Chapter 5
"Only got bitten by three mosquitoes and mildly insulted by a goat, so I’d say I’m thriving.”
Archie
When I rouse myself out of bed the next day, it takes me a second to remember where I am—or why I’ve woken up with a scowl on my face.
Right. Katherine bloody Lennox decided to crash my Uganda mission. Like Cameron so eloquently put it—this is one twisted coincidence.
I push myself off the thin mattress, the mosquito net brushing my face as I duck out of it.
Grabbing my shower gel, toothbrush, and toothpaste, I trudge out to the communal bathroom.
The morning air is cool and misty, still heavy with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.
Birds trill somewhere in the brush, and a local is already sweeping the dirt path near the kitchen hut.
The door of the next hut over creaks open, and a wave of honey-blonde hair comes into view. Katherine steps out, turns toward me, and gives me the iciest glare I’ve ever received—somehow surpassing all her previous records.
I sigh. Of course she had to be my neighbour. Because I can’t ever get a break from that woman. At least, for once, she won’t be able to complain about the noise. There isn’t any. Unless she counts crickets and the odd goat.
I keep moving toward the bathrooms, keenly aware of her footsteps behind me. Great. We’ve upgraded to not only being neighbours, but brushing our teeth and showering together too. How lucky.
The bathroom hut is a small concrete structure tucked behind a few tall reed screens for privacy.
Inside, four sinks are bolted to the wall under a makeshift tin awning, their mirrors cracked and clouded from humidity.
Of the four, only one looks properly clean.
The others are speckled with dried toothpaste or playing host to small insect gatherings.
Katherine scans the scene, then glances at me—her first mistake. I swoop in like a hawk, claiming the clean sink and clinging to it like it’s a Premier League title. She clucks her tongue and retreats to the farthest sink, dropping her massive pink toiletry bag on the edge with a thud.
Seriously, that thing could hold a week’s worth of groceries. How many products did she pack? We’re here to help people, not win a pageant. Then again, if it were a beauty contest, she’d probably win—even without the makeup.
I brush my teeth while she unzips her bag, proceeding to line up her various potions like she’s building a tiny cosmetics empire.
I rinse my mouth and spit, which earns me another glare.
As I’m moving on to the shower stalls, she’s still wiping her sink with a disinfectant wipe.
Look at that. The wipes made it all the way to Africa.
Actually, they look suspiciously like the ones we use in the gym back home.
For a brief, unhinged second, I wonder if she’s the one supplying them.
I really have to ask the concierge. Because if that’s the case, she’s even more deranged than I thought.
The showers are pretty basic—concrete cubicles under a thatched roof, separated only by faded curtain dividers that sway in the breeze. The floor is a bit gritty, and someone left a half-used bottle of shampoo on a corner ledge.
My stall isn’t exactly inviting. The curtain doesn’t close all the way, and the cool concrete floor is slightly damp beneath my feet. There’s a pipe sticking out of the wall with a basic twist knob, and next to it is a single hook for my towel.
I heave a long sigh, already missing my rain shower back home. My nice, fully tiled, temperature-controlled bathroom with heated floors and towels that smell like detergent rather than mildew. But I remind myself this isn’t about me.
Grow up, Archie.
Besides, there’s no way I’m giving up or even complaining about it. The lads would never let me live it down.
Just as I swing the curtain open, a dark spot in the corner catches my eye.
I flinch back, heart leaping into my throat as a shriek escapes me.
Another volunteer passes behind me, and I pretend I didn’t just squeak like a toddler.
I peer closer, but thankfully, it’s just a stain on the concrete, not an eight-legged monster.
I step inside, turn the knob, and wait. Water splutters out, then flows steadily—lukewarm but with decent pressure. I tilt my head back and let the water run down my face. It’s actually kind of nice. Makes you forget, for a second, where you are.
I hear the curtains of the next stall rustling, and I wonder if Katherine just got in.
It’s all so surreal. What is she even doing here, the posh princess?
At home, she complains about everything—water pressure, heating, the lighting in the garage.
How on earth did she end up in this primitive camp without hot water or electricity?
I finish rinsing off and wrap a towel around my waist. When I step back out, she’s nowhere in sight.
I go back to my hut to change, then set off to the common area for breakfast. The camp is slowly coming to life—friendly chatter, the distant clang of pots, and someone humming a tune near the water tank.
The food is once again set up buffet-style on the long wooden table.
Slices of fresh pineapple, bananas, bread, peanut butter, and some kind of maize porridge steaming in a big pot await us.
The kettle whistles on the open stove nearby, and a few of the women are already gathered at one end of the table sharing stories with mugs in hand.
One girl—Heidi, I think—waves me over with a smile.
“Well, if it isn’t the camp celebrity,” she says, scooting over to make room. “How are you adapting to your first camp experience?”
