5... My eyes dart around the court, analyzing every possible move. Everyone's covered. Without needing my telling, my teammates move out behind the arc clearing the lane for me.

4... Iso. A quick glance up at the scoreboard reveals us down by two.

3... Genetics gifted me with lightning fast reflexes, and I go to work. The ball crosses from one hand to the other, then under my legs. Baffled, my defender doesn't know what to do. One head fake and step-back later, he's on the ground. I'm wide open behind the arc.

2... My eyes flit to the hoop, arms and legs bending in muscle memory. I've practiced this hundreds if not thousands of times. The soft leather feels good in my hands, the grips sticking to my palms. Other defenders start rushing in, back-up for their fallen teammate. None of that registers to me though. It's just me and the hoop.

1... Like springs, my legs explode upward, my arms already in motion. The ball releases before anyone can even put a hand up.

Errrrr! The buzzer sounds, but the game isn't over. As if in slow motion, the ball glances off the backboard. I know it's going in. It hits the inside front of the rim, popping it up. For minutes, it seems it just floats above the net. Then...

"Nathaniel Price! I asked you a question, and you'd better respond! Just because you don't want to go doesn't mean you need to pout."

Sheesh.

My mom's voice blares from the driver's seat. I sit next to her, hand over basketball and airpods in both ears. There would be no way I wouldn't hear that screaming. Plucking one out, and doing so, yanking myself from my daydream, I look at her in a daze for a few seconds. She doesn't notice because she's focused on the road, but she asks the question she must've asked before.

"I want you to answer me young man or else I'm taking away your ball." Oof. A threat that I know she'll keep. Recently she's been high-strung for some reason, but I must not be helping with my often complaints about summer camp. "Did you pack clean clothes for all two weeks?" I nod, but after a couple of moments of silence from her realize she isn't looking at me.

"Yeah," I give a short answer. Nothing comes from her, so I grab my airpods from my lap and start putting them in. Halfway to my ear, she speaks.

"How about underwear? Or a toothbrush? What about deoderant? You don't want to smell there."

"I packed all of those," I reassure her. Before she can say anything else, I pop both airpods back in, and she takes it as a sign that I don't want to talk. I love my mom and all, but when she's stressed, she can be a little overbearing. My daydream won't come back, no matter how much I try to remember, and I eventually just lay my head back against my headrest, slumber taking me.

When I wake up, we're at the camp. Its large wooden overhang sign beams, "Welcome all campers!"

It doesn't make me any more eager to go.

Everyone seems so excited around here, but me, I just want my travel team back. Ever since mom and dad got divorced, money's been tight. We've had to cut some things out. Including my team. Sometimes I try to understand, but can't. Travel meant everything to me. To keep my mind off of things, mom signed me up for this summer camp. Despite not wanting to go, she made me and here I am.

"Alrighty! And who are you, mister?" A counselor at the sign-in desk greets us. Too chipper for my liking. She's about twenty-five with braces and short hair cut under her ears.

"Nate," I mumble back, "Nate Price." Somehow she hears me over the sound of younger kids crying and older kids laughing. She does me a quick look-over and flips a few pages on her clipboard before coming to a stop.

"You're going to be staying in lodge 305a. Your room number is 15w, and you'll be sharing it with three other boys your age. Have a fun time!" She hands me a map and before I can say anything or ask any questions, she moves on to the next camper. Mom hovers over my shoulder as I glance down at my map.

Holy--- This place is huge. Dozens of buildings are scattered across the piece of paper, pathways and streets making it even more cluttered. This sure will be fun.

"They did say it acts as a college campus in the sign-up," Mom comments. Thanks mom. Now I'm on my own in this huge complex. Luckily there's some labeling and I locate lodge 305a. It's one of the smaller ones, and is only a short walk away.

"Want me to help you take your stuff there?" Mom offers. I shake my head.

"I'll be good," I say, and then before she can object, give her a hug, "See you later."

"Well, alright then. Have a good time." She watches me go, two duffel bags in hand and a backpack over my shoulders. When I look back a couple moments later, she's on her way to our car.

I'm officially on my own.

"What's up," I'm greeted at my dorm door by a kid who's about five feet eight-about five inches shorter than me-with shaggy blond hair. Surfer look. He daps me up as I walk in.

"So," I ask, "Who are you?" He looks at me as if I should know. Then he crosses his arms. I have no clue what I'm supposed to say.

"I was the one who locked our lodge counselor in his dorm room last year. Don't you remember. It took everyone so long to figure out where he was!" The other two guys in our dorm burst out laughing at the memory.

"I wasn't here last year." I say in response.

"Oh man, you missed out!" He bursts out laughing.

"Whatever," I mutter.

Against the far back wall is an unclaimed bed so I walk over and start unpacking. All my clothes go in a small dresser underneath the bunk. Everything else either stays in my duffel bag, or lands a spot on a tiny desk underneath and next to the dresser. All my basketball stuff including my pull-up bar stays in my bag which I stuff behind my bed. Judging from what I've heard so far, I can't trust these guys.

"So what do I do now?" I question. Out the window, I can see some kids playing volleyball and soccer out on the lawn.

"Whatever you want, uhh, what's your name?" One of the other two respond.

"Nate. Who are the rest of you."

"Eric." The smallest one says. His hair is bleached and cut short, and he wears an ACDC shirt.

"Zander," Says the one who pulled the prank last year, "Zander Solomon."

"Cam," Says the one who responded to my question, "It's a nickname."

"Mm'kay," I tell them, "Are there courts here?" I make my way back to my bag. If there are any, then I'm going to play basketball right now.

"There's a couple," Zander says. Evidently he's the leader of the group." The soft-leather ball sticks in my bag, but eventually I get it out.

"Where."

He grabs my map from my dresser. For a few moments, his finger traces along some roads, but comes to stop at a large rectangle of pavement. Judging from the map key, it's about a mile away.

"You want to take a left out of here, and stay on McAndrew's boulevard for eight blocks before turning off on a dirt path to the right. That should lead you there." Cam spouts out before Zander can tell me. Zander hooks a thumb back at him and I look at him confused. How did he know that without seeing the map?

"Cam's got a photographic memory," Zander supplies me, "That's why we call him Cam. Like camera."

"Any of you play basketball?" I ask, wanting to bring some people in case I need a team.

"All of us," Says Eric, "but I'm gonna sleep right now. The drive here took forever."

"My girlfriend wants me to meet up with her," Zander tells me, "Otherwise I would."

"Sorry, but I'm going to hit up the cafeteria," Cam tells me, his glasses bouncing on his nose as he stands up, "They've got complimentary snacks for us. You could come along."

"No thanks," I wave him off.

The door clicks behind me as I leave. Hopefully I can find someone on the way.