It wasn't until the next morning of their camping trip that Susan told Fred about the corpse. She had wanted to tell it around the campfire like a ghost story. She had imagined a very particular scenario: they would cook hot dogs in salt water and heat beans over a fire; they would roast marshmallows and smoosh s'mores (she was not going to worry about her diet); she would share with her beloved the story of how she and several other children had happened upon a partially-decomposed human corpse in a marsh directly linked to the very island where they were now camping. But this plan did not pan out. First, they discovered, only as they just lay down their packs at the camp site, that they had left the cooler containing all their food and water in the truck of the car. They were only 5 miles from the parking lot, but it involved another trek across the mud flats of the marsh. Fred had almost lost his shoe in the putrid muck and nearly passed out from the smell. "It's healthy," Susan grumbled in reply to his complaints. "It means the ecosystem is functioning." She was annoyed with him. She had told him to wear rock shoes--why had he insisted on wearing good sneakers? His plaintive whines about the smell struck her as effeminate.
When they first realized they had no dinner, they laughed. What helpless city slickers! But Susan couldn't help but notice the fear at the bottom of it; Fred's guffaws wore pink panties beneath the guttural belches. She didn't even have the opportunity to suggest turning back. "I'm not going back through THAT again," he announced. Susan didn't bother reminding him that they would, in fact, have to trudge back through the marsh eventually if they ever wanted to get back to civilization. He suggested they dig for clams.
"What about red tide?"
"Fish, then."
"How will we catch fish without bait?"
"We'll dig for worms."
"And without fishing gear?"
He paused.
"We'll eat the worms instead."
Susan realized she wouldn't be telling any ghost stories.
