A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel | Chapter 4

A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel

by Toby Johnston

Chapter 4

The Scouts Cultural Exchange

Since it was the first day of school, the homework load was light—the teachers were easing us into the fray, I suppose. It was just as well, as I was a little distracted. Actually, I was profoundly distracted.

I had Hank on my mind. Hank's eyes locking onto mine like a tractor beam. Hank's boisterous energy at lunch. Hank and I running shoulder to shoulder through the dust, a King's Scout and a Revolutionary. And then, the most persistent loop in my head: Hank in the showers, the water slicking down his taut frame, and that casual, confident tug.

I felt a familiar, insistent pressure building in my own shorts. Time for a tactical break.

I cracked my bedroom door and listened carefully. The rhythmic clanking of pots and the hum of the radio confirmed that Mum was fully engaged in the kitchen downstairs. My perimeter was secure.

I carefully secured the door and grabbed my kit—towel and a bottle of lube that was reaching its inevitable end. Note to self: find a local Boots soon, or Texas is going to be a very dry state. Today felt like a mirror day. Maybe it's narcissistic, but there's something about the performance of it—the slow, deliberate strip-tease—that gets to me, watching the tension build.

By the time I finally hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my boxer briefs and eased them over my hard-on, I was already leaking, a bead at the tip. My cock was pulsing, dancing with each beat of my pounding heart as I watched my own reflection. There was no question where the fantasy was headed; it was an all-Hank production from the moment I began the slow, gentle play with my foreskin.

I closed my eyes and saw him again, leaning back under the spray, his dark hair splayed like wet silk across the broad expanse of his shoulders. I tracked the water as it carved paths through the valleys of his muscles, following the taper of his frame down to that narrow waist and the firm curve of his bum. The scene shifted to the lockers, the air thick with steam, us grinning like idiots as we toweled off and performed for one another.

This time, instead of tugging on his cock, Hank reached for mine; and I his. I could feel the weight of him, that silky-hard texture that seemed impossible. I stroked faster, harder, letting the fiction take over until I wasn't the one touching me anymore—he was. Watching the show in the mirror made it twice as intense. I kept my legs braced, muscles jumping in my thighs with every hard thrust into my own palm.

My free hand was a nomad, roaming from my chest to the abs I'd worked so hard for, then down to cup my balls before reaching back to find that hidden, electric spark of a spot. My mouth was agape, my breath coming in ragged hitches. I closed my eyes for the finish, our lips meeting—that first, insistent pressure, our tongues beginning a slow, desperate duel that pushed me right over the edge.

I exploded with a low, guttural grunt. The first thick rope cleared the distance instantly, smacking against my reflection in the mirror, followed by a second and a third. I kept pumping, my rhythm frantic, as the next few shots fell short and landed on the towel I'd laid out. A good Scout is always prepared, I thought, a manic grin tugging at my mouth. As the trembling took over, I slowed my hand, coaxing out the final, heavy pulses. I stood there for a long moment, out of breath, staring at the mess on the glass, staring at the boy in the mirror. He was happy. And why wouldn't he be? The most beautiful boy in the school was his mate. Pure class.

After a quick cleanup, I jumped in the shower to wash away the evidence. I was still riding that all-Hank adrenaline, and the three shower heads only made it easier to imagine him joining me in the steam. My self-control was officially non-existent; Round Two was short, sharp, and had my pulse hammering all over again. By the time I finally stepped out, I was properly settled and smashed through the rest of my homework in record time.

I was still all smiles when I came down to the kitchen to help Mum with the dinner prep. She kept peppering me with questions, and for once, I didn't mind the interrogation. Da walked in just as we were setting the table, and we settled into a cozy family dinner. Naturally, he wanted the New Texas Life update, so I gave him the highlight reel. He raised an eyebrow when I told him I was calling an audible on Troop Five instead of the group we'd planned on. He wanted a reason, but the real answer— Hank —stayed tucked behind my teeth. I just told him it felt like a better fit, and he agreed we'd go to the meeting tomorrow to scope it out, which was all the win I needed.

By the time we cleared the plates, I was absolutely knackered. I tried to hang out for a bit of TV, but my eyelids felt like lead weights. I begged off and retreated upstairs, did a lightning-fast run through the bathroom, and finally slid between the sheets. To the surprise of absolutely no one, the last thing I saw before I drifted off was a pair of coal-black eyes.

