Amber, Alex, and I sit around a cackling campfire, its sparks littering the Earth. My mother retrieves the pudgy pie iron from the rusty, red Caravan. My father reaches into his pocket to grasp his reading glasses so he can read the weather forecast—the skies are dreary. Mosquitos flutter around the old tent.

My anticipation increases as my eyes scan the campsite and land upon tomato sauce, pepperonis, and bread slices on the rickety picnic table. Amber, my sister, leans forward and grips the tomato sauce can, fetching the ladle spoon to scoop up the crimson liquid and smears it along the white processed bread.

“Leave some for the rest of us!” I exclaim, a grin tugging at my lips.

My mother rolls her eyes before wandering to Alex, my brother. She examines his s’more covered face as she belts out a laugh resembling a hyena.

“The slowpoke gets the cold, leftover sauce,” Amber responds. She grips the iron. Amber places two slices of bread onto either side of the sandwich maker. She sticks the rod into the fire, my ears popping from the crackling flames. The fire lunges at Amber like a bear. I stifle a laugh. She licks her bottom lip, one too often used for pouting her way into a treat.

After three minutes, my sister pulls the iron stick from the fire as its flames settle. She opens the end after placing oven mitts onto her delicate hands; she flips the golden pudgy pie sandwich onto a blue Dixie plate.

Amber turns on her heels, facing me with plate in hand. “For you, Megan.” She extends her welcoming hand and plate towards me.

My mother and father turn to me and Amber with smiles—they knew they raised us right.