Thursday
I wake early the next morning, long before Smalls and Uncle Wilfred. When I step out of the tent, the first thing I notice is the fog. It hangs just inches above the ground, enveloping anything and everything solid. The ashes from last night's fire are still warm, so I poke at them and add on some more wood, before plucking some strawberries from a nearby field, and pulling a sack of pre-made flapjack mix from the food pack. While the pan over the fire is heating, I peek into Smalls' tent, and grin.
"Psst. Rumplestiltskin. Wake up."
Smalls groans, and buries his face in his pillow. "Wadyawant."
"It's foggy." I'm smirking.
Smalls sits up. "You're on."
We invented the game when I was thirteen and he was six, and we still play it whenever we get the chance.
Tackleball.
The rules are simple. One person counts to ten, while the other person takes the ball and hides. Once Player A is done counting, Player B has one chance to hit Player A with the ball. From there, it's a combination between keepaway, wrestling, and dodgeball. If Player A isn't being attacked by Player B in order to get the ball, Player A can hide and hit Player B with the ball when they least expect it. The game works best when it's nightime or foggy, which is why this morning is perfect. Smalls counts while I hide behind a bush on the edge of the clearing. When he finishes, he glances around, turning in a full circle. The moment his back is to me, the ball goes flying through the air, and hits him squarely in the back of the head. He rubs his neck, mutters an "I'll get you," and spins to face where I'm hiding. I only duck just in time. And then I'm off, using my expert scouting skills to an advantage as Smalls takes off in the direction the ball came from, while I crawl around to his right side. Slinking through the bushes, I'm getting closer, closer,
WHAM.
I've barreled out of the trees, slamming into him, and knocking the ball from his hands. Smalls' expression has gone from playful to murderous in a split second, and I can't help laughing. But before I can gode too much on my triumph, the ball has hit me in the face, and I'm sprawling on the ground. Smalls snags the ball, and beelines for the safety of the trees. In seconds, I'm up and after him like a shot, jumping and grabbing him around the waist from behind. Smalls goes down, twisting and tossing the ball back towards camp. Sunlight is starting to beam through the trees, our warning. The moment I pick up the ball from the ground, Smalls is on my back, pummeling me in the ribs. We lurch back through the camp, where Uncle Wilfred is flipping sizzling flapjacks, staring at us with a raised eyebrow and a smirk that says something like how did I ever get stuck with these two?
Well, maybe not. We both know he'd give his life for either of us if he needed too. But anyways, back to the game. Smalls finally punches me hard enough to knock the breath out of my chest, which causes me to drop the ball in surprise, and we both topple over, unofficially ending our game. That, and the smell of flapjacks that's been taunting us both for five minutes. We're both old enough to know that it's bad times for Natalia, but we still drink in every moment of carefree games we have left. As I shovel a flapjack down in point O—Three seconds, I study Uncle Wilfred. He's smiling, but there's an anxiety in his eyes that says he's tense, nervous about something. I was still in the hospital when Uncle Whittle left for Nick Hollow with his family, but I get the feeling he wasn't exactly on good terms with Uncle Wilfred. I'm not going to say anything, but as I finish my flapjacks and deconstruct my tent, I start running worst case scenarios through my mind, desperately hoping none will come up.