The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories by Ethan Rutherford

to know. Chadwick Thoroughgood raised his hand and said, What now? I said we had to stand up for ourselves. What would the Elders, who are watching us right now, have done in this situation? We had to get Moosey back.
    There was a brief moment of . . . I don’t know what it was. I could hear kids sniffling. I pulled my button blanket over my head and then flapped my arms to simulate the flight of an eagle and said, We have to get Moosey back !
    They cheered.
    We canceled Crafts and Activity Time to let the campers marinate on what was expected of them. We didn’t know, necessarily, where Moosey was, but he certainly wasn’t here, and Chickapony seemed like a good place to start. And then Jim, one of our junior counselors, came bursting through the door, dripping wet, and made the announcement that he’d just been at Camp Chickapony, and that they did indeed have Moosey, hanging in their refectory. Upside down. With a cardboard thought bubble taped to one of his antlers. That said “I suck.”
    I should’ve—I mean, he smelled like perfume and body odor: I had my doubts he’d actually seen Moosey. But skepticism isn’t one of the virtues we try to instill in our campers here at Winnesaka. Skepticism is like a gateway drug to more destructive impulses, like cynicism. And who wants to sign their kids up for a summer of that ?
    We stormed Chickapony at night. I figured even if the kids didn’t find Moosey, at least it would get their spirits up. Get their blood flowing in the right direction. Generate a little common feeling among the campers for Winnesaka, and we could go from there.
    But there were problems. It was an amphibious operation and this wasn’t the most athletic or boat-smart bunch we’ve had at Winnesaka. Our first raid ended—I mean, we were trying to get across the lake, but they didn’t even get to Chickapony. Jimmy Osteo bumped Randal Jenkins who was holding one of the bow lines, and he dropped it into the water. Tony Rademaker heaved his not-unsubstantial weight to port and bent an oarlock while trying to steady himself. Byron McKinstry said he couldn’t see through the masks we’d given them. Then there were the wooden rowboats. They’d always been tipsy, which was the reason we didn’t use them much. The paddleboats were fine, they were made of plastic, but they weren’t large enough for our purposes. So that, you know, that’s why we used the wooden ones. And since we’d sold most of our life jackets to Camp Niateano a couple of summers ago . . . I guess we thought we wouldn’t need them. I don’t know. So in terms of preparation . . . I mean, it’s easy to say always be prepared, but when something needs to be done urgently sometimes you have to go with what you’ve got and figure the rest out as you go.
    A couple of the boats capsized. They were only ten feet away from the dock. And since Seaweed Sessions had been canceled this year because of cutbacks, there were a few of them who probably couldn’t swim as well as they should have. No one died, but there was some floundering. Quinn Kasem ended up drinking half of Lake Oboe, and . . . he’s home now. He’s doing fine. We just today received a postcard from him, actually. His words bear quoting: “Dear All the Eagles and Papooses at Camp Winnesaka: What . . . fun . . . proud to have . . . been [part of] . . . Camp Winnesaka [where all summers are Indian Summers].”
    The campers, I guess, the Quinn incident shook them up a little bit. I reassured them what we were doing was honoring Winnesaka tradition, but some of them were a little slow putting money on the counter for a second raid. I told them that as far as safety goes, how can you feel safe knowing that someone could just creep into camp at any time and steal something as important as Moosey? I mean, what’s next? Your sleeping bag?
    Thom Sloane raised his hand and asked why we couldn’t just ask Chickapony to give Moosey back. I told him it didn’t