Dinner the first night is, as the professor promised, a treat.

Riley and I join the group at the tables beneath the pavilion as the two grad students unpack large insulated bags, revealing heated catering trays containing Chinese food from a mid-level chain restaurant. The bags had joined us at the last minute, loaded onboard the bus practically as the wheels began to roll, and although that was now almost three hours ago, the food is still steaming hot.

With an array of chow mein, fried rice, orange chicken, kung pao beef, fried tofu and vegetable egg rolls, there's more than enough food to satisfy everyone. In fact, as there's no means of refrigeration at the camp, and no room in the ice-chests we'd brought along, we're encouraged to eat as much as we can manage, as any left-overs will go to waste.

Loaded plate in hand, I look for a place to sit and see that several social subgroups have already formed, and that people seem to stick with their tent-mates. Flashbacks of the high school cafeteria trigger a fight or flight response, and with the alternative being to sit by myself, I join Riley and Hazel, reluctantly taking the place they left open between them.

"All this food must have cost a fortune," Riley comments, spearing a piece of orange chicken on their fork. "Seems like an extravagant expense for grant money."

"It certainly would be," Professor MacDowell agrees, having overheard as he passes our table. "Which is why I paid for this meal out of pocket."

Several forks and chopsticks freeze in midair as eyes widen, and I recognize a shared fear as I wonder if he'll ask to be reimbursed.

MacDowell raises his hands disarmingly. "Don't thank me, please. I can afford it—I don't have to worry about gas, food, or electricity for the next month! Besides, it's a small price to pay to get us off to a good start, and in my experience, a good meal is a fine way to do so. Isn't that right, Hazel?"

"Mom thought so," Hazel replies. His voice is level, but the death-glare he aims at his father is intense enough to set the man on fire.

The professor doesn't react, though, except to give Hazel a 'we'll talk about this later' sort of look, and then turns away as Professor Yuan engages him in conversation.

"What was that about?" I ask, as Hazel angrily crams an entire egg roll into his mouth.

He chews for a while, and swallows before he answers. "The meal thing. Having a nice meal to mark the start of new things—a new job, a new year, a new project, whatever. That was my mom's thing."

"Oh. Is she...?"

"Dead, yeah."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

Hazel waves. "Don't worry about it. She died when I was ten. Cancer. Really messed me up for a while, but I'm okay now. I think my dad's got it worse. It's been thirteen years, and he hasn't been on a single date. Guess she was his 'one.'" He shovels noodles in his mouth and looks at me quizzically. "You believe in that romantic shit?"

I shrug, pushing mixed entrees around my plate. "Not really. My mom is my dad's second wife, and he's had at least two affairs. Probably more. My mom turns a blind eye."

"Why doesn't she divorce him?" Hazel asks, the bluntness of his question surprising me. If he has a filter, it seems to be broken.

"Uh... Money, I guess. I think that's probably the main reason she married him to begin with."

"Oh. That's not very romantic."

Off balance from his direct style, I laugh. "No, it isn't. But my dad's not a very romantic guy, so I guess they're a good match for each other."

"My dad's romantic as fuck," Hazel says. "Believes in all that fate crap."

Leaning around me, Riley asks, "You don't?"

Hazel shakes his head, mouth stuffed with egg roll again. "Hell nah. I wanna believe my fate's in my own hands, not that I'm on some rail-guided ride with no control. I want my choices to mean something, you know?"

Thinking that we might have more in common than I'd thought, I briefly meet his eyes before refocusing on my plate. "Yeah. I do. You're named for Charles Hazelius Sternberg, aren't you?"

Hazel nods. "Yup. That's the one."

I knew I'd seen his name before, but it had taken me a while to remember where. It was in a book I'd read about the Bone Wars—a period in the late 1800s when two rival fossil hunters, Edward Drinker Cope and Othniel Charles Marsh, raced across the American West in search of new dinosaurs. Charles H. Sternberg was an early paleontologist and fossil collector, and worked for both sides at various points in the 'war.'

"That's pretty cool, though," Riley says.

Shrugging, Hazel says, "I guess. If you think it's cool to be named after an old dead white guy."

Riley snorts. "There are worse old dead white guys to be named after."

"Maybe. The point is, the name is like my dad's claim. He labeled me from birth—stamped his hopes, dreams, and expectations right there in my first name. Imagine his disappointment when he discovered I wasn't his little clone."

"You could change your name," Riley suggests. "I'm lucky mine was gender neutral to begin with. If I'd been a Roger or a Rosalie, I'd probably have wanted it changed."

"Nah. I like Hazel. My mom used to call me her little Hazelnut." He smiles, his gaze unfocused as he looks into memory. "Kinda feels like I made it my own. It's just when my dad calls me 'Hazelius,' it feels like he's not respecting that. Anyway, I'm sorry for what happened earlier. That wasn't cool. I know you guys are thrilled to be here, and just because I'm not doesn't give me the right to rain on your parade. Sorry."

