“Sam? We’re friends, right?” I hope I haven’t effected some kind of correspondence change where Sam and I no longer know each other. I can’t survive the next eight weeks without Sam. “Yeah, we’re friends,” he says, sticking his hot dog over the fire. That’s it. He clams up. I get a hot dog. I sit next to Sam and cook it. At least he doesn’t move away. After many uncomfortable moments, I build up the courage to speak in the quietest voice I can. “What’s wrong?” “Why are you here?” “Why didn’t you tell me you’d be here?” “Not your business. I don’t need people knowing what a ghetto camp I go to.” “It’s not so bad.” “Tell me that in a week. There was a nerdy white kid here last year, couldn’t make it to Visiting Day. Ran away.” “My parents thought it would be good for me.” “Real people, huh? They want you to be with real people instead of geniuses.” “I’m not a genius.” “I know that, Perry.” “Call me Peregrine.” “Peregrine?”