I practically bounced out of bed the next morning. After a quick wank and a shower, I was pounding downstairs, the floorboards groaning under my feet as I rushed toward breakfast. I was beyond eager. Mum, ever the voice of reason, was quick to point out that if I left now, I'd be the only soul on campus, Hank included.

That slowed me down. As I sipped my tea, the logic finally started to kick in. I had to be careful. In my head, Hank and I were a foregone conclusion. My brain was already writing the sequel where we were madly in love and we'd had sex three times already . But in reality? We were just mates. I needed a plan. I needed to compartmentalize before I went and screwed everything up by being pure mental.

When we finally pulled up to the school, there he was—perched on a bench near the entrance like he'd been waiting for me all morning. I clocked the polo shirt right off the bat. Those short tails were going to offer a much better view of his bum than yesterday's shirt, and the banded sleeves were practically screaming as they hugged his biceps. I took a deep breath, reciting my play-it-cool mantra like a prayer.

Yeah, that plan lasted about three seconds. His face lit up the moment we made eye contact, matching my own ridiculous grin, and together we marched in to tackle the day. The morning was a total blur; I was just counting down the minutes until our free period. We weren't just hanging out; we were strategizing, aligning his Eagle Scout journey with my King's Scout ambitions. For a couple of Scouts, it was the ultimate Be Prepared moment.

We managed to snag a quiet classroom and got to work. Hank grabbed a marker and, with surgical precision, methodically mapped the Eagle Scout requirements across the top half of the board. It was a staggering timeline: twenty-one merit badges, leadership roles, the service project—it looked like a tactical map. Then it was my turn. I took the lower half, sketching out the Duke of Edinburgh and King's Scout requirements.

The contrast was brutal. My requirements were fewer, but the timelines were massive—months of sustained effort for a single mark. Standing there, looking at that mess of ink, my heart just dropped. It looked like two different maps of two different planets. I couldn't see the overlap, couldn't see the path through. How were we ever going to make these two worlds speak to each other?

"Okay, deep breath. This isn't as bad as it looks," Hank murmured, half to himself. He grabbed a green marker and started circling merit badges, linking them in a chain before drawing a line down to my expedition requirements. "These are all camping and wildlife related—they can fold right into your expedition work."

Encouraged, I grabbed a blue marker. "And these are physical fitness; they link up, too."

"Add archery to that," Hank said, pantomiming the draw of a bow.

"Ha ha, yeah! Two fingers to the French!" I laughed, which earned me a look of pure confusion from Hank. I waggled my fingers in a sharp V. "Agincourt, 1415. The English longbowmen showing the French they still had their drawing fingers. Now it's basically like giving someone the bird."

"I'll remember that if I ever run into a Frenchman. For now, I just have one crazy Scotsman," Hank's eyes sparkled as he unleashed the arrow. "But hey, French, Scottish, basically the same thing, right? Bless your heart ."

I rolled my eyes, my disgust betrayed by a massive grin. We made short work of the rest, a spiderweb of colors connecting our worlds. When we stepped back, Hank sounded tentative. "It's a solid start, at least."

I shook my head slowly. "Nope. All wrong. It won't work."

"Why not?"

"The lines," I said, keeping my face deadpan as I grabbed the marker. "Too short. Too direct. Not nearly strategic enough. They need dramatic, sweeping curves to capture the true weight of our efforts."

"Oh, I see. Much more impressive," Hank smirked, leaning back to admire my handiwork. "If you're finished, General von Clausewitz, let's go to print. We've got class."

He tapped the command on the Smartboard, and the printer whirred to life. We soon gathered up the four warm copies—one for each of us, one for Da, and one for my hoped to be new scoutmaster. We were officially a team with a mission.

I left Da's copy of The Plan center-stage on the kitchen table—my opening move to prove Troop Five was the only logical choice. After a quick skirmish with my homework, it was time to get into my kit. I was planting the flag, a ritual I'd started in France and continued in Germany. I went for the full Highland kit: the Scouts Scotland teal shirt, forest green knee socks, and my low hiking boots. I adjusted my MacKenzie Hunting Tartan kilt and buckled the sporran, finishing the look with my dirk and the sgian dubh tucked neatly into my sock. Standing there, I felt the weight of it. There would be no mistaking it: Troop Five wasn't just getting a new Scout; they were being occupied by the Highlands!"