"Why are you here?" Riley asks. "You must be getting something out of it, right?"

Hazel sighs. "He says he's not, but I think my dad is still hoping I'll suddenly fall in love with paleontology, re-enroll at the university, and follow in his footsteps. Fat chance. But yeah, he promised if I came along, gave it one last shot, he'd give me the rest of the money he saved for my education. It's not a lot—ten thousand dollars—but more than enough to get my business off the ground."

"Oh yeah, you mentioned that on the bus," Riley says, leaning around me for a better view of Hazel. "Why do you need money to be a surf instructor?"

"You gotta be ISA certified to start," Hazel says. "That costs around a thousand. Plus, you gotta get to wherever they're holding the training courses, so travel expenses—plane tickets, hotels, food, transportation, tips, whatever. Even if you keep it cheap, that's at least another thousand. Then there's the set-up. I'll need a business location—at the very least, somewhere to store all the equipment and gear. People just learning how to surf probably don't have their own board yet, or might have bought the wrong type. Then there's upkeep, business license fees, all that fun stuff. To be safe, I'm planning to keep at least half the money for all that. The rest is for video equipment and editing software. Plus a computer that can handle it."

"Oh, right. The videos."

He glances at me apologetically, and I smile so he knows I'm not serious.

"Yeah, the videos," he says, warming to his subject again. "YouTube, Instagram, TikTok—plus whatever comes next. I'll need good equipment to produce high-quality content. That's what will draw people in, you know? At least, that's what I'm hoping. They'll see me or Dave do something awesome on the waves, and wish they could do it too. And who better to learn it from but us? It's DIY marketing with a worldwide reach, and if we get popular enough, it could even be a source of income."

"Dave? He's part of your business plan, too?" I ask.

"Sure. He's my partner."

"Oh. That's..." Oddly disappointing. Why do I even care? It's not like—

"Business partner, that is," Hazel clarifies, shooting me a wink. "In other departments, I'm decidedly single."

Feeling a little warm, I focus very hard on my chow mein.

"What about you?" he asks, either missing or ignoring my embarrassment. "Is that girl you were with your girlfriend?"

"Girl?"

"When I saw you at Chase."

"Oh. The nightclub. No, that's just Lana. She's my roommate."

"Wait... You're single and your roommate is a girl?" Riley's brows lift in hopeful speculation.

"Yeah," I say, and leave it at that.

Or at least I try.

"Ha! Knew it." Hazel grins. "So I have a shot after all."

Riley giggles and nearly chokes on an egg roll. "Dude, you have no chill."

Hazel's grin fades. "What do you mean? I'm a surfer. I'm super chill."

"No, you're not. Besides, Charlie didn't say he's gay. You can't just assume."

Hazel looks at me. "But you are, aren't you?"

He has the look of a little kid asking Santa if he's real, and I don't really want to lie, anyway. I break out in sweat nonetheless as my heart rate quickens. I haven't had enough practice coming out to do so easily.

"Yeah. Yes, I'm gay."

Hazel's grin returns with tripled brightness. "Knew it."

"Are..." I clear my throat, not really sure what the proper etiquette in this situation might be, but given his own forthrightness, something tells me Hazel won't mind. "Are you?"

He laughs. "Obviously. I mean, I guess I could be pan or bi, but nah. Pretty sure I'm gay."

"Is your dad... I mean, does he..."

"Know? Sure. Actually, I started 'pretending' to be gay when I was eleven, thinking it would annoy him. Jokes on me. He didn't give a shit, and then I got my first serious crush. Surprise—I like boys."

He winks and I get warmer and sweatier. Great; I'll smell like B.O. before the work even starts. Thankfully, he turns the conversation elsewhere.

"How 'bout you, Riley? You got anyone special?"

Riley shakes their head. "Nope. I'm aro."

Hazel squints. "Arrow?"

"Aromantic. Not interested in romance. I don't know if I'm ace or demi, or what. Still figuring that part out."

When Hazel continues his imitation of a confused puppy, Riley launches into a detailed explanation of various terms, and the two get into a discussion about labels and their usefulness. I chime in occasionally, but mostly listen, happy to let them carry the conversation.

At last, with everyone's stomachs full to bursting and most of the food consumed, dinner draws to a close. There isn't much clean-up, and Professor MacDowell tells us to enjoy the rest of the evening as we choose, as we'll soon have little time to ourselves.

There's a solar charging station for personal devices, but we're told to go easy on our phones, and service is spotty, anyway. Luckily, Riley had the bright idea to bring along a box of travel-sized games and a pack of cards. The stress of travel makes me tired, though, so after a few rounds of mini-checkers and a poker lesson, I go to bed. Riley and Hazel stay up, and I fall asleep to the sound of their quiet laughter and the flutter of shuffling cards.

