Robin-Hooding an arrow straight to the bulls-eye, or better yet bisecting your rival's recently bulls-eyed arrow, is very different from what we experience. Lyla's first arrow swishes into the grass four inches in front of her, and she glares at me because I exist.
"Fantastic!" I tell her. "The first arrow I ever shot traveled 1/3 that distance. And I was 11."
It's the hot part of the day. None of the promised rain has fallen, so the arrows practically stop midair in the 99.9% humidity. After shooting (such a hyperbolic word, really) enough arrows to allow us to later claim we gave it a serious go, we head back to the bunks, peel off our sweat-soaked clothes, and prepare for a swim.
The swimming hole is Lake Barbara. If there's a more aptly named lake for a Girl Scout camp, I don't know what it is. It's man-made (slap my hand: woman-made) and only 5.5 feet deep in the center. As I look for a shady spot to dump our stuff, I stop mid-stride. A cobra has uncoiled in the grass, reared up, and spread its hood. It hisses at me, and its inch-long fangs glisten with venom. Okay, it's actually a small garter snake slithering away sluggishly, but since I've been deathly afraid of snakes my whole life, it might as well be Nagini unleashed by He Who Shall Not Be Named, and by that I mean Trump, not Voldemort.
In normal circumstances, I would find a secluded place to rock myself in a fetal position and probably cry a little. When you're surrounded by men and seven-year-old girls, however, that isn't a socially appropriate reaction. Lyla must notice my ashen complexion, but she says nothing. My heart is pounding. I'm sweating profusely. It's truly a phobia, and I need to sit down.
Through glazed eyes I see all these dads and daughters splashing around in a bizarre post-apocalyptic world with no wives and no sons. We're the last of the human race, and the only other living things are snakes.
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