[center][sup][h1][color=black] Dexter[/color]
[color=c2b280]Dexter[/color][/h1][/sup][/center]

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The morning had been uneventful, or at least the particular brand of “uneventful” that only an all‑boys cabin could produce by day three. Chaos had already left its fingerprints everywhere. Socks hung from ceiling beams like defeated flags, someone had launched something with enough force to dent one of the floorboards across the other side of the cabin, and half the beds looked as though a small tornado had passed through with personal vendettas.

Dexter’s bed, however, stood out in the wreckage like a valiant but exhausted soldier. He’d made it as neatly as he could: the pillow was deflated, the blanket pulled up but spilling unevenly over the sides, and the sheet underneath was doing its best impression of “tucked.” His mother would have sighed, deeply, but compared to the surrounding disaster zone, it was practically a showroom display.

The rest of the boys had already thundered off to breakfast, but Dexter lingered. His stomach growled with the desperation of a creature wronged, but he’d learned quickly that the first wave into the dining hall was a battlefield he had no interest in joining. Better to wait, slip in quietly, and avoid the elbows, shouting, and territorial disputes. So he sat on his bed, notebook balanced on his knee, scribbling down observations. Names of the other boys, written in an attempt to feel like he belonged, even though he absolutely didn’t. Notes about cabin dynamics. A few sketches of the cabin layout. Anything to make the place feel less alien.

Eventually, hunger won. He stepped outside and followed the crunchy stone path toward the dining hall. The closer he got, the louder the noise became, an escalating roar of voices, clattering trays, and the occasional shriek of someone who had probably been hit with something. His heartbeat rose to match the rhythm, thudding harder with every step. He paused at the door. Once. Twice. A third time.

[color=c2b280][i]’Okay, Dexter. Go in, sit down, get food. Normal person stuff.’[/i][/color]
He adjusted his backpack, because unlike every other boy here, he carried his everywhere, and stepped inside.

Cabin E’s table was easy to spot: loud, messy, and already half‑abandoned by boys who had inhaled their food and sprinted off to whatever chaos awaited them next. Dexter slid onto the end of the bench and surveyed what remained. It wasn’t promising. The pancakes looked less like pancakes and more like dense, misshapen dough‑spheres. Worse, it was painfully obvious that many hands had rummaged through them. Dexter could practically see the bacteria colonies forming. He’d read enough about germs to know these things were a one‑way ticket to Deadsville, population: him. No thank you.

He reached, instead, into his backpack and pulled out one of his precious nutrient bars. He’d begged his mother to pack more than three, but she’d insisted camp food would be “perfectly fine.” The wrapper crackled loudly, too loudly. Dexter froze, hyperaware of the sound. But the dining hall was a storm of noise, and no one even glanced his way. He exhaled and peeled it open. It tasted vaguely of chocolate and overwhelmingly of disappointment. According to the box, it contained twenty‑three essential vitamins and minerals. According to Dexter, it tasted like compressed cardboard. Still, cardboard was preferable to doughballs of doom.

He opened his notebook again with his free hand. The page it fell to was titled “Camp Stuff.”  A list followed:
[list][*]Why is Cabin E called Dunlop?
[*]Find bug spray.
[*]FOOD.
[*]Try talking to someone..?[/list]
Dexter stared at that last one. His pencil hovered, then drew a firm line straight through it. Some goals were best saved for later. Much later. Like… never.
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