I am sipping coffee by the fire, writing notes on the back of a plate between glances across the water when Brenna approaches.
“What are you doing?” she wonders.
“I’m writing the story of our adventure,” I tell her.
“Can you read it to me?”
“Sure.” She loves the part about Ben peeing in the fire.
“Is that all?” she asks.
“That’s all I’ve written but these are just notes,” I explain. I don’t warn her that we’re dangerously close to an infinitely recursive conversation but I think it.