🐚

The following day, MacDowell makes good on his promise and keeps us busy from the crack of dawn until nightfall, with breaks only for meals and short rests. The morning is dedicated to safety training, and in the afternoon we learn the basics of fieldwork. That night, everyone is dusty, sweaty, sun-burned and windblown, and we haven't even been to the dig site yet.

Finally, the next morning, we make the short journey up to the cliffs, where the ancient bone bed has been exposed. Excited, everyone immediately begins hunting for fossils, but despite their abundance at this site, they're still difficult to spot and most are indistinguishable from the rock. The excitement wears off by midday, replaced by heat, thirst, and swarms of biting flies, which even ultra-strength bug spray sometimes fails to deter.

No one works harder than Hazel, though, and I lose track of the number of times he runs back and forth between the site and camp, fetching a tool or a forgotten water bottle, or more sunscreen and bug spray. By the time we call it quits, even his indomitable cheerfulness has worn thin.

As we change out of our dusty field clothes before dinner, he sits on his cot, picking at a band of duct tape he'd wrapped around his hand. He can't seem to get it off, and he's growing frustrated.

"Do you... want some help?" I ask timidly. When my dad gets frustrated, he takes it out on whoever's in range, and his violent explosions of temper had long ago made me fearful of other people's anger.

Hazel looks up in surprise and grins. "Sure, thanks. They don't lie about this stuff being strong."

Relieved, I share his smile and carefully work the edge of the tape loose before peeling it off his hand, revealing a wadded up paper napkin stuck to his palm. Beneath this is a long, somewhat deep cut that seems to have bled quite a lot.

"How did this happen?"

He shrugs. "Cut it when I was unpacking stuff for lunch. Kitchen duty sucks."

"We should clean this properly," I say. "Did you even wash it?"

"Not yet. I just stopped the bleeding and taped it up."

"Great." I sigh and stand up. "Go wash it with soap and water, at least. I'll get the first-aid kit."

I start to unzip the tent-flap, but Hazel stops me.

"Wait, Charlie. If my dad asks, don't tell him it's for me, okay?"

"Why not?"

Hazel shakes his head. "Ever since my mom died, he kinda freaks out when I get hurt. Even little stuff like this. At least until he's sure it is little stuff. He'd probably call a helicopter and fly me to a hospital to get a tetanus shot or something."

"Would he really?"

"I mean, probably not really, but that's the kind of big deal he'd make of it."

"Okay, I won't mention it," I say.

Fortunately, Hazel's father is occupied, and doesn't see me grab one of the kits from the supply tent.

Back in ours, I treat Hazel's cut with an iodine swab and wrap his palm in gauze.

"It'll be kind of hard to hide that," I say, standing in front of him as I tape the gauze in place.

Hazel laughs and flexes his hand. "Nah, don't tell him and my dad won't notice. I could be walking around missing an arm and he wouldn't notice until someone pointed it out to him. He won't spare me a glance. Not while there are rocks to look at instead."

Hearing a note of bitterness in his tone, I look up and meet his eyes. A weird thing happens, like a spark of static electricity passing from him to me as our gaze connects, and he smiles.

"Hey, I'm glad you got picked for this, Charlie. I'd have been bored out of my mind if you weren't here."

"You would?"

"Sure. Unlike my dad, rocks don't interest me. I'd much rather look at you."

Thankfully, Riley chooses that moment to join us, sparing me the pain of having to come up with a better reaction than a speechless stare.

As they distract Hazel (not a hard thing to do) I escape with the first-aid kit, heart a-flutter, doing my best to convince myself I imagined what I'd felt.

A spark of connection? Give me a break. That sort of thing only happens in books.

On the other hand, Hazel has all but said he's into me, and if I'm honest, the feeling is mutual.

No romance, no risk. That's the deal I made with myself—at least until I graduate—but at this rate I'm in real danger of breaking it. Avoiding Hazel hasn't worked, so I'll just have to make sure I'm never alone with him again. Good thing I've got Riley to run interference; though to be honest, I get the feeling they'd rather play for Hazel's team.

***

Author's Note: 

Charles Hazelius Sternberg, Edward Drinker Cope, and Othniel Charles Marsh are (or were) real people, and the Bone Wars was a real thing. Many of the most popular and well-known dinosaurs were discovered at this time, including T-Rex and Triceratops. Cope, Marsh, Sternberg, and other fossil hunters of the time relied heavily on Native American tribes to locate dig sites. These guides and their indigenous knowledge have historically received little or no recognition, but the famous fossil hunters would not have been nearly as successful without them. 

If you want to learn a little bit more, I recommend one of my favorite podcasts, I Know Dino (iknowdino.com) episode 250: Hesperornis and the Bone Wars. 

Bonus Behind the Scenes Fact:

I chose Charlie and Hazel's names before I thought of the connection to Charles Hazelius. At least consciously 😂.