Free Shift by Jennifer Bradbury

if I were the one testing his patience. “I didn’t bring any aspirin, but I’d be happy to offer you a pedicure later. It’s quite soothing.”
    I said nothing, merely tugged the tent out of the bag and unrolled it with a snap.
    “So, no on the pedicure, then?”
    As penance Win limped over to help me set up the tent without even being asked. We snapped the poles into place and threaded them through the guides attached to the fabric and had it up and open to the air in a matter of minutes. I was moving slowly, amazed by the soreness in my tailbone, and Win was already yawning.
    We stripped the panniers off the bikes and stowed them inside the tent with our unrolled sleeping bags and pads. Win dug the stove and the food bag out. I snatched up the filter and went to fill our water bottles. It was quiet, save for the sputtering roar of the WhisperLite stove, the aluminum pot rattling away on the flame. I was pumping away at the filter, one tube floating in the halfhearted current of the stream for the intake, the other end running into my bottle. I could get used to this.
    But then the unthinkable happened. A car turned off the mainroad (we could hear it more than actually see it) and onto the gravel pathway leading up to the church. The driveway was closer to our spot—so close that I could see the driver was wearing a yellow tie and had too much hair spray in his hair. Through the open window the breeze flapped at the edge of his lapel, but his hair stayed stiff, looking like a bike helmet.
    “Don’t move,” I heard Win whispered.
    “It’s not a
T. rex
, dude,” I said, harkening back to a shared fifth-grade obsession with
Jurassic Park
. “Besides, the tree cover is pretty heavy. He won’t see us.”
    “He probably works here. Just came to pick …”
    Win stopped short as another car turned off the highway and sidled down the same gravel road. It pulled neatly in line with the first, and a woman emerged bearing a casserole dish covered in foil.
    “Think she works here too?” I asked.
    Three more cars caravanned into the lot. The third had a backseat full of kids, one of whom was staring out the window at our spot. He immediately began shouting and pointing in our direction.
    “Damn,” Win muttered. “So much for the perfect campsite.” I nodded, moved toward the bikes, and shoved the bottles back into the cages bolted to the tubes.
    “You stuff the sleeping bags,” I said to Win, “I’ll get the tent.”
    “What are they doing here on a Friday night?” Win asked as he slipped into his shoes. “They must be some kind of super-Christians or something.” Two of the men were approaching our site through the woods now. Neither Win nor I come fromparticularly religious families. My father describes us as CEOs (“Christmas and Easter only”), but he says grace when the thought strikes him and I am not totally averse to praying myself. Win’s father—who is actually a CEO—despises anything he doesn’t do himself, and openly decries religion as something for the weak.
    “Does that mean they’re the nice kind, or the ones who’ll pelt us with Bibles as we clear out?” I whispered as the helmet-haired man and another in jeans and a T-shirt reading GOD’S GYM entered the clearing.
    “Evening, boys,” the suited man said. “Nice night for a camp-out?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “Look, we’re really sorry, we just thought it wouldn’t be a big deal, and we couldn’t find a campground, and … we’ll move. Just give us a few minutes.”
    I began to pack up but was startled by his response. He laughed. “Move? Don’t do that. We’re glad to have you. Long as you clean up in the morning.”
    I was stunned. “Really?”
    “Why not? Don’t reckon anybody else is sleeping here tonight. Where you fellas heading?”
    “Seattle, sir. We just left West Virginia this morning,” I offered.
    “Well, we’re glad the Lord brought you our way,” he said. His companion nodded in a way that made