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Summer Camp

A Short Story by Shaun A. Saunders

Image by the Artist General | artistgeneral.com

“I hope they looked after our Jane!” exclaimed one parent, while Doug Stace announced firmly, “My Bill will be fine: he would have spent his time indoors playing chess.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, he’ll be fine.”
    

Slowly, the battered bus made its way up the last incline to the school. With a wheeze from the brakes, it lurched to a stop in front of the assembled parents, their necks craning as eyes searched for glimpses of children through the dusty windows.
    

The door scraped open and children tumbled out, eyes bright, dragging their duffle bags behind them.
    

Jane was third off the bus, and assorted scratches notwithstanding, was in fine health. Overjoyed, her mother swept the girl off her feet. “Oh Jane, it is so wonderful to have you back.”
    

Jane gave into the embrace for a moment. Then squirming, “Mum, come and meet my new friend!”
    

Mary Jones was reunited with her boy, Dick, and was equally ecstatic. Her husband Tom was happy, too. But being naturally reserved, he wasn’t prone to showing his emotions in public. Instead, he tousled Dick’s hair and watched the other children file off the bus.
    

Twenty-three, four…five. That was all. His smile tightened. One short.
    

Discreetly, Tom glanced about the small crowd. The camp counsellor was working his way towards Doug Stace, bouncing back cheerful ‘hello’s’ and ‘yes, it was a successful camp’ to the other parents, who dutifully parted to let him through, hugging their children closer as he passed by.
    

Stace braced himself, legs apart, hands on hips, lips tight.
    

The counsellor stopped short, just out of reach. He held out a yellow envelope to Stace: a camp report.
    

Stace slapped the hand away. He growled, “My son had better be on that damned bus,” even though he knew, deep down, that wasn’t the case. “He’s a chess player, not into any of that rough’n tumble malarky.” He took a step closer to the counsellor; his six foot two fullback frame hulking over the counsellor.   
    

Expecting the worst, the counsellor cowered, squeaking, “Mr Stace, please, you know all of us at the camp are just doing our jobs. And you never know exactly what the outcomes will be, never.” With bird-like movements, he plucked the yellow report from the dusty lot. “It’s all in here,” he explained, fingers trembling as he opened the letter. “There – it says Paul’s obsession with chess indicated a ‘propensity towards strategic martial planning, which was confirmed in subsequent hypnochemic evaluations’.” Quietly, “I’m sorry Mr Stace, truly I am, but your son has been tested and found to be a potential future danger to the state. It’s not just the boys and girls who might enjoy the rough and tumble activities a little too much, adding an extra accidental kick or punch where it’s not needed. The greatest dangers are the hidden ones.”

The other parents nodded in servile agreement. Their children were safe for another year. 

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