I had never been in such darkness before. The sky had almost no stars, and the moon was hazy. Yet Pete, with his inch-thick lenses, bounded like a rabbit across the courtyard.

“Come on,” he whispered as loud as he could.

Extending my arms out like antenna, I did my best to walk the field without tripping. I reached the camp fire pit and took a second to refocus my feeble night vision. Then I heard metal scraping in the distance. Metal on dirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whispered.

“What are you doing?” he responded, “Come on.”

By the time I reached him, Pete had rolled a canoe over and pushed it down to the river.

“I thought we were checking out the counselors,” I said with hushed urgency.

“We are. But we can only get there this way.” And he pushed the canoe into the water, holding it for me. “Get in.”

I climbed in and stepped to the front, looking around for the essentials. “Where’s the oar?”

“Shoot. I forgot.” And Pete darted off to the shed. “Shoot, shoot.” The water moved about the canoe, and I noticed the shore curling away from view.

“Pete!”

But he was too late in returning.

“Wait,” he shrieked.

“I can’t.”

Then I knew getting to the counselors was going to be good, because in a rush of adrenaline Pete leaped into the water. The splashing was loud as lions, but he reached the canoe and climbed in, his hands still clutching the oars.

I grinned, “That was awesome.”

“Shhh,” he whispered, stone-faced and solemn, “we’re Indians.”