The murmur of excited voices spilled out into the hallway as we approached. The room was a sea of tan and olive, dotted with parents, other adults in uniform, and anchored by a scoutmaster who looked like he'd been carved out of Texas cedar. I paused at the threshold, hands on my hips, scanning the crowd. Then the sea parted, and there was Hank. His face transformed the second he saw me, and he practically launched himself across the floor.

"Dude! That uniform is unreal—this is the official Scottish look?" he asked, his eyes traveling over the tartan and the steel.

"My formal kit," I said, offering a shark-like grin. "Only one chance to make a first impression, right?"

A crowd started to form. Most looked impressed, but the nice skirt jibe arrived right on cue from the back. Hank didn't miss a beat. He shot the offender a look that could have leveled a building. "It's a kilt, Williams. And I'd watch your mouth—Lachlan is carrying two knives."

Williams just sneered. "Yeah, great advice from the guy with the ponytail. You two belong together."

"Keep it up, and I'll be counting coup on that thick skull of yours," Hank countered, his voice dropping an octave.

"Oh, I'm shaking. What are you gonna do, call your army?"

"Don't need an army," Hank said, his eyes flashing. "Just my Navajo war party." Williams fumbled for a comeback, realized he didn't have one, and retreated with his buddies claiming victory.

Hank introduced me around to other scouts until Scoutmaster Coughlin called the meeting to order. I had to give another official introduction which I survived by giving them the Scout edition of my school speech—minus the King's agent humor. The next hour descended into a logistical swamp; a grueling exercise in patience. A handful of parents seemed determined to win an award for the most ridiculous questions. What if my son gets a blister? When you say khaki, do you mean sand or tan? Seriously?

I caught Hank's eye and leaned in. "How did these people manage to raise human children?" I whispered. He stifled a snort, ready to fire back, until he spotted Da giving us a look that could have pinned us both to the wall.

Finally, the Coughlin got to the fun stuff. The first outing was this weekend at Reveille Peak. "Rugged climb," he warned, scanning the room. "Rattlesnake territory, so it's jeans and high boots." Then he caught my eye and smirked. "No kilts, Lachlan!"

Finally, he broke the meeting up into smaller groups, each with an adult scout. He took those working on their Eagle Scout, which included me, and we went off for an initial planning kick off. Da joined us, and when Coughlin wrapped up, he asked to have a specific discussion of my King's Scout pursuit. He laid out a quick summary—the interactions with the other scoutmaster; our original plan to go that direction; and then the curve ball I'd thrown with the desire to join Troop Five instead. He seemed bit negative, so Hank and I jumped in with our Strategic War Plan.

Coughlin didn't just approve the plan; he seemed genuinely impressed. He chuckled, telling Da he'd handle the cross-Atlantic coordination, and just like that, I was officially part of Troop Five.

Hank and I wandered off, the air between us feeling lighter now that the mission was sanctioned. "You up for Reveille Peak this Saturday? We could go together," he offered.

"Definitely," I said, the word coming out a bit more breathless than I intended. He looked at me with an expression that was hard to read, but the invitation felt intentional. It wasn't just about the hike; it was about us going together. Then the logistics hit me. "Wait. I don't actually own jeans. Or hiking boots. Just my Wellies, and those are for Scottish bogs, not Texas scrub."

"No jeans?" Hank's eyes went wide, like I'd just admitted I didn't believe in the sun. "You live in Texas and don't own a single pair of Levis?"

I couldn't exactly tell him the truth—that my lack of denim was a one-man protest against being dragged across the Atlantic. I mumbled some rubbish about unpacking and 'spying on rebels.'

"I got you," he said, his voice softening. "I've got spares I've outgrown. They'll fit you fine. I insist."

The next day at school, he presented the Levis 501s with the gravity of a holy relic. "These aren't just any jeans. They shrink to fit in all the right places," he whispered, wiggling his eyebrows. "So comfy you can go commando."

I turned twelve shades of red, my brain immediately conjuring a mental image of Hank that should have been illegal. Thankfully, he was distracted, digging into the second bag, and pulling out high hiking boots, real live cowboy boots and a black cowboy hat. All of a sudden, he was the blushing, tongue tied one, "I thought...well, with you being blond and pale...it'd look really good on you."

He looked flustered, so I just threw out a stupid question to change things up, "So cowboy hat, your parents must own a cattle ranch then—like South Fork on Dallas ?"

