The Wolf on the Name Tag

Wilf stands at the check-in table of the River Weekend and looks at the sticker on his chest. It says WOLF in thick black letters.

"That is not my name," he says.

"It's what you wrote on the form," says the girl behind the table.

"I wrote Wilf. W, I, L, F."

"Then someone at the printer thought you were a wolf." She shrugs and hands him a map. "It's only for the weekend. Tents are down by the water."

Wilf wants to ask for a new sticker, but a line is growing behind him. He picks up his bag and walks down the grass slope toward the river. Three small children run past in yellow jackets. One of them points at his chest and howls. The other two join in.

"Great," Wilf mutters. "A pack."

The campsite is long and quiet. Trees stand on one side, and a slow, shallow river runs on the other. Wilf has never camped before. His office team booked this trip, and then four of them cancelled, so he came alone. This morning he watched three videos about tents. He feels ready, in the way a person feels ready before an exam.

He finds a flat patch of ground under a tall tree and opens the bag. Tent poles spill out onto the grass. They are all the same colour, and there seem to be too many of them.

"Which one goes where?" he says to nobody.

"That depends on what you are building," says a voice nearby.

Wilf looks up. A woman sits on a folding chair about ten metres away. A large grey tent lies folded beside her. Her right wrist is wrapped in a white bandage. Her name tag says WANDA, and underneath, in small letters, it says BEGINNER.

"You're a beginner too?" he asks, with relief.

"No," she says. "That's the printer again. I've camped for twenty years. But I carried a cool box up the hill this morning and my wrist said no."

"Oh. Does it hurt?"

"Only when I try to put up a tent." She looks at him and then at his chest. "Hello, Wolf."

"It's Wilf. Please."

"Wilf. I like Wolf better, but I'll try."

He sits down on the grass near her, partly out of politeness. Mostly his legs are tired. She tells him that she came with friends. They went to the village for supplies and will be gone for hours. Until then, her tent is a big grey heap on the ground.

"I can't tighten the pegs," she says. "I can't hold the poles. I can't even open the zip. Which is embarrassing, because I told everyone I'd camp alone this weekend."

"Is that a good idea with a sore wrist?"

"It's a stubborn idea. I'm known for those."

Wilf looks at her tent. Then he looks at his own poles, which still lie in a messy pile. A strange thought comes to him. He has watched three videos this morning. She has twenty years of experience, but she has only one working hand.

"I might be able to help you," he says. "I'm not good at much. But I did learn how to put up a tent at breakfast."

Wanda raises an eyebrow. "From a person?"

"From a screen."

"Well, that's a start. Show me what you've got."

They decide to build her tent first, because it is bigger and she can guide him. Wilf carries the grey heap to a flat spot near the water. Wanda follows with her chair and sits down at the edge of the ground sheet.

"Lay it flat," she says. "Corners first. Don't pull too hard."

He does as he is told. The fabric flaps open, and he chases it twice. Wanda laughs, and the sound is surprisingly warm. Then she shows him how to thread the long pole through the sleeve. He must push from the middle so the cloth does not catch.

"Now the second pole," she says. "Cross them at the top. Yes, like that. You've got it."

"Is it supposed to lean this much?"

"If it leans, we fix it. Tents are very forgiving, if you are patient."

The tent rises slowly, like a tired animal getting to its feet. Wilf hammers the pegs with a rubber mallet. Wanda points at the places where the ground is soft. When a peg bends, she shows him how to pull it out. He tries again at a sharper angle.

"My video didn't say that," Wilf admits.

"Videos never do. The ground is always a surprise."

By the time the grey tent stands straight, the sun is low over the river. The children have gone to eat. Wilf steps back and wipes his hands on his trousers. He feels strangely proud, as if he has built a house.

"It's a good tent," Wanda says. "Better than I would have done with two hands."

"That's not true."

"It's a little true." She smiles. "Now do yours. I'll sit here and shout at you."

It takes him half an hour. She tells him to face his tent door toward the trees. She tells him to keep his shoes outside and never, ever to put the stove inside. Then he drops the pole bag into the river. She laughs so hard that she has to hold her wrist.

"I'm sorry," she says between breaths. "It's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"It's a lot funny."

He fishes the bag out with a stick and shakes it dry. She makes a small noise of approval, like a teacher with a good student.

When both tents stand side by side, Wanda stays in her chair a moment longer. Then she opens a small tin from her bag and holds it out. Inside are two thick biscuits, wrapped in paper.

"My emergency supply," she says. "I only share it with people who rescue me."

"I didn't rescue you. I lifted some poles."

"You gave me back my weekend. That counts."

They eat the biscuits by the water. The river moves slowly past, brown and shining, and a pair of ducks drifts by without a sound. For a while, neither of them says anything, and it feels completely comfortable.

Then Wanda takes a marker from her pocket. She peels the sticker off her shirt and turns it over. On the back, she writes in big letters. WANDA. NOT A BEGINNER. She presses it carefully back onto her chest.

"Give me yours," she says.

Wilf peels off his sticker and hands it to her. She writes under the word WOLF, stops, crosses it out, and writes again. She hands it back.

He reads it aloud. "WILF. NOT A WOLF."

"Now everyone will know."

"I think I preferred the old one," he says. "The children seemed to like it."

As if they heard him, three small voices rise from the hill behind the trees. A long, wobbly howl rolls across the campsite and out over the river.

Wilf looks at Wanda. Wanda looks at Wilf.

Then he stands, lifts his chin toward the sky, and howls back.