“The one and only,” Leo called back. “Hope you’ve got food. I didn’t stop on the way.”
Ray shot me a questioning look as he came downstairs. I shrugged, equally confused by our son’s unexpected appearance.
In the kitchen, Leo was already rummaging through the refrigerator. “There’s nothing in here except protein shakes and—what is this, kale? You guys are worse than my roommate’s girlfriend.”
“We’ve been eating clean for training,” Ray explained, coming into the kitchen. “And we cleared out the perishables since we’ll be gone.”
“Well, I’m ordering pizza.” Leo pulled out his phone. “The usual?”
Ray and I exchanged another glance. The “usual” was our traditional family order—half veggie supreme, half meat lovers, and an order of cheesy breadsticks that Leo would inevitably consume entirely by himself.
“Sure,” I said, settling at the kitchen island. “Why not?”
While we waited for the pizza, Leo launched into stories about his film production classes, a new documentary project he was working on, and the latest campus drama. The easy flow of his conversation filled the tension-laden silence that had become the soundtrack of our home.
After the pizza arrived, we migrated to the living room, balancing paper plates on our laps like we used to do on movie nights when Leo was in high school.
“So,” Leo said, reaching for his third breadstick, “when do I get to see the full list of countries you’ll be visiting?”
“They only tell us the starting point,” Ray said. “The rest we learn as we go.”
“That’s so cool. Like a real adventure.” Leo’s eyes shone with excitement. “Are you guys nervous?”
“Your dad’s never nervous about physical challenges,” I said.
“And your pop’s never unprepared for anything,” Ray added.
Leo nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “That’s what makes you guys such a good team.”
We finished the last of the pizza, Leo once again devouring all the breadsticks. “I was thinking about that camping trip we took when I was ten. Remember? In the Everglades? I’m going to clean up, and then I think we should watch that video of the camping trip.”
Ray and I exchanged confused glances. “What video?” I asked.
“The one Dad took with that old digital camera. I found it when I was looking for photos for your audition video.” Leo headed toward the kitchen. “You both need to see it.”
When Leo returned from the kitchen, we gathered around his laptop on the coffee table. He pulled up a video file, and suddenly we were transported back twelve years.
The footage was grainy, the colors slightly washed out, but there we were. A younger Ray behind the camera, narrating as I attempted to set up our tent. Leo, ten years old, was trying to help but kept getting distracted by birds and insects.
“This is Jeffrey Morgan, wilderness expert,” Ray’s voice said from behind the camera, laughter evident in his tone.
On screen, I looked up and made a face. “If by ‘wilderness expert’ you mean ‘guy who actually read the instruction manual,’ then yes.”
“Pop, this pole goes here, right?” young Leo asked, holding up a tent pole.
“Let me see, buddy.” My younger self knelt beside him, gently guiding his hands. “That’s it. You’ve got it.”
The camera panned to show our campsite—the tent half-erected, our gear neatly organized thanks to my packing system, the cooler Ray had insisted on bringing despite my concerns about its weight.
“And here we have the mighty Everglades,” Ray’s voice continued as the camera swept across the landscape. “Where Leo the Brave will catch his first fish tomorrow.”
“If the mosquitoes don’t carry us away first,” my voice called from off-camera.
The scene changed to evening, the three of us sitting around a small camping stove. I was demonstrating how to safely light it, Leo watching intently. Ray must have set the camera on something to capture all three of us.
“Now, the key is to turn the gas on just a little before you use the striker,” I explained.
“And if all else fails,” Ray added, “that’s why we brought Pop’s fancy sandwiches as backup.”
