Forty-Seven Lunches

June counted the paper bags twice. Forty-seven lunches for eighty-three campers. The storm had blocked the supply van below the mountain, and the dining bell would ring in fifteen minutes. “We’ll feed the younger cabins,” the camp director said. “The older kids can miss one meal.” June looked through the kitchen window. Her daughter’s cabin was already crossing the field, carrying wet branches they had gathered to keep the dining hall stove burning. “Tell them,” the director said. “They’ll take it better from you.”