CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They dove into Bernie’s marked four-wheel drive as he grumbled, ‘Bloody rain.’
‘It’s not helping,’ Sam agreed, swiping droplets off her nose.
Her hand was still in mid-air when Lunny started chanting lyrics about a wet, dud camp called Granada. Then Bernie cackled and supplied the next line in a deep voice.
She frowned. ‘It’s no time for singing.’
The sarge stared at her. ‘You don’t know the song?’ He made it sound like a national disgrace.
She sighed and waited.
‘It’s a kid’s whinge about what turns from boring and rained-out to the camp from hell. But I think we could make up a new verse or two.’
‘Like: Camp Upalong is rocking. We lost three kids when the storm was popping.’ The local cop slapped his thigh.
Sam gave an exaggerated sigh, but laughed with them. Co