Hank snorted, "Hardly, dad's an investment banker and mom's a partner in a law firm downtown. Closest we come to cattle is in the meat aisle in the supermarket."

At the end of the day, cowboy hat perched uncomfortably on my head, I lugged my backpack and my over-filled shopping bags toward the pick-up line. I could see Mum scanning the throngs of kids, her eyes sliding right over me. For some reason, she didn't key on her own son until I was standing right next to the car door. She actually jumped when she realized it was me.

"Lachlan?" she breathed, her eyes wide.

I didn't answer. I threw the bags into the back seat and leveraged myself up into the passenger seat, but I'd forgotten the extra height the brim added. The hat hit the door frame and went flying back off into the roadway. I had to scramble out and retrieve it from the dust—the thing was significantly bigger and more cumbersome than I'd expected.

Once I was finally settled in for the ride home, the brim pulled low to hide my burning face, she just smirked. "Nice hat," she said with a poorly suppressed giggle. I kept my mouth shut; any response would have just egged her on, and I wasn't ready to explain why I was suddenly surrendering to the local uniform.

The second we hit the house, I was a blur, bolting for my room. Homework didn't exist; only the jeans mattered. I laid the three pairs out like holy relics. They were beautifully ruined—faded, soft, and carrying the ghost-imprint of the boy who'd worn them. I traced the worn denim of the crotch, a silent confirmation of what I'd already noticed about how Hank carried himself. One by one, I tried them on, posing, bending, thrusting. I loved all of them, but one pair was the best—soft, faded, and worn—in all the right places.

I did a reverse strip-tease in front of the mirror, shivering as the denim fabric rubbed my thighs. My pulse was racing, and by the time I reached the button fly, the fit was becoming impossibly tight. Running my hands over the pockets, front and back, I let the thought sink in: my body was exactly where Hank's had been. It was intimate in a way I wasn't prepared for—I was leaking through the denim! I popped the buttons one by one, and after a few minutes of mirror work —the cowboy hat didn't even fall off—I felt like a new man. I wore the cowboy boots and the 501s to dinner like a second skin, letting the family's jabs about Texas Rangers slide right off me.

That Saturday, Hank and his dad picked me up early for the ride to the muster. I'd spent way too long deciding which of the three pairs of Hank's jeans I should wear, eventually picking the ones that I thought hugged my body the best. I paired them with his old hiking boots and a Scouts Scotland t-shirt. If I was going to be the new guy, I was at least going to represent.

"Grab your hat, tenderfoot! You'll need that too!" Hank hollered from the driveway before I'd even cleared the porch.

I was surprised; I'd figured the hat was just for the aesthetic of riding horses, but orders were orders. I ducked back inside to retrieve it, along with my daypack and water. When I finally made it to the car, Hank's dad was already waiting with his phone out, insisting on a photo to mark the inaugural occasion of my first Texas Boy Scout hike.

In a flash, Hank tucked in right at my side. We were hip to hip, his arm heavy and warm around my shoulder. I felt a familiar shudder as I tucked in under him, but I wasn't about to complain. Since arms were clearly on the table, I snaked mine around his waist, my fingers coming to rest right against the sharp point of his hip bone.

We were both all smiles as his dad snapped a dozen pictures. Then we piled into the back seat, our legs pressed together and chatting away for the entire ride, the excitement for the peak already building.

We joined the boisterous troop milling about as Scoutmaster Coughlin and his assistants got coordinated for the day. Hank and I leaned against a massive boulder, watching the other guys burn their energy running around and playing grab-ass. We were content to stay in the shade; it was already shaping up to be a scorcher, and we needed to save our legs for the loop.

I glanced down at Hank's waist, noticing his belt and canteen. They looked out of place among the high-tech, plastic gear the others were sporting—worn, canvas-covered, and clearly ancient.

"That's a bit of a relic, isn't it?" I asked, gesturing to the canteen.

Hank smiled, his hand resting almost reverently on the canvas cover. "That's because it is. My great-granddad carried this in World War II. It got him through the Pacific, so it'll get me through the Peak Loop."

He paused then smiled, his gaze drifting toward the horizon for a few seconds before he added, his voice dropping to a quiet, steady tone. "I wear it to remember him and honor his Warrior Spirit."

Finally, Coughlin pulled us all together to kick us off. He went through his checklist with a drill sergeant's eye, and wasn't interested in just a verbal yes —making us shake our canteens to prove they were full. Two boys had to scurry off to the taps to refill under his stern gaze.

