Free Leftovers by Heather Waldorf

no-longer-free time for Sullivan and me to get the jigsaw just one-quarter done. And with over three weeks still to go before the concert, my biggest worry is keeping the shed door barricaded 24/7. It takes no imagination to picture Judy storming the place, tipping over the table and destroying our hard work.
    I know I could/should be in the shed alone now, working on the puzzle, going at it great guns without the distraction of Sullivan’s fast-flowing river of conversation and unexpected kisses. But like I said, I need a break. And while no one at the campfire would necessarily miss
me
, they would miss the S’mores.
    Across the campfire, Victoria spears a marshmallow with a bent coat hanger and holds it over the low flames. I wonder what she thinks, or if she even knows (I hope not), about Sullivan’s bizarro lust for me. I don’t think there is any official camp “no messing around” rule, but Victoria is pretty protective of Sullivan, always reminding him to put on suntan lotion and eat his greens and zip up his windbreaker on rainy days. I doubt that making out with the “volunteer” help is part of the life plan Victoria has mapped out for Sullivan. She probably thinks he should be kissing teen environmental activists and class representatives. Not...me. Especially not me.
    â€œStorm’s coming,” Victoria says, waving her flaming marshmallow at the sky.
    It’s true. The moon disappeared a while ago behind increasingly thick clouds. The headlamps and party lanterns winking from the cabin cruisers out on the river are scattering for shore, a sure sign of troubled weather on the way.
    Within minutes the cool evening breeze morphs into a stiff wind. Low, persistent rumbles compete with the crackle of the fire and the smashing of rogue waves on the beach.
    At the first flash of lightning and drops of rain, Dr. Fred calls it a night. He douses the fire with a big bucket of river water, and then, without preamble, he strides quickly through the trees and across the field, motioning for everyone else to tag along to the barn. “Storm phobia means canine pandemonium,” he remarks.
    Joke’s on him. Most of the old dogs are curled into themselves on top of blankets or stretched out on their sides on the cool tiles, fast asleep after a day of serious exercise and socializing, oblivious to the electricity in the air and the rain pounding the roof. A few of the younger, inexperienced pups whine and circle around Dr. Fred, looking for no more than head pats and some of the dog treats they know he keeps stuffed in his pants pockets.
    Only Judy is a mess, howling and whimpering and quaking with every flash of lightning.
    BOOM! The rafters shake. There’s another flash. Judy sees me and charges, jumping into my arms like a 130-pound toy poodle. We collapse in a heap.
    I push her bulk aside long enough to struggle to my feet. “Come on, Judy,” I say, yawning and gesturing for her to follow me, though it isn’t necessary; she’s got her head stuffed under my armpit like a furry black basketball. We head for the barn door.
    â€œSarah?” Dr. Fred calls.
    â€œJudy can sleep on the floor in my cabin,” I call over my shoulder before making a mad dash through the storm to the cabin cluster. It’s so late, I’m so tired, and the storm, while not especially fierce, seems to be stalled over the island. If I stay with Judy here in the barn until the weather clears and the big sucky dog is asleep, I’ll never get any rest.

    I’ve never hosted a sleepover before.
    I switch on the light in my cabin and take in the small space. There’s just enough room to lay out an old blanket for Judy on the floor between the bed and the dresser.
    But Judy has other plans. Ten seconds after we reach the cabin, there’s another blinding flash of lightning. With a howl and one enormous bound onto the loft bed, Judy wiggles herself under my duvet. Come up