Chaz and Elinor tear-ass through the forest, hands raised ineffectually above heads, sodden shoes slapping on undergrowth, alternately laughing and yelling "Ow. Ow. Ow!"

The hailstorm pelts them from above, chunks of ice the size of large coins, not nickle-and-dimeing today but quartering and Susan B. Anthonying. Chaz gets a Kennedy fiftycent piece to the top of the skull and takes a header, facefirst into the soggy pine needles below.

"I think that one actually trepanned me," he shouts.

"What? Get up!" Elinor hauls him to his feet and they keep running.

The tent, they're sure, is just over this hill. Just over this hill and right across the babbling brook, they're sure of it. Although although although.

"That tent cost like twelve bucks on Craigslist."
"If that tent's not still standing, I'm going to kill you."

There is no menace in their voices. This is the most fun they've had in, what? Months? Years?

"The storm took me down, Elinor. Ow. What do you think it's -- CHRIST -- going to do to the little pup?"
"This was your idea. Just remember that. OW SHIT."

Laughing and laughing. Up that hill and down. Over the river. Through the woods. The tent is utterly demolished. They raise their fists, laughing at the sky.