"I'll call you later," he said.

"No, no, hold on a second," I said. "I was calling to invite you on a camping trip. You and Samantha. Both of you."

"Really? When?"

"Soon. Whenever you can get off work."

"I can get off work anytime, but I'll have to check with Samantha."

Maybe everything would work out. Maybe Samantha wouldn't be able to take time off from her job (she did something with clothing, or maybe it was seafood) and Roger would be free of her foul tentacles for a week or so. That might be long enough to break her mental grip. Perfect!

AS IS TYPICAL in my life, things did not work out perfectly. Samantha was willing and able to take a few days off from whatever she did with clothing or seafood, and a week later I found myself behind the wheel of a gargantuan motor home, Roger in the passenger seat, Helen, Samantha, Theresa, Kyle, and Joe in the back. Helen and Samantha were playing cards. Theresa and Kyle were playing "Strangle the Sibling." Joe was snorting.

We'd left early in the morning and were on our way to Wreitzer Park in Georgia, which Samantha had highly recommended. I could only assume this meant it was laden with rattlesnakes, tarantulas, locusts, and second-tier demons, but both Helen and Roger thought it sounded great so I relented.

Helen and I had originally decided to wait until after the camping trip to share the news that she was pregnant. However, we then realized the secret was already known by Theresa and Kyle, two individuals with a poor track record in the secret-keeping business, and so we told Roger and Samantha as soon as we'd finished packing the camper.

Samantha squealed with delight and threw her arms around Helen. Roger looked confused.

"I thought you had a vasectomy," he whispered.

"I did. It didn't take. I'm so darn masculine that even a ghastly medical procedure can't stop my tadpoles from swimming." I flexed my muscles and growled.

As we crossed the border from Florida into Georgia, we stopped the camper at a rest area and each had a ceremonial peach. The kids went off to walk the pug while the women headed for the restroom.

"This is nice," said Roger, cracking open a Mountain Dew. "I don't know why we don't take vacations like this more often."

I stretched my arms over my head and yawned. "You're right. I think we need to schedule at least one non-psycho-killer-related vacation a year."

"Deal."

Roger was silent, and I was sure he was going to make some unwanted comment about his relationship with Samantha. But he didn't, thank goodness. However, a couple of minutes later his eyes lit up as he saw her walking toward the camper.

"How're you holding up with the driving?" she asked me when she returned. She was holding an assortment of six chocolate bars she'd bought from the vending machine.

"Fine. I'm enjoying it, actually."

Okay, I'll be honest with you. Samantha was absolutely stunning. She had long, curly blonde hair, an awesome figure, and a killer smile. Of course, since she was probably able to take on other forms at will, why not pick one that was physically attractive?

(You know, it just occurred to me that some of you may be reading this and thinking I'm some kind of aluminum foil-wearing freak. So let me clarify that despite my numerous comments, I didn't really believe Samantha was Satan, an alien, or a shape-shifting beast. It's just my sense of humor. Really. I apologize for any confusion.)

Samantha flashed me her killer smile and tossed me a candy bar. "Energy for the road."

"Thanks."

I should also share that Samantha didn't know how I felt about her. At least Roger claimed never to have told her ("She doesn't need to know you're an idiot.") and she certainly didn't act like she knew.

The children returned and Samantha provided each of them with a candy bar as well. Nothing like sugared-up elementary school-age kids to add some excitement to a road trip, but hey, I wasn't sitting back there with them.

When Helen got back, we piled into the motor home and resumed our drive. It was uneventful until twenty minutes later, when Samantha walked up and leaned behind us.

"You can get off at this exit," she said.

"That's not what the map says," I told her.

"I know. This is a shortcut."

"No shortcuts."

"It'll save us about half an hour."

"I don't care. We're sticking with the map. I no longer accept money from strange women in coffee shops, and I certainly don't take surprise shortcuts."

"She's good with directions," Roger insisted.

I glared at him. "Do you remember being locked in a cage to be hunted for sport?"

"Yeah, but that was because we accepted money from a strange woman in a coffee shop, not because we took a shortcut."

"No shortcuts."

"That's fine," said Samantha. "No big deal."

"Thank you."

Samantha returned to the main part of the camper.

"That was pretty rude," said Roger.

"No shortcuts."

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the map-approved exit.

Fifteen minutes after that, we were driving down a narrow, creepy dirt road through the woods that sort of made me wish we'd taken the shortcut.

A RUN-DOWN, BARELY standing store had a faded sign that read "Last Chance 4 Gas." (The word "chance" was barely visible, but identifiable through context clues.) Fortunately, our gas tank was seven-eighths full. There would be no running out of gas in sinister locations during this trip. No way.

"Joe needs to go potty," said Theresa.

"You just walked him at the rest area."

"He needs to go again. He's walking funny."

"Okay, fine." I pulled the camper into what passed for the parking lot. There were no other cars, not even one for whoever worked there. Maybe nobody did.

"I'm going inside," said Roger, getting out of the vehicle.

"Why? Do you have to go potty, too?"

"I want to check the expiration date on their beef jerky. I'm guessing late eighties."

"Doesn't it hurt to be such a geek?" I asked.

"You can't say you aren't curious. Samantha, Helen, you coming with us?"

"I think we're fine," said Helen.

"We'll send a search party in ten minutes," Samantha added.

Roger and I walked inside the store, careful not to slam the door and cause the entire structure to come crashing down to the ground. The aisles were narrow, the scent was interesting, and an elderly man sat behind the front counter, glowering at us as he paged through a tattered sports car magazine.

"Got any beef jerky?" Roger asked.

The old man coughed. "Yeah, but you don't wanna eat it."

"I'll trust you on that one," said Roger, looking through the candy rack for unusual and ancient selections. I noticed the magazines on the rack were at least a year old, unless a certain celebrity had gotten re-married and re-divorced without my hearing about it.

"Where're you headed?" asked the old man.

" Wreitzer Park," I told him, looking uncomfortably at a doughnut that had cherry filling leaking from the side with an ant imbedded in it, like those fossilized bugs in amber.

"Not the safest place to be."

"Really?"

The old man nodded. "Bad elements there."

"What kind of bad elements?"

"Dangerous ones." He coughed. "Deadly ones." He coughed again. "You don't want to be anywhere near Wreitzer Park, trust me on this."

I stared at him, trying to figure out if he possessed great wisdom or great senility.

"What kind of bad, dangerous, and deadly elements?" I asked.

"Just stay away from Wreitzer Park." He returned his attention to the magazine.

"Got it."