Wannamakabuck

By Embe Charpentier

The walls slide inward inching the beds closer. The boy lying two cots over hacks viciously. The cheap mattress springs squeak in rat-speak.

Whenever the hulking Charlie T. limps down the hall, I hear the odd ba-dunk-ba-dunk of his boots. Every night, he shines his flashlight near my head. Charlie’s our chief hatchet man in the roach apocalypse. He stinks like insect repellent.

I scratch at my arms. The woollen blankets irritate the eczema inside the crooks of my elbows.

The nurse put some evil-smelling cream all over me. My sunburn stings; I reek of coconut and menthol.

Gotta hate summer camp.