His own smore now gone, Tony leans over to get more ingredients to make another. He collects them all at once, then lays them out over his legs as he constructs what he can of the little sandwich: blocks of chocolate laid out with precision on each length of graham cracker. It’s only when he’s gotten the rest of it ready that he pokes the marshmallow onto the skewer and extends it out toward the fire.

Maybe it’s a little anal, but unlike the rest of his projects, this is cooking. And cooking is still such an alien world to him that he’s painstakingly neat about the whole thing. It’s only when he’s comfortable and knows what he’s doing that he can work in a space of organized chaos.

“So who taught you how to do this? Or is it like some kind of genetic memory that only gets activated when you start going camping?”