Chapter 35I
t’s a splendid morning but Rita feels like hurling the bright yellow rods at Augustus. He’s sitting at the picnic table, sampling the French toast Connie made.
“You’ve almost got it,” he says. “The trick is to thread all three poles through the loops while the tent is collapsed on the ground, then fasten one arc at a time. The last one’s the hardest. Don’t be afraid to throw your shoulder into it.”
“Now you tell me.”
He shrugs. “You need to know you can figure stuff out on your own. Improvise.”
After three hours she knows how to lay the ground tarp, pitch the tent, attach a dining fly, inflate the air mattress, fill the kerosene lamp, light the mantles and blow them out, hook up the propane stove, assemble the Sven saw. He makes her stow all the gear in the Beetle’s trunk
