I look down at Roger. His eyes are wide. So are mine, I guess.
'Are you game?' I ask him.
'OK,' Roger says.
I lift the lantern from its hook. I don't switch it on; there's enough
moonlight so that we can see well enough.
Opening the tent flap just enough, we slip out, stoop far over, and tiptoe
in the direction of the sounds. We're very quiet and don't even whisper.
Up ahead, among the trees, is where campers bring things they don't
want, like empty tin cans and dinner leftovers that can't be saved until the
next mealtime. The sounds are coming from that direction.
Soon we're among the trees and near the large plastic containers where
the trash is stored. We're close enough to a container to touch it, but of
course, we don't.
Roger and I hear loud rattling. We whirl in the direction from where it's
coming and I switch on the lantern. Ahead of us are three trash
containers, and they're overturned. Paper bags, tin cans, and bits of food
cover the ground in all directions. Nosing about among the trash are
dozens of small animals, picking at scraps. We make out squirrels,
chipmunks, porcupines, woodchucks, and even a rooster and a chicken.
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