly where they belonged.
“Looks good,” his dad said.
Krieger shrugged, because praise from his father hit differently than praise from almost anyone else. “It works.”
“It more than works.”
His dad climbed out, stretched his back, then pulled a soft case from the rear of the cart. “Brought your guitar. Autoharp and banjo too. Your mom said if you were going to make music part of the camp, you might as well have the right tools.”
Krieger stood and took the guitar first.
Coraline’s guitar. As much as Mom had talked about her dead sister as a musician, it was stories Matt, Dave, and even his dad told him about her that made her real to him.
The case was old, patched twice, and still had a faded sticker from a music store that had closed centuries before he was born. He set it carefully beside his chair.
“Thanks.”
“Brought the rocker too,” his dad said, lifting the folded camp rocker. “Figured if you’re going to sit fire watch, you might as well not ruin your back pretending coolers are furniture.”
Krieger looked at the chair, then at the empty space beside the fire where Sira had been sitting on an overturned crate.
They could both fit in the rocker.
His dad saw it.
He said nothing.
That was one of the things Krieger liked best about him.
“There’s also a bag from your sister,” his dad said, setting it on the command table. “Tennis balls and a chew toy for Pedro.”
Pedro stood immediately. Stretched. Plopped back down when no hot dogs were tossed his way.
“The little mooch is about to trade me in for a younger and greener model,” Krieger said.
Pedro sighed, walked to the bag, and sat with perfect obedience.
His dad laughed quietly. “He is a con artist.”
“He’s family.”
“Both can be true.”
His dad tossed him one more thing, a blue Cubs cap with the tags still tucked inside.
Krieger caught it against his chest. “What’s this?”
“Airport. Stretch stop. Saw it and thought of you.”
Krieger turned it over, trying not to grin too much. “You hate the baseball.”
“I love my son. There’s a difference.”
Krieger put the hat on, brim low.
His dad looked at the camp again. “I drove by three other park setups before this one.”
Krieger waited.
“They’ll do. People are safe. Supplies are there. But this one feels different.”
“It’s the rows,” Krieger said, too quickly, because he knew exactly what had made it work and did not want it to sound like luck. “Last summer, the best camp was set up almost like this. Not as big. But the tents faced in and people came out more. Kids didn’t vanish behind things as much. Adults talked. Maisie remembered it too. We figured if these families didn’t know each other, they needed to see each other.”
His dad nodded.
“We left the command row open toward the middle. Far row too. Center row gets sitting space both ways. Doors on all sides mean they can open out if they need air or privacy, but the middle stays the neighborhood. Nyla did the slides explaining everything, and Maisie handled most of the grill and half the tent line when Rosie started delivering families faster than she would. The Rell helped after Plot One. Once the V’ren kids understood it, they explained it better than we could.”
His dad smiled.
Krieger realized he had been talking fast.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is not a nothing face.”
“That’s my son giving everyone credit before taking any. Nyla and Maisie sent pics of your camp getting set up,” he said, proud of his son, and curious about the green girl who might just be the first girl Krieger brings home to supper if the looks they were trying not to have let anyone notice meant what he thought they did.
Krieger looked down at the fire. “They did the work.”
“So did you. Being humble is good, but so is taking pride in a job well done, Krieger.”
“I had help.”
“Good leaders do.”
Krieger poked the Osage again, though it did not need poking.
His dad unfolded the rocker and set it near the fire, not too close, not too far. A good seat. A seat someone could take without being obvious about taking it. A seat good for two skinny kids.
Again, his dad said nothing.
“Scoutmaster approves?” Krieger asked.
“Scoutmaster is impressed,” his dad said. “Neat. Ordered. Inviting. Trash is where it belongs. Fire is controlled. Water’s marked. Showers are marked. People know where to ask questions. Kids know where not to run. Adults are talking instead of sitting scared in their tents. That’s a good camp.”
Krieger swallowed. “Thanks.”
“You staying awake?”
“for a bit longer. A couple of the families are going to spell me and the girls tonight. Other people pass by every hour. I’m waiting until the next round, then I’ll sleep some.”
“Radio works?”
Krieger tapped it. “Checked twice.”
“Food?”
“Leftover hot dogs. Some rice. a big pan of pancit. Maisie made sure I ate.”
“Good. Your mother would ask if she did her job.”
“I know. I thought about not eating just to make her worried about disappointing ‘The Pam’ as if mom is some sort of demigoddess.”
His dad looked toward the far row, where a V’ren woman laughed softly at something another adult said. The sound carried across the center lane and faded into the warm dark. He would have to go home and give his own report to ‘The Pam.’
“You did good today.”
Krieger tried to answer like it was no big deal, but the words stuck.
His dad did not make him say anything.
He just reached over, squeezed the back of Krieger’s neck once, then let go.
Pedro whined at the bag.
“Give him the toy before he reports us,” his dad said.
Krieger opened the bag and pulled out a thick chew shaped like a tire. Pedro took it with the solemn gratitude of a dog receiving emergency relief from an unjust universe, then carried it three feet away and dropped beside the fire.
His dad climbed back into the golf cart.
“Get some sleep when you can.”
“I will.”
“And Krieger?”
“Yeah?”
His dad nodded toward the neat rows of tents, the quiet circles of V’ren, the fire, the instruments, the rocker, the whole camp breathing around him.
“Coraline would’ve liked this. Your ability to bring people together reminds me of her doing the same thing.”
Krieger looked at the old guitar case beside his chair and knew the long scrape down the back side of it. He tried not to think about the guitar surviving the accident when she hadn’t.
The golf cart rolled away with its lights low, leaving the command area to the fire, the dog, and the sound of strangers becoming neighbors in the dark.
Krieger sat back down, the Cubs cap low on his forehead, Coraline’s guitar within reach, the mandolin still warm from his hands.
For the first time all night, he let himself smile without hiding it.
Pedro chewed twice, sighed, and settled in like he owned the place.
Krieger looked at the empty rocker beside the fire. “If she comes back,” he told Pedro, “you are not sitting there.”
Pedro ignored him.
Which was probably answer enough.
