We slept in tents on the shore of Whiskey Lake. Dean the Marine had a brain tumor. Frozen in shock, we stood around and witnessed him scream in agony as his head exploded. Finally someone threw him in a pick-up truck and off they sped. We could see the rooster tail of dust for a mile or so. Later, the rest of us sat around the campfire eating Captain Crunch and shootin’ the breeze. We were interrupted by the call of a lonely loon rolling off the water. “Sounds like Dean.” Someone nervously joked. No one laughed but the loon. We heard Dean the Marine died that night. Poor kid never made it to camp.