The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 8: Finn

I don't feel tired at all when I reach Fairbanks International Airport the next afternoon. I know that I should be; I didn't get any sleep at the airport hotel in Washington, and the three hour time difference between Alaska and Indiana is enough to throw even the most experienced traveler off. My body hums with nerves as I go to grab my bags off the conveyor belt. I've never felt more awake in my life.

I pace up and down the pick-up area until I spot a placard with my name on it. The taxi driver, a stocky, dark-haired man, holds the sign up impatiently like he's thinking of a million better things he could be doing.

I walk over and introduce myself. "Hey there, I'm Finn Murphy." I stick my hand out for him to shake, but he just stares at it. I let out a little, nervous laugh and point at his sign instead. "You spelled my last name wrong. There's no E."

The driver gives me a look that says he gives zero fucks about how my name is spelled. "You're the kid heading to Lightlake, right?" His voice is low and rumbling, like a combustion engine. I nod. "Well, you're late. And Lightlake doesn't appreciate tardiness."

I try to force a grin, but my face isn't feeling very cooperative so it comes out as more of a nervous twitch. "Pedal to the metal, am I right?"

The driver just stares at me.

"Uh, you never told me your name. Sir."

"I'm Moe," he says. "Now, do you wanna be on time to your camp, or do you wanna keep chatting me up here?"

"On time. Please. Sir."

Moe ushers me to his car, and we hit the road. I quickly learn that he's not the talkative type, which might end up being a problem for both of us because when I get anxious I tend to ramble.

"You're driving to Camp Lightlake, right?" I ask, probably for the tenth time yet. I rattle off the address in case he's forgotten. "Just checking in. 'Cause it's in the middle of nowhere, and all that."

Moe side-eyes me in the rear-view mirror. "Told you already, that's where I'm headed."

"Sorry. It's just— we'll, we've just been driving for a long time, and you said it yourself, I really can't be late."

"Kid, we've been driving for fifteen minutes. Settle down."

I rub my hands together anxiously. Outside my window, the greens and blues and grays of the Alaskan landscape speed away into a poly-chromatic blur. "You know how to get there, right? You've been there before?"

"Too many times for my liking," Moe grumbles.

My heart gives a nervous flutter. "What's that suppose to mean?"

"I can tell you from experience that nothing good comes outta that place. It's bad luck, Lightlake."

"Why? What happened to you there?"

"Well, last time I drove to Lightlake my car got egged by some no-good campers. You know what eggs do to a paint job? Nothing good, I can tell you that. The kids there are all troublemakers. The counselors aren't any better, from what I hear."

"I'm no troublemaker," I say quickly. "Really, I'm not. I just slipped up. You see, a couple of days ago I—"

My words are abruptly cut off by an ear-splitting screech. The noise catches me off-guard, and I jump so far out of my seat that I whack my head against the roof of the car.

Moe chuckles to himself. "Sorry 'bout the honking, kid. Had to teach that semi a lesson— only damn fools do twenty under the speed limit around here. Now, what were you saying?"