I trekked through the wooden shacks of Main Camp to where spindly trees fringed an abandoned fire pit, circled with soil capped stones. The earth, dampened by an unexpected thunderstorm two nights before, squelched under my trainers. Ferns brushed my bare calves and the air buzzed with mosquitoes. I was looking for a child. Throughout the summer, I had been working at a camp, tucked into the pockets of rural Pennsylvania, looking after children with ADHD, autism and mental disabilities. Disappearances were taken seriously, other staff were looking inside buildings and across fields, we had a group chat to message when the missing youngster was located. I was trying to find a 12-year-old girl named Kaida. She read adult books, practiced judo and had a history of suicidal thoughts. I didn’t know her much more than that, being Adventure Staff rather than a counsellor. Moving past the archery range, the trees became mossy and the sounds of wildlife deepened. I looked through branches at the camp lake, shiny in the August heat, to see a figure. Kaida sat on abandoned jetty, wood pockmarked and grimy. I ventured onto its unsteady surface and dipped my hand into cool water. The lake stretched languidly, insects meandered about its surface, sun sparked on flowers. Neither of us spoke. Kaida glared at the summer with sharp grey eyes, her back was hunched. Warm air conveyed bird song and the squeals of splashing campers further up shore. I messaged the other staff, only just in phone reception. The trees leaned over to watch our quiet forms, one curled in anger, the other awkwardly hesitant. I wasn’t sure when I should speak, I didn’t know what had caused Kaida to run. Instead I stared at the bronzed particles that gilded my skin and swirled on absent breeze. This was not the dust of cold and decrepit mansions, it was hot and brown, charged with sultry persistence. The grime of wild westerns, sleepy tumbleweed towns and racing cars, it sparked with lazy self-importance, lavishing scorching wood and sun-bleached skin. I rubbed my fingers together and marvelled at the gritty beauty, it encapsulated the Pennsylvanian summer. I knew it was stupid and that she probably didn’t care, but I told Kaida about the dust. I was remined of home with every dry fleck, so different to my watery Scotland. I reckoned that this dirt was the driving force of America, kicking at heels until, under its haughty dishevelled breath, stories came to life. Kaida listened in sullen silence, then she told me she didn’t want to leave camp and planned to hide in the woods till next summer. I understood the girl’s desire to stay, there was something special about this camp. We slept in plywood shacks, with bunkbeds and foam mattresses. Meals were barbeque meats eaten off paper plates. When the parents visited, a field became the parade site for vintage cars James Bond would drool over. It was magical in a way Enid Blyton stories were. Another world in which bears were chased off with loud Ed Sheeran songs, cheap ice-creams were devoured on thirsty grass and golden dust embellished every surface. Kaida didn’t know Enid Blyton. I asked about books she liked, and we compared favourites. Then, turning to face me, Kaida told me she wrote stories. Her latest work was about dragons and asthmatic boys, I offered to read it. Suddenly animated, Kaida announced her return to Main Camp, she wanted to try writing together before dinner. The crumbling jetty was left to swelter in the summer heat, Kaida’s hand in my own, as we strolled away, dust trailing behind us. … Staff were dropped off in New York after camp. I departed the bus with a heavy suitcase, entrenched with dirt from the shacks. After a week exploring the famous city, I ultimately decided it wasn’t the greatness of Pennsylvania, everything was smaller and less filled with lazy summer. In my pocket sat a poem Kaida and I wrote together, whispering tales of heavy heat, ice creams, outdoor barbeques, mossy trees and a chance meeting on an abandoned jetty, woven together by a beckoning for dusty adventure. A treasured connection.