Rowena
The week passed in a blur of security checkpoints, disinfecting stations, and growing anxiety.
By Wednesday, a knot of dread had taken up residence in my stomach. Talk about the ‘Wolf’s Fury’ virus was spreading faster than wildfire, and students were being pulled out of camp left and right—not just for quarantine if they showed even the mildest hint of symptoms, but also by concerned parents and guardians.
“Sweetie, are you sure you don’t want to stay home for the rest of the semester?” my mom asked one night over dinner, as I poked at my chicken and potatoes with my fork. “Your father and I can speak with the camp, you know; you could do all of your classwork from home.”
I paused for a moment, looking up at my parents. My mother, wearing her usual cashmere cardigan