I grab a mug of tea and sit beside her. “Great, actually. Only got bitten by three mosquitoes and mildly insulted by a goat, so I’d say I’m thriving.”
That wins me a laugh. Someone across the table snorts into their tea, and a few more people look over, grinning.
“You’re taking it well,” Heidi says. “Most first-timers are traumatised by the cold showers their first morning.”
“Honestly, it was kind of refreshing. Might take one every morning for the rest of my life.”
“Liar,” someone mutters, which triggers another bout of laughter.
“Oh, yeah,” says another girl with short curls and a sharp sense of humour. I think her name is Clara. “You’ll be begging for a nice warm shower in a few days. Happens to the best of us.”
“Yet you keep coming back,” I say, genuinely curious, and maybe a little impressed. “Why?”
She pops a cube of pineapple in her mouth and grins.
“Yup, every year. There’s nothing like it.
You get addicted to the feeling that you’re actually making a difference, you know?
Even if it’s just holding a kid’s hand in the clinic while they get a dressing changed, or helping build shelves for a classroom. It sticks with you.”
“And Jim runs a tight ship,” Gina chimes in from further down the table. Her short silver hair matches her calm, no-nonsense vibe. Reminds me a bit of my mum, especially with the way she stirs her tea like it’s a science. “I did a mission with a different organisation once—total chaos.”
“I’m glad I picked the right one, then,” I say with full honesty.
Heidi nods. “Jim’s great. Wait till you see him in action. He’s got a spreadsheet brain but a farmer’s heart.”
That elicits a few chuckles.
As the laughter fades into more casual chatter, I glance across the table.
Katherine has just arrived, plate in hand.
She doesn’t look around, doesn’t say anything.
Just takes a seat at the far end of the bench where no volunteers are clustered.
Her posture is a little too straight, her expression too carefully blank.
She spreads a dollop of peanut butter on her bread with the back of her spoon, like she’s in a hotel lounge rather than a dusty camp in rural Uganda.
She was on her own at dinner last night too, and I have a feeling she has trouble making friends.
To be honest, I’m not that surprised, given the attitude she carries around.
Still, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her.
That’s who I am. I was that one popular kid in school who would take the underdogs under my wing and include them in the group.
For a split second, I consider calling her over, but I stop myself just in time.
This is Katherine Lennox we’re talking about.
The woman who’s made my life a living hell since she moved into my building a year ago.
I don’t owe her anything. In fact, I should stay as far away from her as humanly possible.
They weren’t joking when they said volunteering is intense.
I was expecting to maybe put some furniture together or paint a fence, not spend a full day hauling bricks in the sun like I’m back in preseason training.
My arms are turning to jelly, I’ve got blisters in places I didn’t know could blister, and I’m pretty sure I’ve sweated out all the tea I drank at breakfast by noon.
Still, weirdly enough… it feels good. Real, somehow. Not like winning a match or getting recognised in a shop. Something simpler. Tangible.
The camp has already gone quiet. Everyone turned in early, and I’m about to call it a night myself. I stretch out on my narrow cot, the mattress thin but not insufferable, and let out a groan. My muscles are definitely going to hate me tomorrow.
Then, I see it.
Movement.
Near the corner of the wall, where the faint moonlight streaming in from the small window hits the plaster.
Nope. Nope nope nope.
It’s a spider. And not just any spider. This thing has knees. Like, actual angles. It’s crawling, slowly but with purpose, and I swear it just looked at me.
I launch myself out of bed, releasing a strangled sound that might technically be classified as a scream.
Catching my breath, I scramble to the opposite side of the hut. “Think, Archie,” I mutter, pacing barefoot in the small space. “You’ve played in front of sixty thousand people. You can handle a bloody spider.”
But can I?
I rack my brain. What’s the plan here? A shoe? A towel? Bribery?
A knock on my door makes me jump a full foot in the air.
Glancing at the monster to make sure it hasn’t moved, I shuffle to the door and yank it open.
“Oh. It’s you,” I say, blinking at the silhouette in the doorway. Katherine stands before me, arms crossed, face unimpressed.
“What’s going on?” she growls. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
Mmm, why does that sound familiar? “It’s nothing.”
Her eyes narrow. “You yelled.”
“Did not.”
She tilts her head. “Aww, did you have a nightmare or something?” she asks, her voice high-pitched and mocking, like a very annoying cartoon baby.
“Nope. Wasn’t even sleeping.”
She gives me an icy stare. “Then what happened that you had to ruin my sleep all the way in Uganda?”
I can’t help but glance toward the wall where the spider still clings.
She follows my gaze, then switches on her phone’s flashlight and gives me a pointed look. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
With zero hesitation, she walks over, grabs the spider—with her bare hand, mind you—and marches it outside, like this is an everyday routine for her.
I follow her in total awe. “Who are you?”
She doesn’t even look back. “Someone who needs to sleep. Now quit being a baby.”
I stare after her, speechless, as she stalks back into her hut.