It was just a dream.


Frank Foster was having what his insurance adjuster brain would classify as a Category 5 disaster of a camping trip. The kind that would require multiple forms, extensive documentation, and possibly a team of specialists to untangle. Not that he could file a claim for a family vacation gone sideways, though at this point, he wished he could.


His carefully crafted spreadsheets hadn't prepared him for this. Three weeks ago, sitting behind his beige desk in his beiger office, it had all seemed so simple. After fifteen years of processing other people's misfortunes, Frank had decided his family needed an adventure. Something to break the monotony of their suburban existence. Something to bring them closer together. Something that didn't involve property damage assessments or liability calculations.


"Camping," he had announced at dinner, brandishing a brochure for Happy Rock National Forest like it was the answer to all their problems. "We're going camping."


His wife Franchesca had looked up from her phone with the kind of skepticism she usually reserved for his attempts at cooking or his occasional dreams of becoming a jazz drummer. Their teenagers, Felecia and Felix, had responded with synchronized eye rolls that would have impressed an Olympic judge.


But Frank had persisted. He'd ordered a tent big enough to house a small village, bought enough camping gear to outfit a minor expedition, and packed their SUV with the same meticulous attention to detail he applied to his insurance forms. Every item had been cataloged, cross-referenced, and stored in labeled containers. He'd even created a spreadsheet for their meal plan, complete with color-coding for dietary preferences and optimal cooking times.


The drive to Happy Rock had been relatively peaceful, if you didn't count Felix's constant complaints about the lack of Wi-Fi or Felecia's running commentary on how this trip would "totally ruin" her social media presence. Franchesca had at least stopped checking her phone every thirty seconds, though that was mainly because they'd lost service twenty miles back.


Setting up camp had been Frank's first indication that reality didn't always align with spreadsheets. The "easy setup" tent had taken three hours and six YouTube tutorials to erect (thankfully downloaded beforehand). The "perfect campsite" he'd selected from satellite imagery turned out to be significantly less perfect in person, with a suspicious-looking slope that had their sleeping bags slowly migrating toward one corner of the tent all night.


Then came the rain. Not the gentle, atmospheric drizzle promised by the weather app he'd consulted obsessively for the past week, but a proper deluge that had discovered every microscopic leak in their tent's supposedly waterproof fabric. They'd spent their first night huddled together like damp sardines, listening to the sound of water finding new and creative ways to drip on their heads.


But Frank had remained optimistic. This was all part of the camping experience, he told himself. Character building. Family bonding through shared adversity. The kind of story they'd laugh about later, preferably from the comfort of their dry, climate-controlled home.


Now, on their third night, Frank stood by the campfire (which had taken only two hours to light this time – an improvement), watching his carefully constructed plans continue their spectacular unraveling. The catalyst for this particular disaster? S'mores.


"Dad, you're doing it wrong!" Felecia protested, her voice carrying the weight of her fourteen years of s'more-making expertise. "You have to wait until the marshmallow is completely black!"


"That's literally the worst way to do it," Felix countered, adjusting his glasses with sticky fingers. "The optimal toasting time is exactly two minutes and thirty seconds, rotating at a precise forty-five-degree angle for even caramelization. I read a peer-reviewed study about this."


Franchesca, who had finally looked up from her phone (which she still checked periodically despite the lack of service), added her own opinion: "You're both wrong. The key is to light it on fire, let it burn for exactly three seconds, then blow it out. That's how we did it in my family."


Frank felt a headache building behind his eyes. He'd spent fifteen years mediating insurance disputes between people who'd lost entire homes, and somehow, this s'more debate was proving to be his breaking point. The marshmallow on his stick had long since melted off, leaving a sticky reminder of his failure.


"It's just melted sugar and chocolate!" he exploded, throwing his roasting stick to the ground. "It doesn't need to be this complicated! It's not a mathematical equation, or a social media post, or a family tradition. It's a campfire snack!"


Three pairs of eyes stared at him as if he'd just suggested filing insurance claims for fun. The crackling of the fire seemed suddenly loud in the silence, punctuated only by the distant hooting of an owl that sounded suspiciously judgmental.


In that moment, Frank did something very un-Frank-like. Something that wasn't on any of his spreadsheets or planning documents. Something that wouldn't have made it past his usual risk assessment protocols.


He stormed off into the woods.


Behind him, he could hear Franchesca calling his name, but he didn't turn back. The darkness of the forest swallowed him whole, branches catching at his sensible moisture-wicking hiking shirt (purchased after reading thirty-seven reviews and consulting two outdoor equipment specialists). His feet, clad in ergonomically designed boots, carried him deeper into Happy Rock National Forest, away from the failed s'mores, away from the leaky tent, away from his family's stares.


He had no idea that this impulsive decision would lead him into the strangest night of his life. No idea that somewhere in the darkness ahead, reality itself was about to get a lot more flexible than any insurance policy could cover.