The sun dips lower on the horizon, but dusk is an hour away, so I should be safe from the mosquitoes. They’re terrible up here. Worse than I’ve ever seen in Chicago. I haven’t shaved since I arrived. I left my razor and trimmer at Sunny’s, and I didn’t think to buy anything when Randy and I stocked up on snacks at the grocery store. Even with my trim job at Sunny’s, I have clusters of bites all over the place. I’ve been bathing in bug spray every night before the campfire, but it’s not doing much good.

I head out to the docks and drop into one of the chairs, brushing away a few cobwebs and a spider or two. It’s quiet out here with everyone getting ready for the fire. I feel guilty for not helping out like I usually do, but I need a few minutes to myself. I’m hoping to get directions from Sunny for when camp is done.

Pulling up my messages, I find nothing new from her. Since I’m out here alone, I can use the voice-to-text function. I dictate a quick message, then hit my Instagram feed. Sunny isn’t big on updating, but Patch McBushman has tagged her in half a dozen pictures. His Instagram handle, @Kurly_Kale, is as douchey as he is. He’s taken a bunch of pictures of Sunny with Lily. One caught them in a candid moment with their arms around each other, laughing. Lily is actually pretty when she isn’t busy hating me.

I’m okay with those pictures. Sunny should have fun, even if she’s far away and her motives for going are questionable—and partially my fault. But the farther I scroll through the feed, the less happy I am. There are pictures of Sunny with Patchy Bushman. She’s in my favorite bikini, and his arm is around her waist. I hate that guy—and Lily for convincing her to go on this trip.

I’m about to comment on a couple of the pictures when a sharp sting has me out of the chair and on my feet. My phone clatters to the dock and bounces once. It spins on its side before falling away from the crack in the boards. My relief is short lived. A huge spider falls out of my shorts and lands on top of my running shoe. I shout and kick it off, then stomp on the fucker until he’s nothing but a splatter mark.

Making sure I’m still alone first, I unbutton my shorts to check my parts. The issue feels like it’s closer to my taint than my dick. It’s hard to see without dropping my shorts completely and mooning anyone who might accidentally find me. I stick my hand down there, feeling my balls where the sting is the worst. There’s a bump on my left nut. It hurts to touch.

“Um . . . is everything okay?” The voice is female and vaguely familiar.

I immediately retract my hand and button my shorts so I don’t look like I’m jacking off on the middle of the dock like a pervert. Once everything is tucked away, I turn around. It’s one of the senior counselors. The same one who’s been following me around for the past few days. She turned eighteen last week. She’s told me seven thousand times already. It’s a harmless crush—I think—but I’ve been trying not to end up alone with her. Like I am right now.

She looks around, confused. “I heard a girl scream.”

“A spider bit me.”

“Oh. Are you okay?”

I’d be embarrassed by the evidently feminine quality of my scream, but the bite stings, and it was a big fucking spider. “I’ll be fine. Nothing some Bactine won’t fix.”

There’s no way I’m putting Bactine on this. It already feels like I dipped my balls in acid.

“Do you want me to take a look?” She takes a few steps toward me, and I take a couple back.

“That’s okay. I can handle it.”

“I should check it out for you. I might be able to figure out what type of spider it was. Last week one of the kid’s hands swelled up to twice its size because she got bit by one of those dock spiders. Sometimes when they’re pregnant they lay their eggs under the skin.”

I shudder at the thought of a thousand baby spiders exploding from my balls. It’s like a damn horror movie.

She sidles closer. If I was anywhere but the dock it’d be easy to get around her. Water prevents me from doing that. I want desperately to grab my balls, but it’ll look inappropriate. I back up, hoping to escape her. I don’t take into account how close I am to the edge. I almost lose my footing and fall in, but recover myself before it happens.

She puts a hand on my shoulder, as if to steady me. “God. That was close. Are you sure you’re okay? I have first aid. Where’d it bite you?”

“Not in a spot I want you looking at.” It feels like something is happening in my pants, and it’s not good.

I move her out of the way by her shoulders. In my hurry to escape, I almost step on my phone. I scoop it up and shove it in my pocket, heading back to the cabins. She calls after me, but I wave over my shoulder and start jogging. It’s uncomfortable. I have to throw my leg out to the side so I don’t cause unnecessary ball friction.

My cabin is empty, thankfully, so I drop my shorts and inspect the damage. I have to wrap my balls around my dick to get a good look. The bite’s red and angry. My left nut is now significantly larger than the right one. Usually it hangs lower, but it’s way swollen.

I remember one time at hockey camp, way back when I was a teenager, a spider bit me and it swelled. That was my foot, though. It was uncomfortable, but not a real problem. This isn’t the same. I need an antihistamine at the very least. And a serious dose of painkillers. This bastard is going to be itchy as hell, and if my ball keeps swelling, I’m going to be sporting one hell of a moose knuckle. I can’t be having that when I’m dealing with a bunch of pre-teens.