Silver Bullet down!!!!!

It’s morning. There’s a knock at the door.

“Is Kyle here?”

The voice of Dan Worral, the personnel director, projects firmly through the screen door.

“Yeah.”

“Kyle, can I pull you out of bed for a moment?”

Oh, great. My mind begins to question: Am I in trouble? Whatever for? Dan’s in charge of all of the staff, but he hasn’t talked to me since the day I arrived.

I roll out of bed, a painful experience as I’m on the top bunk, and walk outside. Alongside Dan stands a scrawny kid of 16, maybe 17 years of age.

“Well, the short of it is, Mitch here hit your car last night.”

Crap. More car trouble over 800 miles from home. For once I’d like something like this to happen when I’m in a familiar place. (My last bit of car trouble was in Memphis, during my first semester at Visible School.)

We start the long walk from my room to the staff parking lot, which is really just a gravel road tucked away in a corner of the camp that is seldom traveled by guests.

“It happened at what, 10:45 last night or so?” Getting a nod from the young beanpole, Dan continued. “Do you like that car?”

Why is he asking me this? I get the feeling he’s trying to gage how intense my reaction will be. It’s not that big a deal. Stuff happens. He’ll pay to get it fixed, and we’ll move on. No biggie. So, he hit my car. In a tiny parking lot. How bad can it be? A little dent and some scratches-it can’t be much more than that, so—

SWEET GEORGIA BROWN!!!! My poor car!!! Oh, he hit her, he hit her gooooooood… How the heck did he manage to do that in this confined, densely packed little space? He clearly has a talent for destruction…

“It was not intentional, I promise." The kid uttered for the third time as I surveyed the damage.

No kidding. You mean you didn’t hit my car on purpose!? I am so very relieved. For a minute there, I thought this was the result some kind of repressed anger toward me surfacing from someone I’ve never met before in the form of an anomaly of parking lot rage. ‘Not intentional’? Are you serious? What kind of consolation is that supposed to—

Wait a minute. This kid is like in high school. He looks terrified.

Suddenly, a shockingly well-produced epic montage of my automotive blunders suddenly runs through my head, accompanied by an overwrought Hans Zimmer-esque soundtrack.

I've made the same mistake. I actually know exactly how he feels. This probably sucks for him more than it sucks for me. Poor kid.

So we move on to exchange insurance information as my car’s bumper sags limply to the ground in clear defeat. For future reference, a 2004 GMC Sierra always wins a match with a 1997 Plymouth Breeze. A one-round knockout.

And now, pictures from the fight. WARNING: Graphic content.