Lionel chose the campsite

The campsite Lionel chose was often purported to be a locus of entrapment. Police claimed their stake on the place, placing along our path do-not trespass signs, which the fifteenth or twentieth time we saw them became laughable. Lionel spilled his canteen before the two elegant police captains seized it retroactively.

I brought a couple of bags of pinto beans, fetching them out of Shop-N-Save singlehandedly. Whether or not Lionel strove to be, old Lionel was entirely a fitting tour guide. Under-cooking the pintos, his speech activated, he said, “Fish hook the groceries, Thomas. We’ll bag rainbow trout!”

From the tent, hearing his suggestion, I spoke out against it. “Those groceries remain food, but fish are only a potential achievement.” Lionel’s hatchet-wielding calm decreased. He spat, pointedly, and regretted the shape of his knuckles. What were we doing out there, anyway?

“Cops are coming,” Lionel called. It was unsettling, is one way to describe it.