“You look like someone blew up a craft store.”
She beams. “Thank you.”
I turn back to the tent and begin threading poles through the fabric. The wind chooses that moment to pick up, which immediately makes this a two-person job.
“Piper.”
No response.
“Piper.”
Still nothing.
“Piper!”
She jumps like I fired a gun. “What?”
“Hold this,” I tell her, handing her the end of the pole.
She accepts it delicately between two glitter-coated fingers. “I don’t trust the pole.”
“You’ll live. Just hold it still.”
She does. Mostly. I manage to thread the last pole, shove it into place, and push the tent upright.
“Okay,” I say. “Stake time.”
“What kind of stake?” she teases. “Medium-rare?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Ground stakes.”
She smirks. She’s doing this on purpose.
“Grab the little metal ones.”
Rummaging in the tent back, she pulls something out and holds it up triumphantly.
I arch a brow at her. “A for effort.”
She blinks. “Is that not a stake?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She tosses it aside and digs again. “I’m helping,” she insists.
“You’re trying. I’ll give you that.”
Eventually, she finds the stakes and hands them to me.
I hammer the first one in with a rock I find nearby.
Piper gasps mockingly, hand on her chest. “You’re using nature as a tool.”
“Yes.”
“Very caveman.”
I grunt in response.
