The bus shuddered as we traded the good old asphalt of civilization for the gravel of human suffering. Because not even actual roads wanted to be anywhere near Camp Sham. Even with the duffel over my head, I could still hear the bus door fssh open as we jolted to a halt at the compound, followed by the clatter of the other inmates marching to their doom one by one. But I did not move a muscle. Instead, I focused on the important stuff: what I was going to do with my life once I was considered legally dead? Would I have to live on the woods? Hide out in the clothing section of Wegmart until I was old enough for college? Drive an ice cream van?! Say what you will about faking your death: it can open up a lot of future opportunities!

  Emphasis on can, because-

  “Ms. Hobag? Watterson seems to be… ill at ease.”

  The voice had a sort of posh accent, like from that one country with the big clock tower where they drink tea all the time. What do they call it again? Oh yeah! Maryland! He had a Maryland accent!

  Someone pulled by head out of my backpack and shook my flimsy carcass ‘til my eyes opened. Gazing right into my soul was a woman who was one part grandma, one part emaciated vulture. Not surprisingly, Hilda was nowhere to be seen. She always had a way of vanishing when things got rough.

  “Wake up, silly Billy! Its’ time for introductions!” The cretin clutching me sing-songed.

  I tried to keep up the act, but it was useless. Better to cooperate now, I figured, than face further punishment down the line. The woman waited patiently for me to get my stuff in order, just standing there the whole time, smiling at me.

  It couldn’t have been more than a few feet from the bus to where the other inmates were lined up, but it might as well have been a few miles. The moment I stepped onto the gravel, the sunlight nearly blinded me. Would have melted, too, if the guys the lady lined me up with didn’t give me shade. Of course, that also reminded me how I was a good foot shorter than the second smallest kid in a camp full of future convicts.

  I looked around. Behind us was the bus, in front of us, a log cabin probably older than America itself. And the spaces between were flanked with uniformed guards.

  Once I was all settled in, the lady went

  “Well done, Watterson! You get a sticker!”

  My heart stopped as the thing was pinned to my chest: a small, smiling fruit of the scratch-n-sniff persuasion, under which was written the phrase Orange you glad to be here? I wasn’t, and it ticked me off I couldn’t tell off Mr. Orange to his stupid smiling face. Because there were other people around. And he was also an inanimate object.

  I tried to look on the bright side. Maybe there would be a freak hurricane and I could escape under the cover of darkness! But when I looked up at the sky, it was blue as my family’s toilet bowl, and twice as crappy.

  “Welcome to Camp Sham, everybody!” The Lady chirped, clapping her hands together for emphasis. “I’m Ms. Hobag, and I will be your Camp Director!”

  Cue a few guys giggling uncontrollably.

  “Now, now, young men! If you behave, I’ll give you stickeeeeerrrrrrsss!”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  My jaw dropped as everyone took the obvious bait. Before I could so much as blink, Hobag had pinned a sticker to the chest of every future felon in line. The way everyone acted, you’d think they just got their first scout badge.

  “Now, before we enter camp, there are a few things you should know about-“

  Dad always told me magic was just in fairy tales- mostly because he thought accepting welfare handouts from the Easter Bunny and Santa would turn me into a communist- but Ms. Hobag could make anyone a believer. Just by opening her mouth, she could transform half an hour into half a century. As I gazed through at the giant cabin in front of us, vultures circled overhead, waiting to see who’d be the first to collapse from heat stroke.

  Once the lecture mercifully ended, Hobag’s henchmen (or camp counselors, as she called them) forcefully seized our bags as we were shuffled single file into the cabin. Maybe it was just ‘cause I was small, but the inside was vast. Vast, and reeking of sawdust. At the far back, there was a speaker’s podium, and in front of it an enormous round rug covered in stars. Hobag made us sit criss-cross applesauce in a circle around it.

  “Now everyone,” clap clap “Since we’re all new here, we are going to do some team building activities!”

  I screamed.

  ...and when I finally stopped screaming, I found myself tucked into my T-Rex sleeping bag, a very rickety upper bunk above me. The only light came from the moon outside the window to my left. Though calling it a window was a bit of a stretch: no glass, just a chain link fence letting the mosquitoes and muggy night air seep right in.

  “Hey Wonky Watt? Could you shut the Hell up for five minutes?” Yelled a voice above me. “Jeremy’s trying to tell a story!”

  I blinked. “Wonky Watt?”

  “Yeah, retard, it’s what we agreed your name was during the name game. Or were you too busy spazzing out to notice?!”

  THAT got me to shut my mouth, let me tell you!

  “Dumbass.” My bunkmate muttered as he rolled over, his rusty mattress creaking underneath him.

  That’s when none other than JEREMY RODDLEMAN started telling a ghost story about a man with a golden arm who roamed the woods at night, waiting to get revenge on the stupid children who murdered him or something. It was really good, so good I found myself clutching my pillow, imagining it was Blagdaross.

  Oh, Blagdaross! I’d had my fair share of hard losses in life by that point, but none compared to losing the dino-pony. And all because I took him with me on a trip to the Franklin Institute. If you can believe it, some jerk ran past me and snatched him right out of my hand! I mean, seriously, who does that?! I darted off and tried to alert everybody over the museum’s intercom, but by then it was too late: Blag was gone.

  “Yeah, I miss him too.” Whispered a voice from under my bed. Which was stupid, because it wasn’t like anyone else could hear her. “By the way, what did I miss?”

  I just curled into a ball in my sleeping bag, because if there’s any time to give your imaginary friend the cold shoulder, it’s when the coolest dude in 4th grade is strutting his stuff.

  “Earth to Watterson? This is Hilda. Do you read?” She said, cupping her hand over her mouth.

  After another five minutes silence, she finally realized

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “…A little, yeah.” I grumbled.

  “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier, but I had important stuff to do.”

  “Like what?” I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the mosquitoes buzzing above me.

  “There’s a flock of Larp Geese nearby.” She explained “They needed me to do them a favor.”

  “And it was more important than your best friend being trapped in the worst camp ever?!”

  Little did I know, I had whispered a mite too loud.

  “Hey everybody!” laughed Jeremy. “I think Wonky Watt’s got something to tell us!”

  As I wondered whether the heat or the shame would melt me first, Hilda cried

  “Don’t worry, Watt. I have an idea!”

  ‘Good one’, in this case meaning that for the next twenty minutes Hilda whispered to me while I relayed to my fellow inmates a horror masterpiece to rival R.L.Stine's finest about how the reason there weren’t any boy My Little Ponies is because they were all Satanists so Pinkie Pie had to banish them to Hell. As usual, Hilda had outdone herself, but the boys in the cabin didn’t exactly flow on my wavelength.

  “Watterson,” Jeremy chuckled, “that has to be the gayest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Cue the entire cabin howling their butts off.

  That’s when I realized: I was going to die at this stupid camp.