Three days ago
Brandon swatted at the cloud of midges that attacked him every time he left the tent.
“At least they’re not mosquitoes,” Scott said, squeezing by. The bugs didn’t have any interest in Scott at all, which somehow seemed drastically unfair. His brown skin was unmarred by the red welts that dotted Brandon’s arms, hands, neck, and any bit of skin that poked out from under his clothing. Last night, he’d even found that a nest of chiggers had gotten up under his pants’ cuffs. He’d even tucked his damn cuffs in his boots and wrapped a rubber band around his ankle to keep them cut off, but no, the nasty little blood suckers managed to find a way in.
“If I end up with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, I promise you, I will kill you.”
“I don’t think a tick’s going to give you rabies,
