I pry apart a smashed bun to fit her cheese hot dog but can’t find our ketchup anywhere. It seems to have stayed in the Jeep.
“It’s okay,” Brenna says. “I like just mustard sometimes.”
We sit facing the fire together, eating hot dogs and Doritos as God intended, her with a can of iced tea and me a bottle of dark evening beer. Haunting bird calls, hoots and warbles, emanate from darkness all around. It’s beautiful.