Once they returned, he looked at the crowd. "What's our motto?"

"Be Prepared!" a chorus of vibrant voices chimed out.

"Why, for any old thing!" I added, my Scottish accent ringing out clearly over the Texan drawls.

Coughlin paused, a single eyebrow raised in surprise. Then a grin broke across his face as he looked at the assembled boys. "Extra credit history question, Scouts. Who said 'Why, for any old thing?'"

Silence fell over the troop as everyone looked at each other questioningly. Hank looked right at me, a silent Help me out in his eyes, but I couldn't exactly shout it for him.

"Scoutmasters?" the leader prompted.

"Robert Baden-Powell!" they shouted in unison.

"Let's be off then," Coughlin commanded. "Loose order, go at your own pace—but stay with a buddy."

Forty-odd Scouts set off. For the first hour, we moved as a pack, but as the trail began to climb, the troop stretched out like a long ribbon. I noticed the scoutmasters spacing themselves out strategically between the groups and smiled. This was a right proper troop.

Hank and I kept a steady pace, eventually pulling ahead of the smaller group we'd been with until it was just the two of us. I was feeling good; after nearly a week of Texas heat, my body was finally adjusting. I wasn't struggling anymore, though I was burning through water.

At points, the trail narrowed, forcing us into single file. Hank was just ahead of me, and I found myself staring at a view that was nothing short of mesmerizing: his tight backside, swiveling and flexing with every stride in those faded jeans. His t-shirt was plastered to his back, a dark V of sweat tracing his spine. All I could think about was burying my face in that sweet, musk-heavy Hank-dampness . I wanted to breathe it in, maybe even taste it—which, okay, made me a pervert, but I couldn't help it.

I let out an involuntary, breathless giggle at the thought.

Hank stopped and looked back, a teasing glint in his eye. "What's so funny?"

Caught off guard, I stammered for a second before my brain kicked into gear. "Just being silly. I was thinking about Morgan again—Twain's guy, dropped into Camelot. It just felt like me, you know? Like I'm a stranger who suddenly found myself climbing this ridge in the middle of Texas."

Hank nodded, seeming to buy it. He flipped his head toward the path ahead. "Fair enough. How about you take the lead for a bit?"

I was disappointed to lose my view, but I stepped up to do my part. As we tackled the more rugged switchbacks, I swear I could feel his eyes on me. Every time I reached for a handhold or adjusted my pack, I felt his gaze drilling into my bum. Then again, I realized with a flush, that was probably just me wishing he was looking, rather than any reality.

Around hour two, we hit a small stream. I pulled out my filter and hooked it to my canteen, taking my time to ensure I had a clean supply. One of the passing scoutmasters paused, watching me work.

"That your filter?"

"Aye, sir!" I replied.

"And what would you do if you didn't have it?" he tested.

"Find a fast-running stream," I shot back without missing a beat.

"And fill from under the surface," Hank added, stepping up beside me.

The scoutmaster gave a sharp nod of approval. "Carry on, then."

By the third hour, the water I'd been chugging caught up to me and I had to go something fierce, so I stepped off the trail into a thicket of cedar to unload. Hank stepped up right beside me.

"Same," he muttered. The metallic pop-pop-pop of his button fly opening sent a sudden, sharp jolt through my groin.

We stood there in the heat, skinning back and unleashing thick streams, instinctively arching them to target a gray limestone rock a few yards away. It was a silent contest of distance and accuracy; the kind of mindless game guys have played since the dawn of time.

But I wasn't careful. Between the heat, the proximity, and the sight of Hank standing there so relaxed, I felt myself swelling. I couldn't stop it; I was turgid in seconds, my pulse thrumming in the open air.

Hank's eyes went wide when he glanced down. He stared for a few solid seconds, and I froze, waiting for the floor to fall out from under me—waiting for the shit to hit the fan , as they say.

Instead, he looked up at me and smiled, his expression easy and knowing. "Happens to the best of us, see?" He half shifted, showing me that he was almost as swollen as I was. I couldn't peel my eyes away from his dark purple head.

We stood there for a heartbeat, jeans open and hearts racing, suspended in a moment of total, silent honesty. But then, the crunch of boots and loud voices further down the trail shattered the peace. We scrambled to tuck ourselves away and button up just as Jack Williams and his mates rounded the curve.

"What's the hold-up?" Williams hollered, his eyes darting between us. "Comparing wieners to see who's smallest?"

