Camp Canoa // Luke Hemmings

The One With Too Many Closets

[Day +26]

"This way!" Luke urges, plucking at my sleeve to pull me in the opposite direction, to the one that he was heading, and I obediently turn tail to follow him and hurry silently the other way down the long corridor of the camp maintenance building.

God only knows who decided it would be a good idea for the volunteers to gang up for some bonding and together-time during one of our extended lunch breaks, because someone had suggested Extreme Hide and Seek – just like regular Hide and Seek, except that if you get found, you get made to take all of the toilet duties until the end of camp, which doesn't sound that bad until you remember that it includes staff toilets, and Chuck Shirley eats a lot of mixed-bean tacos – and now everyone has fallen into full-tilt chaos and anarchy running to escape.

Our footsteps slap and ring against the hot linoleum as we run, heads whipping from side to side as we seek out a place to hide.

"Look," I say, my hand nudging Luke's elbow as I point at a rickety wooden laundry basket big enough to fit a person inside. "There – I can-"

"There's no way I'm gonna fit in there!" Luke exclaims, immediately dismissing it, and he grabs my hands to tug me along to find somewhere else.

"Luke," I say, jogging lopsidedly as Luke conveniently forgets to release the grip he has on my hand, "we don't have to hide together, you know-"

Luke doesn't answer this; he just tightens his fingers around mine and runs faster. There is the sound of our breath, cutting short and ragged the further we go; the clatter of doors and the pounding echoes of footsteps in other hallways, other stairwells – we're being followed – we're losing time.

Then, out of nowhere, there is the rattle of doorknobs and the squeak of wood over swollen door-jambs ahead of us, and then we realise that somehow, we've been surrounded.

We turn to look at each other, eyes wide, and then Luke's eyes slide past me to something else, something that makes him gasp. "There!"

Spinning, I find a door, thank God – we trip over our own feet in the haste to get inside, clicking the door closed behind us, and we find ourselves in a fresh laundry closet. It's dark, the only light being what filters under the door in a narrow, pale strip and I bang my shin on a low shelf of towels; I hiss "Shit!" under my breath before Luke can reprimand me with a gentle punch to the arm and a whisper to be quiet.

With a great effort not to fall over anything or put an eye on the face-level wooden shelves of bed-sheets and pillow-cases, we push further into the darkness, arms and shoulders pressed close together, until we find a small space beside a warm, rumbling water-boiler where we can stand up straight without hurting ourselves on random bits of shelving. There we fall quiet and still, and settle in to wait to be found.

As my eyes slowly adjust to the gloom, I look over at Luke and find the soft line of a smile there. When Luke notices that he's been watching, the smile grows into the short huff of a laugh, and he shakes his head.

"What?" I whisper.

"We've got to stop spending so much time in closets." He says jokingly. "Seriously, when are we gonna tell people about whatever this is?" he asks, pressing his forehead to mine and holding me still with a gentle hand on my waist.

I laugh at that, and Luke leans forward to cover the noise with his mouth. However, the more kisses that he touches to my lips, the more I feel the choking need to laugh until I have to push my face into the crook of his neck, shaking with giggles.

"Be quiet, Grace." He whispers to me, trying his hardest not to smile; he kisses the top of my head. "They'll hear us."

"Let them hear," I declare, lifting my head. My nose brushes his on the way up and we smile, our lips close together. "I don't care."