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[center][color=52BF7C]Piper McAllister[/color][color=023020]...[/color][/center]
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The path from the dining hall to the craft cabin wound through the center of Camp Wyaconda, cutting between towering pines and weathered wooden buildings that had probably stood there for decades. Campers streamed along the trail in small groups, talking excitedly about the day's activities. Some heading down to the lake, others the large rec fields, or archery. All depending what your cabin schedule was. Piper walked alone, taking her time, stopping occasionally to admire a wildflower or glance toward the lake sparkling through the trees. As she passed the camp's gravel parking lot, movement caught her eye. A dusty blue station wagon had just pulled in. Standing beside it was a boy about her age. Maybe thirteen. Hair that looked like it had been hastily brushed this morning, a duffel bag being pulled from the back, a backpack slung over his shoulder. His expression wasn’t happy, as a woman—his mother, Piper guessed—pulled him into one last hug.

For a brief moment, Piper felt a pang in her chest. She remembered her own drop-off two days ago. Her dad had wanted to linger. She'd wanted him to linger. Instead, they'd awkwardly stood beside his truck, neither wanting to be the first to say goodbye. Eventually he'd hugged her and promised she'd have fun. Then watched his truck disappear down the road. The memory faded as a camp counselor appeared from the direction of the office, making their way toward the late camper. Piper continued on toward the craft cabin.

The cabin sat tucked beneath a cluster of enormous pine trees. Unlike most of the camp buildings, its walls were painted bright green and decorated with hand-painted wooden signs. Wind chimes made from painted driftwood hung from the porch, clinking softly in the breeze. The moment Piper stepped inside, she knew she'd like it. The cabin smelled like fresh-cut wood, paint, glue, and old books. Sunlight poured through large windows, illuminating rows of long wooden tables covered in supplies. Mason jars overflowed with colored pencils, markers, paintbrushes, and scissors. Shelves lined every wall, packed with craft projects from campers over the years—birdhouses, friendship bracelets, clay sculptures, painted rocks, and wooden signs bearing names from summers long past. One entire wall displayed sketches, paintings, and photographs created by campers. Another held bins full of beads, yarn, leather cord, and every imaginable art supply.

Piper slowly turned in place. It felt less like a classroom and more like an artist's treasure chest. The other campers started to trickle in, taking note of the more interesting ones. A girl, with a skateboard in tow, how she was riding it on the paths, was impressive. A smaller kid, glasses, who seemed to be at the wrong camp, rather than one for smart kids. Another, straight out of a farm. Camp life seemed odd for him to be there she thought. Then another, shrimp like, who looked confused. She made her way toward a nearby table, setting her bag on top. Out of the last three years of camp, this summer seems like a good adventure was brewing. 
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