Hank didn't miss a beat. He let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Hardly. We're pissing for distance. There's no way you dribblers could beat our mark!"

The gauntlet was thrown. As Williams and his two mates began jockeying for the best spot to prove their manhood , Hank and I set back off up the trail, our shoulders brushing as we shared a secret, breathless grin.

As we moved into the final leg of the loop, Coughlin caught up and joined us. Hank and I exchanged a look of pure disbelief; the man wasn't even breathing hard. Considering he'd been pacing back and forth along the entire spread-out troop, he'd probably covered twice the distance we had, yet he looked like he'd just stepped off the porch.

He matched us pace for pace, turning the walk into a masterclass on the local ecosystem. He pointed out the hidden life in the scrub and the specific lean of the foliage, his eyes missing nothing. At one point, he gestured for us to follow him toward a massive, flat-topped boulder.

"Look here," he whispered, beckoning me closer to the deep, cool shade of an overhang.

I leaned in, but before I could see anything, a dry, mechanical buzz erupted from the shadows—a sound so sharp and aggressive it felt like an electric shock. I must have jumped ten feet back, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Just a Diamondback lounging in the cool," Coughlin chuckled, completely unfazed. "Beautiful, isn't he? That's been a favorite spot of theirs forever."

I stared at the shadows, my heart still trying to exit through my throat, while he just stood there with a look of fond recognition.

"My granddad was one of the original Scouts in Troop Five," he continued, glancing from the snake back to us. "He surprised me with this guy's great-granddaddy right here on this ridge when I was five years old. So, don't worry, Lachlan—you're in good company."

I looked at Hank, who was grinning at my wide-eyed expression. The idea that even the snakes had a lineage in this place was a bit much for my wee brain to process, but it made the trail feel...alive. Like we weren't just hiking; we were walking through a living history book.

It was early afternoon by the time we trekked back into the muster site. I scanned the area; we weren't the first back, but we were easily in the top quarter of the troop. A surge of pride hit me—I wasn't just keeping up; I was competitive. I wasn't going to be left behind in the Texas dust.

Hank dropped onto an upturned log and patted the space beside him. I noted plenty of others doubling up, so I didn't hesitate. It was a tight fit, our hips and bums kissing as we settled in, but I certainly wasn't complaining. We sat there in the heat, sipping the last of our water and watching the rest of the troop trickle in.

"Williams is right up his own arse, isn't he?" I remarked, watching the trail. "And the great athlete hasn't even made it back yet."

Hank snorted, nearly choking on his water. "Excuse me? Right up his own what ?"

I giggled. "His own arse. It means he's full of himself. Conceited."

"Ahh," Hank nodded, grinning. "In Texas, we say he thinks his shit doesn't stink ."

"Oh, that's a much more vivid mental image!" I countered. We sat in silence for a moment, pondering the cultural nuances of arrogance.

"He is conceited," Hank admitted eventually. "But football in Texas is a religion, and Jack Williams is a Free Safety. He's built for speed and for taking guys down—guys bigger than he is. He's not built for endurance like us."

"Wanker," I added casually. "It's a very useful term. Use it for a jerk like Williams, though, of course, the literal meaning is jerking off."

Hank's eyes lit up. "Rubbing one out. Choking the chicken."

"Tossing off," I shot back. "Bashing the bishop."

"Whacking off. Spanking the monkey."

I waited until Hank took a massive swig of water, then leaned in with my favorite from the Continent. "How about the Germans? They call it bopping the German soldier on his helmet. "

Direct hit. Hank exploded, spewing water out of his mouth and—painfully—up his nose. He doubled over, nearly sliding off the log, and I had to lung forward, grabbing his waist and hauling him back against me to save him from eating dirt.

We were both howling, tears streaming down our faces, just as Coughlin stepped into the center of the clearing. "Am I interrupting you gentlemen?"

Hank tried to look contrite, though his face was beet-red. "Sorry, sir. We were just...exchanging cultural differences. Working on our Citizenship in the World and International Spirit requirements."

I snorted so loud it echoed, and we both dissolved into a fresh round of uncontrollable giggles.

"Is that right?" Coughlin said, his lips twitching into a dry smile. "Well, I'll be looking forward to your formal presentation on those American and Scottish differences at the next meeting."

That was it. We lost it completely. We were still snickering and nudging each other as we piled into the back of his dad's car.

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